Israel Stories

Children of Hamas

2009-03-16T09:41:00.000+02:00

"Bastards", I shouted in a rare display of road rage as a couple of cars ran over a crossing narrowly missing a school child. Then I realized with a small amount of embarrassment and guilt that I had my children in the car. You have to careful what you say around kids, sometimes they don't understand and sometimes they twist what you say.

A bit like the BBC.

I switched on the radio in time to hear the news. We are all news junkies these days and we listen to or read the news on the hour every hour and all the minutes in between in the hope that someone will announce 'it's all over, the boys are coming home and we are safe at last'.

The news reported heavy fighting and that many terrorists had been killed. Then they reported on the worldwide demonstrations against Israel. That was obvious. The world's Muslims really know how to whip up a crowd and become brothers in their fight against the Jews. They are united in rage because of their brothers in Palestine. Brothers, like the Sunnis and Shiites, hand in hand.

You can tell that all that happens is divinely led; the world's sympathy harbors the most violent, bloodthirsty people on the planet even when this violence occurs in their shops, stations and streets. 'It's OK, we forgive the suicide bombings in London, we understand using their children as human shields, because underneath it all they are pretty decent chaps, desperate, but decent and the Jews, well, they're bloodthirsty bastards.'

Then they announced that the schools in the South would remain shut. One of my kids started crying.

"What's the matter?"

"I just heard that there is no school in the South and I am scared if the rockets reach us they will close down my school. Are we safe in the 'merkaz', in the center of the country? They won't get us there will they, Abba?"

"Don't worry, " I assured her in the only way a parent can in these frightening and uncertain times. "We're OK and safe in the merkaz".

She stopped crying and I started thinking. Suddenly the war was only about protecting our children. Suddenly my mind went back to the faces of the kids in Sderot and the South. Can you imagine the terror they must feel every time they hear a siren, every time they feel the rockets impacting on their town, every time they nervously stray more than 15 seconds from their houses knowing that 16 seconds isn't enough time to dive into a bomb shelter?

I shouldn't have any sympathy for the Palestinian children, and I define children as any normal human being would and not to bolster the number of child fatalities - after all their parents made the decision to support and vote for Hamas, their fathers and brothers are fighting for Hamas - but I do.

Golda Meir once said 'peace will come when the Arabs love their children more than they hate us.'

While I worry about my children, Hamas use theirs as another weapon. Alive they are indoctrinated into a culture of hate and blood, dead they are martyrs and propaganda weapons. To Hamas, as with all Muslim terrorists, there is no room for emotion and there is no difference between a child and a Kassam, both can be used in the 'struggle'.

They surround themselves with children at their rocket sites and strategic positions knowing there will be child fatalities, knowing the blind world will accuse, criticize, demonstrate and open the sluice gates releasing a rush of anti-Jewish hatred not experienced since Germany.

Hamas and the Arabs scream genocide and Holocaust. That's their insecurity, their propaganda and their delusional ideology. They do not realize that we have only one place to run, the sea. So we have no choice but to fight and no option but to win.

We fight so that our children won't be scared to sleep alone, wont wake up screaming with trauma, won't have to live in bomb shelters, won't have to be scared of Samir Kuntar and his protégées and won't have to see their parents and siblings killed in war or by Kassams.

We fight so that our children will have a normal and peaceful life.

And to the rest of the world who scream anti-Israel hatred at every opportunity, if you tolerate this, your children will be next.

"So", my daughter continued, "there is no school in the South because of the Hamas rockets?"

"Yes", I answered.

"Bastards", she said under her 7-year-old breath.

"Yes," I said under mine.

Peace, But Not Now!

2009-03-16T09:40:00.000+02:00

Peace Now! What a great concept. Instant peace in return for, well, an Utopian existence where everybody beats their Kassams into ploughshares in the Garden of Eden. Just add diplomacy, add a little Joseph factor (sell your brothers) and a dash of cut your nose off to spite your face.

Perfect. Now we can all sleep at night.

I was surprised, no, - amazed, to read that at a recent 'peace immediately' demonstration, there were very few people from the South. You would have thought that those guys, being pounded by missiles, going through the trauma that you and I couldn't even imagine, would be screaming for peace. But no, the demonstrators were mainly made up of middle class Israelis from Tel Aviv. Extraordinary!

They are not under threat, yet they braved a cold night to demand peace now. What selfless people they are. Meanwhile the people under fire in Sderot, Beersheva, Ashkelon, Netivot, Kiryat Gat, Ashdod and all the surrounding towns, villages and kibbutzim as well as the North, were screaming just the opposite. They also want a 'Now' solution, but it doesn't seem to be Peace, well not in the short term.

Immediate peace would involve hurried diplomacy, painful Israeli concessions, total withdrawal from land, and the transfer of thousands of Israeli citizens. Hang on a second. Now I may have a short memory, but didn't Israel do that?

What happened? I wonder if you can remind me. That's right we withdrew from Gaza, transferred 8000 Israelis many of whom are still not settled, watched Hamas be 'democratically' installed as the 'government' of Gaza, and then what? Oh yes, they kidnapped an Israeli soldier, they have dug many tunnels to smuggle weapons into their kingdom and have been fired firing thousands of missiles into Israel ever since. Who could ask for a better peace?

You do understand that Israel cannot just sit idly by while they are being shelled, of course you don't? So when Israel tried to force Hamas to stop the shelling, 'blockading' Gaza, they intensified their attack with Kassams and Grads, because after all that's a legitimate response to Israeli aggression. And as for the people, well the humanitarian crisis is all Israel's fault because the Hamas death cult (you'll read that a lot about them, you didn't know they were? Well, now you do) are more interested in Israel's destruction than the fate of their loyal supporters.

How many 'peace very quickly', speedily in our days, supporters have visited Sderot, Netivot and the other Southern towns, in the past few days? Why did you hold your rally in Tel Aviv, are you scared? Of
course you're scared. Who wouldn't be, just ask the guys down South. But mainly I believe you are scared of admitting the truth! You would rather demonstrate from the safety of your comfortable back yard than face the screams of the children of Sderot. You would rather condemn your own people than admit the real problem. There is no quick fit fix solution. Either you are totally naïve or have no concept of the nature of the enemy, oh I'm sorry, the partner for peace.

Do the phrases, 'total destruction of Israel', 'drive them into the sea', 'more killings', 'Israel will burn', 'suicide bombers' and 'every Palestinian is a potential martyr', mean anything to you? It's your bloody house in Tel Aviv they are talking about! Not some illegal settlement outpost east of Hebron.

Now I am going to go out on a limb here and agree with you on one point. No one wants our sons and daughters to fight in a war. We would be inhuman to rejoice, as our neighbors do in, the deaths of their children, and for that I too would shout out Peace, but not Now. Just as in 1948, '67 and '73 we are fighting for our survival. The enemy is literally within. And we have to face them with strength courage and determination, not diplomacy and bits of paper because you know as well as I do that this enemy wants all or nothing and doesn't care to die trying.

Peace has to be lasting, and you cannot bring everlasting peace, now. In utopia just like the Garden of Eden, you need to do the weeding first, then the planting and finally eat the fruits, it never happens now.

This is the time for weeding. Every day I pray for peace but I know my history and I know that there is no such thing as 'peace now'.

To all you "embarrassed" Jews

2009-03-16T09:38:00.000+02:00

When you come and live in Israel, that comfortable Diaspora fence you have been perched on all those years suddenly disappears. There is no more grey area; you're either for us or against us.

It's ironic that such a symbol of security should also be the symbol of indecisiveness. Such is the nature of The Fence.

It's easy to criticize Israel from afar, it's easy to be drawn in by the ludicrous political correctness, western liberalism and, in many cases, a sense of extreme embarrassment forced on and often embraced by Jews in the Diaspora. It's easy to shout and scream and criticize, worrying what your non-Jewish neighbors or colleagues may think, becoming the ultimate apologists. It's easy to scream from your comfortable pseudo-Jewish ivory towers. What seems to be harder is for you to muster some sense of loyalty and support for your own people (Jews) and your own country ( Israel). (Just a reminder.) And there aren't enough righteous gentiles to save us all.

'But it's for precisely that reason' you will cry, 'that we are so tough on Israel. We are enlightened, we understand because we live in the West where diplomacy rules. (Bosnia, Hamburg, Dresden, Iraq, Algeria, Congo, Falklands, we love Western diplomacy). Where we know Israeli concessions will bring peace and where we see an oppressed Palestinian people and a ferocious Israeli occupier.' Except of course Israel doesn't occupy Gaza.

Let me tell you something about you, you are not readily able to admit. You ignore the fact Israel no longer occupies a square inch of Gaza. You forget who created the infrastructure left there. You have no sense of history, are blind to the blatant anti-Semitic tide that drives most anti-Israel feeling. You probably receive all your skewed information about Israel through the media. You have never once tried to understand the facts from Israel's point of view. You have no idea of the reign of terror Hamas is conducting on its own people. You have no idea of the suffering of Israelis living close to Gaza suffering barrage after barrage of missiles. You conveniently forget all the facts in order to justify your hateful rhetoric against your own people (Jews) and your own country (Israel). Sorry for the reminder. You have never once asked why Hamas needs to attack Israel, when they could live side by side in peace. You have never asked why, if the people are impoverished, Hamas doesn't use its resources for food and education instead of hand-made bombs and more sophisticated weaponry. You will cry that the 'blockade' on Gaza is plunging the people into destitution. What you won't ask is why is there a blockade. Did I mention that Israel relinquished control of Gaza relocating 8,000 of its citizens?

Oh and you won't read this blog entry properly.

Your identity as a Jew has been stolen. You have turned your back on thousands of years of history siding with the media and Arab propaganda, not really understanding the true facts of the ground. Every other nation has the right to defend itself, show nationalism and expect support. But you deny this for your own people.

So now that Israel, after months and months of restraint and in the wake of thousands of rockets, has finally returned to Gaza to deal with Hamas, you say that you are "embarrassed" by Israel's actions?

You'll tell me I am insecure in my beliefs, that I am ultra right-wing, and that I am blinded by fanaticism. You'll tell me that you know what the problem is and what should be done.

I am not ultra right-wing, just a realist who takes the facts and history into consideration. This is not a simplistic view but a carefully considered opinion. This is not based on a persecution complex but a simple historical formula. They want us out. The President of Iran wants our total destruction. Hamas, Hizbullah, Islamic Jihad, Al Qaida are all vying for the opportunity to drive us into the sea. Many other Arab countries would love to see us gone. That's a fact.

There is no room for diplomacy with an organization that wants your total destruction and perpetuates terror for the sake of an anarchic, megalomaniac blood lust.

There can be no more sitting on the fence. You need to understand that.

Christmas Jews - Repost

2009-03-16T09:37:00.000+02:00

This time of year is always steeped in nostalgia. Every Anglo reminisces about the lovely atmosphere during the season of good will, looking at the lights, the dressed up shop windows and the decorated trees. Oh, and those cold winter nights crunching through the snow. Ah happy days! Well, go back then if it was so wonderful. I have nostalgic moments too and then I remember how bloody cold it was, how I was excluded from the office parties because I couldn't eat their food, drink their wine and didn't want to wish every stranger 'Happy Christmas' and kiss some drunk secretary under the mistletoe. OK, maybe the mistletoe thing...

I was more interested in rushing home to light Hanukkah candles and publicize the miracle of how the few vanquished the many, how we stood on the brink of extinction, culturally and religiously, to be saved by an army and leader who knew that the Hellenization of the Jews would have destroyed them just as surely as any holocaust.

So when I saw a posting on the Modi'in e-mail list about a carol service for Jews who yearned for the good old days in the US and UK, I felt sick to my stomach. I am still trying to fathom why these Jews would be so motivated to laud the coming of the son of god, in the little town of Bethlehem on a silent night in the snow, in a barn with shooting stars, Magi and a donkey. What's in it for them? Two thousand years of persecution, that's what.

Without our religion we would have ceased to exist culturally, we would have totally assimilated like the German Jews. Totally disappeared as a nation, a people, our history forgotten and our traditions resigned to the scrapheap. This may be a 'wake up and smell the coffee' moment. It's all very lovely, nice tunes but why not sing some good old Crusader tunes about the massacre of Jews or those catchy Catholic tunes about burning Jews at the stake or what about some of those memorable Nazi marching songs and to cap it all off we can sing 'Push the Jews Down the Well', Borat-style and watch all the rednecks clap along and join in. Have I gone too far?

The chief Rabbi of Ramat Gan summed it up in one sentence: "There is something masochistic about Jews celebrating Christmas, a day singled out by Christians for pogroms". Singing carols is celebrating Christmas - no two ways about it. There are those of us, in living memory, who suffered pogroms on Christmas, they weren't singing, they were clutching hold of their own religion, dying for it, not seeking harmless fun.

I can hear the creaking wheels of justification turning in your heads; it's no longer a religious event, it's commercial and cultural. Which incidentally I think is an affront to religious Christians who celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday. While I respect the Christian religion and think that the singing of carols is an integral and very important tradition there is no room for Jews in the cloisters.

This is what I think of Jewish carol singers: there is no reason to live in Israel unless you want to preserve the Jewish integrity of the country. If you want to sing Carols, eat pork and secularize or make the country Judenrein then why not live elsewhere. You may think I am over-reacting, you may want to flame my blog, but I think if you understand what I am writing, if you are educated and mature enough to realize what you are doing you'll stop this ridiculous event. If you understand our history you'll find that, singing Christmas carols is the most inexcusable affront to every man woman and child who died for being Jewish and creating a Jewish state.

In a country where parents can accuse a boy of missionary work for putting on teffilin in a Jewish secular school, surely this carol singing (justified as harmless fun etc, etc) comes under the same category.

The greatest of our oppressors have been Jews turned Christian or self-hating Jews. You may see this as harmless fun, may even justify it as a cultural event, but it's a slippery slope, my friends. A very slippery slope.

So long and Thanks for the Hate

2008-12-18T12:43:00.000+02:00

'Weapon of mass destruction', reads the label, easy to use anytime anywhere contains pure high grade anti-Zionism /anti-Semitism. If the weapons dealers could have bottled it or encased it in steel they would have made a fortune. These WMDs can be made out of anything animal vegetable & mineral. The most powerful trigger is certainly the human voice striking in the name of hate, ignorance, propaganda, incitement, disinformation and indoctrination. In fact just about anything in any form anywhere in the world has been used in one way or another in the active pursuit of wiping the Jewish people off the face of the Earth.

What a warm feeling it should be to be the center of attention. The state that goes out of its way to send help to earthquake and mudslide victims, medical and, dare I say it, humanitarian aid to the world's dark places, is the subject of so much hate.

Yet here we stand, more powerful than ever. Strike us down and we become more powerful, to paraphrase a famous man.

So bring it on. Misquote the Koran and bible, pervert your religious beliefs as much as you want, rewrite history and create facts on the ground. Write books about world domination, conspiracy theories. Yes, my relatives were the Elders of Zion, they loved Zion and they were old, but that's where it ends.

You'll keep trying, you won't stop. And the more you fail the more you'll try and then just as your grandfathers and generations spanning 4000 years have tried and failed so will you, because good always defeats evil. Maybe not immediately, but ultimately. But you have no idea how much good you are doing as well.

Where there is no anti-Semitism we disappear, assimilate, but you're too involved in rewriting history to notice that. Take Poland and Germany before the Holocaust you love to deny. The places where we were harassed most are the places we thrived and the places that accepted us we assimilated and disappeared.

It seems your greatest weapon of mass destruction is to accept us, welcome us, integrate us and make us assimilate and then we will cease to be. Well two things, we won't disappear even if you love us you'll never stop hating us so we don't need to worry. Every Kassam rocket you fire, every grave you defile, every word of your hate-filled rhetoric only strengthens us and secures us. So I guess what I am saying is, thanks. Thanks for hating us, thanks for reminding us we are Jews, thanks for bringing us together , trying to unite us.

But the trouble is that although you have done so much good, you're not going to escape unpunished. The price our people have paid for all the goodness you have bestowed on us over the generations is quite unbearable. We are still only a few million. You have culled our numbers, murdered us in unspeakable horror, and any Rabbi will tell you, really you can't do a sin in order to do a mitzvah, a good deed. You can't steal to give charity and you can't hate us in order to drive us together. And, oh, how you have sinned.

In an effort to neutralize your WMDs which you will never do willingly, we will have to wait. We have waited 4000 years, another few won't hurt. Then on that day we will totally vanquish you and on that day good will overcome evil.

Jewish Blood

2008-12-04T14:04:00.000+02:00

Whenever we went on long car journeys when we were kids we would play all manner of word and general knowledge games. Describing the Prime ministers cat with every letter of the alphabet (X was always a challenge, he was always Xenophobic), countries of the world using the last letter of the country (A was the best, Australia, would then become Austria, Angola, Albania etc) and then there was ‘I Spy’. We have a new game, name a country that does not have a problem with Muslim fundamentalists, militia or terrorists. Now there’s a challenge. Now name a country where an act of Muslim terror has occurred which hasn’t somehow tied in with Jews and Israel. From Iraq to Bali, every act of terror by the many, many Muslim extremist and not so extreme groups have killed in the name of their global Jihad and, oh yes, for their brothers and sisters in Palestine.

Now name a time in the last 40 years when we have stood up for ourselves, turned our back on the demands for self restraint, diplomacy and doing what was right for us as a state, a people and nation without pandering to the US, EU, BBC, and any other worthless acronym you can think of. Actually that’s another game. Name all the acronyms of organizations seeking to destroy, destabilize or delegitimize Israel and the Jews. PLO, PFLP, UN, EU, HRW the list is endless.

OK a new game. Name a time when the world has cared, been moved, wept or mourned or uniformly condemned the spilling of Jewish blood.

Name a country that has stood up to the Muslim extremists and fundamentalists among its own citizens. Name a country that is not in denial about what they are seeing before their eyes. Name a country that isn’t trying to brush the problem under the carpet hoping it will go away and name a country that feels that action rather than words will solve the problem.

I Mumbai, an attack perpetrated by Pakistani extremists, Kashmiri separatists or Iran, they purposely targeted and attacked the Chabad center killing the Jews inside. Jews in India totally unrelated to any of India’s problems, non military, non-political, just there to help their fellow Jews with a warm smile, a Shabbat meal and maybe some direction in life. And Jewish travelers escaping to see the world and be young for maybe the last time before they returned to Israel, to study, work and settle down.
We are victims, and that’s our lot. In every generation, as we recite in the Haggada, they rise up to destroy us but the Holy One blessed be He, saves us. Or the running joke, they tried to kill us, we were saved, lets eat! We have been victims ever since Abraham was thrown into a fiery furnace by Nimrod. And since then look at our history. Pretty horrific. True in every generation they rose up to destroy, and some of us were saved to regroup and wait for the next round of crusades, blood libels, inquisitions, pogroms, holocausts. We have more ways to describe the way we have been persecuted and murdered than Eskimos have for snow.

Now name a nation that has more Nobel prizes under their belts, in every category. Name a nation that has produced some of the greatest teachers, thinkers, scientists, doctors, mathematicians. Name a country that in just 60 years has overtaken almost every country on the face of the world in commerce and industry.

Name a nation that should be proud, upstanding, strong and selfish in the face of so much adversity. Name a nation that seems to drag its feet and panders to the will of others at the expense of its own citizens.

Name a nation that will one day, with the help of those who are not in denial and don’t have their heads in the sand, breed great leaders that will stand up for the blood of their brothers and sisters and represent our people as a strong determined nation, pursuing peace and prosperity, security and tolerance and an example to the rest of the world.

Train of thought

2008-12-01T22:47:00.001+02:00

The 7:43 train pulled out of Modi’in Central station. I sat on my seat mildly out of breath after a last second sprint an acrobatic dive saved me from waiting another 25 minutes for the next train.

In the UK when you’re on public transport, the idea is to be as anonymous as possible. You don’t look at anyone and you certainly don’t speak to anybody, in fact if you say hello or ask an innocent question about changing trains people look at you with suspicion and you are immediately branded a strange and people will avoid sitting near you. Great if you’re on a packed train.

Yet the train here is the absolute opposite, the antithesis of London. Firstly, when you get on the train everyone has to look at you. Sizing you up, who are you? Where do you come from? Nice shoes etc. Then you are inevitably sucked into conversation, could be with the person sitting next to you or the person three rows behind. Once somebody starts talking everyone gets involved. Opinions, ideas, political theory, theology anything. Of course everybody has his or her own opinion and everybody is right, or so they think.

The games we play on the train range for trying to decipher the shoulder tags of the soldiers. What do they do, where are they based why do they all have slightly different shades of green. There are dark green shirts, blue shirts, grey shirts, beige shirts and light green shirts. Reminds me of the bus we used to take to school. A myriad of uniforms and combinations of colour, even Joseph would have been jealous.

It’s funny the perceptions we invent in our mind for people we don’t know. The guy with a laptop case, blonde beard and ponytail must be a Russian programmer, the guy in a suit is definitely a lawyer and the guy with his sunglasses plastered to his head, tight jeans and smart shirt, definitely a hi-tech salesman.

Then there is the Arab girl sitting trying not to attract attention, but when she got on the train everyone went quiet, so now she has all the attention as whispers start circulating. What’s in her bag? Is she really pregnant? Don’t worry they check everyone before they enter the station. It’s a mixture of fear and self preservation with an unfortunate drop of discrimination. But where is she going? To Tel Aviv? Probably Haifa, which would make more sense. Why? Well it just would.
I counted 23 mp3 players in my carriage including mine, 12 laptops and two play-stations.

That’s a lot of hardware. The buzz from 46 speakers provoked my neighbor to throw down her paper and sit with her fingers in her ears. A bit extreme I thought until I removed mine and heard the incessant drum and bass reverberating from end of the carriage to the other.

I read the free paper and then took out my book, hoping that it would have registered with my fellow travelers that I was not one of the Anglos rejecting everything Israeli. I see myself as bridging both worlds I even try and put some accent into my Ivrit, which is more than can be said from some of my trans-Atlantic cousins. Did I mention the trains automatic announcements which have the most annoying American Israeli accent. What’s wrong with the way they do it on the London Underground? English (the Queens) heavily accented with a mix of Afro Caribbean and Indian, touch of the Empire. I never understand what they are saying, but then that’s half the fun.

My stations is coming up. Got to get ready for the final sprint to my connecting bus, miss that and I’m in trouble. Mp3 players go silent, newspapers are discarded and people start to make their way to the doors.

I jump off the train, no ‘mind the gap’ announcement here. I have my ticket at the ready as I run to the barriers and up the stairs to the bus stop.

The Arab girl waddles passed me, mp3 player in one hand, laptop bag over her shoulder. She is also running for a bus.

Jewish Blood

2008-12-01T22:44:00.000+02:00

Whenever we went on long car journeys when we were kids we would play all manner of word and general knowledge games. Describing the Prime Ministers cat with every letter of the alphabet (X was always a challenge, he was always Xenophobic), countries of the world using the last letter of the country (A was the best, Australia, would then become Austria, Angola, Albania etc) and then there was ‘I Spy’. We have a new game, name a country that does not have a problem with Muslim fundamentalists, militia or terrorists. Now there’s a challenge.

Name a country where an act of Muslim terror has occurred which hasn’t somehow tied in with Jews and Israel. From Iraq to Denmark, every act of terror by the many, many Muslim extremist and not so extreme groups have killed in the name of their global Jihad and, oh yes, for their brothers and sisters in Palestine.

Now name a time in the last 40 years when we have stood up for ourselves, turned our back on the demands for self restraint, diplomacy and doing what was right for us as a state, a people and nation without pandering to the US, EU, BBC, and any other worthless acronym you can think of. Actually that’s another game. Name all the acronyms of organizations seeking to destroy, destabilize or delegitimize Israel and the Jews. PLO, PFLP, UN, EU, BBC, HRW the list is endless.

OK a new game. Name a time when the world has cared, been moved, wept or mourned or uniformly condemned the spilling of Jewish blood. (Maybe the Munich Olympics, maybe.)
Name a country that has stood up to the Muslim extremists and fundamentalists among its own citizens. Name a country that is not in denial about what they are seeing before their eyes. Name a country that isn’t trying to brush the problem under the carpet hoping it will go away and name a country that feels that action rather than words will solve the problem.

In Mumbai, an attack perpetrated by Pakistani extremists, Kashmiri separatists or Iran, they purposely targeted and attacked the Chabad center killing the Jews inside. Jews in India totally unrelated to any of India’s problems, non military, non-political, just there to help their fellow Jews with a warm smile, a Shabbat meal and maybe some direction in life. And Jewish travelers escaping to see the world and be young for maybe the last time before they returned to Israel, to study, work and settle down.

We are victims, and that’s our lot. In every generation, as we recite in the Haggada, they rise up to destroy us but the Holy One blessed be He, saves us. Or the running joke, they tried to kill us, we were saved, lets eat! We have been victims ever since Abraham was thrown into a fiery furnace by Nimrod. And since then look at our history. Pretty horrific. True in every generation they rose up to destroy, and some of us were saved to regroup and wait for the next round of crusades, blood libels, inquisitions, pogroms, holocausts. We have more ways to describe the way we have been persecuted and murdered than Eskimos have for snow.

Now name a nation that has more Nobel prizes under their belts, in every category. Name a nation that has produced some of the greatest teachers, thinkers, scientists, doctors, mathematicians. Name a country that in just 60 years has overtaken almost every country on the face of the world in commerce and industry.

Name a nation that should be proud, upstanding, strong and selfish in the face of so much adversity. Name a nation that seems to drag its feet and panders to the will of others at the expense of its own citizens.

Name a nation that will one day, with the help of those who are not in denial and don’t have their heads in the sand, breed great leaders that will stand up for the blood of their brothers and sisters and represent our people as a strong determined nation, pursuing peace and prosperity, security and tolerance and an example to the rest of the world.

With Perfect Faith

2008-09-03T14:27:00.000+03:00

With unquestioning belief and with perfect faith Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Fatah, Al Qaida’s brave warriors (even the children, pregnant women and kids with Downs Syndrome) rush to strap explosives to themselves in order to indiscriminately murder Jews, Christians and Muslims anywhere and at anytime.

What it is to have perfect faith, something we can only aspire to. Of course it is not without its extreme hypocrisy but when you’re the ‘down trodden wretches of the Earth’, you can get away with it.

Live by the sword, even if you firmly believe it will never happen to you and if it does there is such a fantastic reward that you almost hope it will. Confused?
Even if you live a relatively normal middle class existence it is still the principle that drives you to murder and once you’ve dehumanized your victims it is no longer relevant who they are or who you are. You are on a mission to kill and as they say in Israel, ze’ooh!

A few weeks ago I was waiting by the side of the road to cross with my kids. We saw cars speeding by drivers with no belts on and kids in the front and back with no belts on. Now we cant police the world and its very sad to see that these parents don’t love their kids as much as maybe they should and also are not really aware of the serious consequences of their actions. A bit like Golda Meir’s famous quote about peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us. Well drivers are the same, maybe they will strap their kids in and also have less disdain for everybody else on the road.

My kids, ever astute, commented on the way these drivers and their passengers young and old were not wearing belts. I told them they were lucky that their Imma and Abba always made sure everybody was strapped in and never took risks.

These drivers, I explained never think anything will happen to them. They have faith that they will be OK and they seem to ignore or more than likely not care about their fellow citizens.

Selfish, suicidal and stupid, you might get there quicker but it may be in the back of an ambulance.

So we are about to cross the road and a car very kindly stops for us. We begin to cross, cautiously, always aware of our surroundings. Meanwhile my kids were commenting on how nice it was that the lady stopped for us.

As we were exactly in the middle of the crossing a taxi came roaring up the hill, on a mission. Now taxi drivers are the most notorious of all of Israeli drivers and the simple fact that a car is blocking their way doesn’t really seem relevant.
My kids have a favorite song called bear hunt. ‘Going on a bear hunt, gonna catch a big one, uh,oh, mud. Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, gotta go through it’.
And so it was with the taxi. Cant go under the car in front, cant go over the car in front, what other alternative does he have, to stop? No, of course not. Gotta go through it. And he did.

Smashing into the back of the nice lady that stopped for us, the taxi driver and his unbelted passenger both had a bugs eye view of the road hitting the windscreen, the lady jerked forward from the force of the collision, severely whip lashed, and in a reflex reaction, belying my age and build, that would have looked great in slow motion, I grabbed my kids and pulled them away and pushed them, almost throwing them on to the pavement.

I used to be laid back about the driving here. Be always mindful of your surroundings, or some other Star Wars quote, used to be me my mantra. Its not you it’s everyone else on the road.

But when more people in this country have died by the hands of their fellow citizens or themselves on the road than by the hands of their enemies it makes you think, who are we really fighting?

The Dripping Tap 2

2008-09-01T23:41:00.001+03:00

Drip, drip drip. Mental note, get the plumber in as fast as possible before I go completely mad. Drip, drip, drip. Actually this tap has some rhythm. Drip, drip drip. How can my wife sleep through this noise. Drip, drip, drip. This is real oriental torture. Drip, drip, drip. Mental note, due to lack of sleep everybody in the house should keep at least 2 kilometers away from me, call it a security buffer zone. Drip, drip, drip. Mind you I have not spent months on end in a public bomb shelter, can you imagine? Drip, drip, drip. Suddenly the drip doesn’t seem so bad. Drip, drip, drip. At least we’re central and safe.

The next morning I leapt out of bed, ran outside and breathed in the pure Modi’in air. What a wonderful morning I thought; the birds singing in the trees, children playing in the streets, the scent of flowers and pine calming and relaxing my senses. OK, so it wasn’t quite like that. The next morning I dragged myself out of bed, crawled into the bathroom, swore at the leaking tap, grumbled at the wife and was quite inexcusably rude to the neighbor who phoned to borrow some milk.

I nearly fell down the stairs, turned on the TV to watch the latest news; Hamas, Iran, Hezbollah, budget, schools, teachers. I boiled the kettle and manhandled the phone book trying to focus on the plumber’s number. Even dialing his number was a challenge. “Is that Yossi? Get here as soon as you can. Got a leaking tap, driving me insane. No I’m not up in Gaza it’s the TV. And you, bye.”

The kids crept silently into the salon, the news disappeared and the cartoons took over. I decided to ignore it. Fell up the stairs to my office, sat at the computer and read all the news feeds.

As I read the feeds and saw the videos of our incredible country being torn apart and then a rush of anger overtook all my senses. I don’t think it was sleep deprivation and I am sure it was just raw emotion that caused me to cry a little.

So many questions unanswered about the Palestinians, Iran, Hamas, Hezbollah, the international community and the blatant anti-Israel anti-Semitic reporting. Nothing new there. But, I asked myself, why are we not immune to all of this. For thousands of years we have suffered under just about every government in every country. You’d think we would have evolved such thick skin and be so tough as to able to ignore it all

But no. Every time the BBC refers to Hezbollah or Hamas as militants, my blood boils. Every time they call Israel’s response disproportionate I end up shouting at the TV, and every time they ignore Iran’s call for Israel to be wiped off the Earth, I stand there incredulous, waiting for someone to condemn them.

And just like a dripping tap, you never, ever, get used to it.

The Art of Negotiation

2008-08-20T09:53:00.000+03:00

This isn’t an attack on the Government, may our leaders all live long and prosperous lives in the service of their country and not the service of themselves.

The art of negotiation, or the art of getting what you want, is a skill that has been perfected over many years by business gurus, but has yet to take into account what I call the ‘princess factor’.

The ‘princess factor’ also called by some ‘my little prince factor’, is a skillful and uncompromising almost savage negotiation technique between two hardened parties, you on the one side and your kids on the other.

The G8 in its trade negotiations uses it all the time. One side has a little tantrum and the other side gives in. The government makes endless use of this tactic, releasing hundreds of Palestinian prisoners from its very effective prison system, by giving in to every demand even when there is only the slightest hint or threat of a tantrum.

In fact, the government has so perfected the ‘princess factor’ that it seems to give in even when it is not negotiating; I think it is called “good will”.

We have to make concessions, sometimes very painful, but surely only if we can have something in return, you know small things like recognition, the right to survive, the right not to be murdered, trivial stuff.

“Oh”, they cry, “you wouldn’t understand what goes on behind the scenes the tough negotiation, the diplomacy and the painful concessions”.

To be fair, when I feel there is the slightest discontent brewing in our happy little home I immediately start the pacification process offering bribes and promises just to diffuse a potentially explosive situation.

Take the swimming pool incident or “debacle” as history will recall it. The word swimming pool was used in a completely different context, but they got it into their pretty little heads that I had promised to take them. I tried to reason, negotiate and bribe but to no avail. Truth is, I was tired and couldn’t be bothered but that didn’t seem to bother them. Then the ‘princess card’ was played. One spontaneously exploded into tantrum-land, one ran to her room and slammed the door and one grabbed hold of my leg crying and wouldn’t let go.

A three pronged attack that would make even Neptune’s trident seem impotent, using every one of the three princess factor negotiation techniques; tantrum, cold silent treatment and puppy dog eyes.

Needless to say we swam that afternoon.

I couldn’t help thinking, as the kids clung and pulled at me in the swimming pool, what would the government have done?

Well, release some prisoners for a start.

The Apocalypse Appreciation Society

2008-08-07T21:14:00.001+03:00

‘And Mohammed travelled there unto Babylon and fought the Dragon. After the dragon he fought the fiery snake and so did the apocalypse begin and end on that day’.

Now, I am not an expert on the Koran and, to tell the truth, I have never owned nor opened a copy but, after a focused internet search via Wikipedia, I can assure you that the verse above does not appear anywhere. So the passage that I saw stuck to a lamppost is probably fake. More likely the words are lyrics to some thrash metal group.

Everyone has a version of the “end of days” and all religions at least agree on one thing -the bad guys will be vanquished and we will all live in peace as long as we are all Christian or Muslim or just accept and pray to one Gd. A bit like a haredi version of Star Wars.

The end of the world was supposed to have happened at many significant points in human history. Of course the years 1000 and 2000 were prime candidates. There is a website that lists 200 possible dates including April 17th 2008. Can’t quite remember what happened on April 17th but it certainly wasn’t the end of the world. I think we were Pesach cleaning which, for many, feels like the end of the world so there is some truth there.

In my house the end of the world is when I forget to empty the washing machine, when one of the kids’ Barbie dolls has been decapitated by their youngest sister and when I forget to tell my wife that her parents phoned.

I have subsequently learned that the word apocalypse means lifting the veil or revelation, hence the book of Revelations. I thought maybe lifting the veil had some vague reference to Muslim women in France, but then I could be wrong.

In Israel apocalypse could mean the final revelation of how the mortgage system works, i.e. revealing the greatest of all unfathomable secrets, knowing exactly why a bank cannot access previous information, why everything must be signed everywhere and why you actually need to pay to have a mortgage in the first place.

Apocalypse could explain the workings of the political system, the bus system, local government and why the science museum doesn’t open on a Sunday.

Apocalypse is the lifting of the veil so, when it comes, I expect to understand everything like why our Government , bless it, chooses the age old trick of deceiving our enemies into thinking we are weak and haven’t got a clue, why we don’t respond to bad PR and why we make countless excuses instead of getting the job done.

I am quite looking forward to the apocalypse, that forthcoming war with Gog and Magog (or Mango according to the spell check, takes on a different slant really, the war between Gog and Mango) then maybe we would get everything straight and start beating our swords into ploughshares.

I think I’ll book a front row seat, put a tent up, get the bar-b-q fired up, buy some garanim, slip my Crocs off , sing some old Yishuv songs, and enjoy watching the lion lie down with the lamb……………. after we’ve whipped his ass.

Triplicate

2008-07-31T17:03:00.001+03:00

Dust is a funny commodity in Israel. I suppose our proximity to the sea, the desert and a million building sites doesn’t help. Its always amusing to see the shape of objects moved from there place when covered with dust. That was a cup, a pen or a paper clip.

Stacks of files, manila envelopes and loose papers litter the waiting room, the corridors and every desk and office in the building. This certainly is a government office. Three of piece of paper. Like Noah on steroids, if you don’t have three you wont have the luxury of losing one and having one spare, I was once told.

And then its my term and I sit before the civil servant who will undoubtedly, in his own way, help me with my problem.

I look into his eyes.

Now I don’t want to be the harbinger of bad news and I certainly don’t want to be the messenger boy that everyone takes a pot shot at so don’t call me Hermes, don’t watch Gallipoli and don’t ask me. The fact is if you don’t know you don’t know and if you don’t ask you won’t know but if you do ask there is very little chance I will tell you anyway.

You need to know and if you don’t I will take complete advantage, but if you ask I will know you don’t know and take complete advantage and if you do know I will argue with you until you start doubting yourself and then you wont know anymore. Either way I will have the upper hand.

So how do you know. Well you could be born here, born into the system that allows you to know or have a fighting chance anyway. Its generally genetic, so if your parents were born that will also stand you in good stead.

If you are an immigrant you might as well have ‘prey’ or ‘frier’ stamped on your forehead. I have no time if you can’t speak the language and have no time if you don’t know the system. I will send you on pointless trips to the post office, unknown government offices entrance 3b, fourth floor, room 206. Then I will help you waist the best part of your week while trying to find your way out.

But you can learn. Always argue even if you know I am right. Always ask for more even if you have everything you need, always be confident, and always understand why you are in front of me and what you want. Never be afraid to ask a 100 times if need be and never do anything without questioning exactly why, when, where and how.
Now with the rise of new Aliyah organizations my job has been made much harder. You may not even have to deal with me but I am there ready to find that document not stamped correctly, ready to notice the 106nis not paid into the post office, ready to justify my own miserable existence.

My father drained swamps, lived in a transit camp and built this country. I knew Ben Gurion, fought in 5 wars and have the right to execute my job to the letter.
I am a dying breed, but the legacy is still being passed down to those underpaid workers with big chips on their shoulders just like me.

I am just trying to do my job, feed my family and make sure this country runs as smoothly as possible in triplicate.

And I could tell all that just from looking into his eyes!

I, Wildebeest

2008-07-18T09:23:00.000+03:00

I Wildebeest

Wildebeest don’t think, they just run. Follow the herd is the only lesson they learn in life. I never heard of a Wildebeest that stopped and questioned the reason why they had to stampede through the Serengeti as opposed to just a gentle canter. And why should they. Go with the flow.

Like migrating wildebeest, the rumble could be heard for miles around. The rumble turned into a tumultuous groan as the convoy of heavy vehicles reached there destination. Most had Nazareth printed on the back, some Afula and a couple from surrounding Arab villages. This was the charge of the heavy brigade, the juggernauts associated with every type of construction project in Israel. They were the reason the roads remained unfinished as they crushed, pitted and warped the soft baked tarmac of our local streets. With a shriek of squeaky breaks the convoy halted, but the engines continued belching black fumes into the air.

Suddenly there was a lot of shouting, as commands were relayed down the line of vehicles. The engines fell silent; the drivers dismounted, climbed into a mini van and disappeared. Two weeks later the drivers returned, mounted their vehicles, and the herd moved out and that was that. Not even Ephraim Kishon could have envisaged such strange behavior. But of course that’s not the end of the story.

Another two weeks passed and the trucks returned, the drivers parked, dismounted, disappeared and a week later returned and vanished.

This pattern, not that I was counting, but it did turn into a bit of joke, carried on for six months.

Now, I thought to myself, what Israeli logic is behind these happenings, what cultural aspect of Israel society am I missing, what in the name of anything remotely sane is going on?

So I asked and I still, to this day, have not been able to get my head around the insanity of it all. According to one of the drivers this is the very special and secret holy formula that these truckers live their lives by: gas x kilometers x location x job x potential job x time = budget = bread. Go the furthest distance to any job, even if its not a real job, log the kilometers, the time and submit (in triplicate) forms to say you’ve been on a job, or a potential job. This information is collated by an underpaid girl from Kiriyat Malachi with a ‘couldn’t-care-less’ attitude (oh you know her, she gets around). The information is then sent to the local council (Iriya) who, based on the information, pay the outsourced construction company and set a budget based on all the work that was potentially done.

I would love to believe (deep down) that none of the above is true, and for all I know it may not be although to find a better explanation of why these trucks just roam the country, park up and then leave, is beyond me. Maybe it has something to do with climate change or the water shortage, maybe it’s the global credit crunch or food shortages, maybe it’s the war on terror or the Olympic Games. Could be any, or all.

I guess it’s not for us to reason why. And that’s the secret of living here because a true homegrown Israeli wouldn’t even bother to think about it at all. They just go with the flow.

Lesson Well Learned

2008-05-12T23:54:00.001+03:00

The fact is that giving up land is a lazy and easy way out. Every other nation on the face of the Earth would fight tooth and nail to keep its borders secure and its territory safe. There is no such thing as painful concessions; they lead to death and destruction. Use history as your lesson. And what applies in the larger scheme of things applies here and now.

My daughter looked down, somewhat despondent, somewhat confused and somewhat lost for words. I on the other hand had taught her the most important lesson of all, protect what’s rightfully yours and remember that appeasement usually returns to bite you on the arse (or ass, not the animal.). And so our family was able to relax around the swimming pool, with plenty of space, sun loungers for all and even a coveted small plastic table that wasn’t covered in ketchup or cigarette ash.

To say the pool cafe was packed would be an understatement. We sat with the family somewhat squashed into our little corner. Move the table kids, I ordered and we all stood and lifted the table to make more space for our little family. The very English tourist (we love tourists etc etc etc) on the table nearest to us carried on regardless, and as I did my brash Israeli thing, (still a bit of English in me so I didn’t ask him to move his table) his upper lip got stiffer.

“Look here”, he suddenly blurted out, “this isn’t some bloody land grab, move back to where you were”. My wife looked at me and shook her head, my kids looked at me and shook their heads, but I couldn’t resist. “What do you mean, land grab?”
“Well its what you Israelis seem to do best and while I’m at it I might also say that it really embarrasses the rest of us, it costs a fortune to come to Israel, we try and support you and in return you bombard villages and steal land for ‘security’ purposes, I could go on but I’ll stop”.

The now more diplomatic people would have backed away, let him have his five minutes, but not me, I had a nation to defend, so after a few words about how he was an uneducated, self hating BBC Jew, I threw his Crocs into the swimming pool thinking it would be a harmless yet effective message of don’t mess with the natives. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that concealed in the end of his Croc was his wallet.

“Oh dear”, he commented, actually it was a bit more brazen and a bit less stiff upper lipped. Bugger, I thought, as the scenario of having to explain to my wife where all our cash and more had gone in reparations for this, as he would desribe it, unprovoked and disproportionate attack.

I jumped into the pool to retrieve his Crocs and now very soggy wallet. Nothing inside was ruined or missing so a heavy sigh of relief from my side but eyes still blazing on the other.

“Wait a minute, I know you. My goodness it must be twenty years, don’t you recognize me? We were in school together, don’t you remember?”

I did and we spent the rest of the holiday reminiscing, kids playing together and wives chatting like long lost friends. The latest Israeli war long forgotten.

The moral of the story? Well I can only think of one. We need to remember who we are where we came from and where we’re going.

Confused? So are they.

Jewish and Israeli Blog Carnival "Haveil Havalim."

2008-05-05T17:27:00.001+03:00

I have been included in this week's Jewish and Israeli Blog Carnival "Haveil Havalim."

Please click the link below

http://simplyjews.blogspot.com/2008/05/haveil-havalim-164-no-names-edition.html

Thanks

JC

Fat George

2008-03-26T18:50:00.000+02:00

George was a huge monster of a man. Fat was not the word, obese paled into insignificance, mammoth maybe, gargantuan seems most appropriate. We called him Fat George, because gargantuan George was, for want of a better phrase, to much of a mouthful.

George, how on earth he got that name remains a mystery, was a Bedouin tracker. He could tell whether an Ibex had recently been nibbling on a bush, where it was now and what its ID number was. He was very good. He'd been decorated by the army for being so good. But now he was contented to lead tour groups across the country's southern deserts and eat. The nimble and agile George of yesteryear was replaced by the lumbering and wheezing giant tour guide of today. Was he happy, you bet your crown jewels he was.

Why was George so happy? Well he was doing what he wanted to do. Walk about in the open air, meet nice people, eat and get paid for it.

Now why am I laboring on about the fact he was so huge. Well, as with many people, I am little insecure about the fact that since getting married all those years ago, there isn't a chance I could ever fit in to my wedding suit. But George was so blissfully happy with himself it made me sick and jealous. The only thing that kept me going was the certainty that he wouldn't fit into my suits either.

So I made the resolve that if George was happy with his temple then I should be to.
At home, biscuits and crisps are more or less banned as we all try and lead a healthy lifestyle. So I decided, why deny myself; and went out and bought cookies, chips, bisli, chocolate and anything that would ordinarily be taboo.

For the first few days it was a feeding frenzy. Before meals, after meals, mid morning and mid afternoon snacks. I felt good, not denying myself anything, touching the realms of hedonism, feeling Greek and Roman all in one, with a touch of fat Bedouin.

And then the fall. Preparing to go out one evening, something didn't fit my wife the way it used to only a week ago. Fear struck me as I was the target of her frustration.

"Why did you have to buy all that rubbish. Why didn't you stop me eating it. Now I have nothing to wear and it's your fault!"

"But look, it's not so bad, I mean just be happy with yourself." In retrospect maybe that was the wrong thing to say. But of course like most men, we don't know when we are digging ourselves very deep holes and so I continued with my analogies with Fat George the Bedouin tracker.

"So let me get this straight, your idea of support is to compare me to an overweight former Bedouin tracker turned tour guide called George, Fat George?"

The cull in the kitchen went on all night, destroying all evidence of anything vaguely tasty and anything with more than 1% fat.

The next time I saw George I asked him why he was so happy and what his wife thought. "My wife doesn't tell what to do, what to eat in fact she doesn't tell me anything at all and so I go through life, my own man, blissfully following my own path."

"Wow, you have a very understanding wife." Jealousy rising, biting back the resentment, knowing that in reality all men need a wife to keep them in line.

"Actually I never married!"

Cynical, moi?

Checkpoint Charlie

2008-03-23T16:52:00.000+02:00

The traffic had built up along the 443 towards the Jerusalem. The reason was a second security check. They were looking for somebody. The boarder guards checked each and every car before letting them travel another kilometer to the official check point. In this day and age it is of course a sad reality that these checks are necessary, but you accept them because they could potentially be the difference between life and death.

I say accept them, because that’s what we should be doing, unless you are some loud mouthed American tourist who doesn’t realize what the purpose of these checks are for.

The traffic had come to standstill. So I did what any self respecting Israeli does and left my car to go and chat with a group standing by the central reservation. See if we could find out why there was this particular check and what we should do about the ‘matzav’.

And then the voice of calm and reason (sarcasm) blurted out from a nearby hire car. “I’ve got a wedding, why are we stuck, don’t they realize that I am going to be late.”

Well, we ignored the ranting and carried on our conversation, this time about school and what we were doing with our kids the week before Pesach which they had as holiday.

Then the delicately measured words of Mr Hire Car thundered out again, “if this country cant sort out its security maybe they should take a lesson from the Americans!”

If I hadn’t heard that with my own ears I would never have believed anybody could have said that. Was this worthy of an answer. Well we thought it better to ignore him than to enter into a debate about Iraq et al.

Then the comment that broke the camels back. “If they just expelled the Arabs ordinary folk like us wouldn’t be subject to the degradation of army checks and we wouldn’t be made to be late because some sub-humans are firing rockets and blowing themselves up”.

I am proud of the fact that I am not left wing, I have my own private views on how the country should deal with the situation, but my own personal philosophy is that instead of complaining, try and make a difference.

Before you say ethnic cleansing a mob had descended on Mr Hire Car. At first they started shouting at him, shouting obscenities and rocking his car a little. Realizing he may have overstepped the mark he locked the doors of his car and rolled up his windows. His wife who had thus far remained quietly supportive, started screaming.

The traffic started edging forward and we returned to our cars. The traffic stopped again and so I left my car only to see that my group had reformed and I noticed a great deal of laughing.

Now I have seen some surreal things in my life but this was just plain weird. On one side was a car load of Arab kids blasting out some very load Arabic dance music and on the other side was a woman using a breast pump. In the middle, eyes straight forward and looking very bewildered was Mr Hire Car. In front of him, just to add some variety was a large trailer with some sort of tank on the back, the canon facing Mr Hire Car’s windshield.

But I suppose that just about sums up the madness of the ‘matzav’.

The Boundaries of Reason

2008-02-17T11:51:00.001+02:00

I am a great believer of 'if you don't live here, you can't have a say'. I mean I made the ultimate sacrifice, left my land the land of my fathers. This is my home. I don't tell you how to live, what you should be doing, so why should you have a say about me and my home?

My neighbor just looked at me, "I am only saying, if it would be possible to ask your builders not to start making so much noise between 2 and 4pm it would be appreciated."

This is my home. They say an Englishman's home is his castle. So this is my castle. Safe, impenetrable and sometimes, when the heating works, warm.

There is an unwritten rule about my home. If you are not a permanent resident like it the way it is or keep your thoughts to yourself.

Sense any anger? And by the way I am not talking about parents and in-laws who feel they need to impart some of their great life experience and who inevitably know better. By the way, I am still looking for a word that describes the white noise that enters your head when a parent tells you how to run your house correctly and the subsequent expulsion of any advice even it is helpful, and finally the return from obstinacy town, to act on that advice.

Anyway, I am talking strangers, and more to the point native strangers, those beings that cant keep their mouths from blurting out their thoughts. First there are the nice comments like 'I like the way you've done this and that', to the 'that's nice but I think I would have done it differently', to the 'oh I would have done this instead' and finally 'no I'm not sure I like that.'

Just shut up and smile, nod and agree, keep it in. Do you really think after spending every penny we earn on a house I want to hear you saying you don't like something or you would have done it differently? You're supposed to be sensitive. You always care about the kids, if they are too cold or hot. You never miss the opportunity to tell me I should have wrapped by kids up warmer. You never miss advising me what vegetables I should be buying and force me to buy rubbish I don't want.

I am asking you just for once, shut up and leave me alone. I don't want your comments; don't care however friendly and helpful you are. I don't tell you that you need plastic surgery, that your bum looks big in everything you wear, that you have awful taste in clothes. I don't ask you why you dyed you hair red, wear tight sweat pants and silver trainers. I don't ask you why you feel the need to make your eyebrows and lips pencil thin. I don't ask you why you bother buying diet juice and forty bottles of malt beer and a box of bamba. So listen to me lady, leave me alone.
Obviously this attack is against one particular person although you are all imagining someone in your life like her.

Truth is that Israel is all about talking to strangers. In reality we are not strangers just one big family where every woman is a proverbial Jewish mother and that's great, to a point.
But secretly and not to burn any bridges I do appreciate your comments even if I cannot admit it.

The Grapes of Wrath and other Hangovers

2008-01-31T08:13:00.000+02:00

It was once claimed that there was one pub for every ten Englishmen. Obviously the source of this claim was in the pub at the time. There is actually 1 pub for every 820 UK residents who are legally able to drink.

Pub culture is England.

Every soap opera is focused around a pub. Every village and small town centers its life around the pub. Like the Eskimos have countless names for snow, the English have countless names for the pub depending on its menu and services; local, inn, ale house, boozer, tavern and hostelry. And like snow for Eskimos, pubs are an integral part of UK life, culture and where you live. The pub is forever England and England is forever in the pub as Hillaire Belloc said so succinctly "When you have lost your inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England!"

We are a nation of drinkers and not just beer, whisky but wine too, as W C Fields put it "what contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?"

On Friday I realised I had run out of wine so I decided on a expedition to the local wine shop. Its actually a nice place and reminds me of my local 'offy' that is an Off Licence shop or a shop in England registered to sell alcohol to be consumed off the premises, 'Offy' for short. Wood panelled and reeking of wine, you get drunk just breathing in (by the way the English have more words for getting drunk than they do for pubs).

The shop assistant staggered over to me; glass in one hand, the other holding on to the shelves of wine.

"Yesh sir, my names Yitz, have you been here before, how can I help yoooo?"

"I'm sorry can you repeat that?" This guy was flammable. He had obviously been drinking since the shop opened.

"I would like 6 bottles of Golan merlot and six Golan semi dry white, please."

"Ha ha ha ha ha, thash really funnily, cos the lasht man alsho wanted that."

"Can I have it too?" This was going to be a very long shopping trip. He walked - actually staggered - back to his desk, took another swig of red wine and then walked to the back of the shop.

"What did you want again?" he called.

I walked to the back of the shop. "I would like 6 bottles of Golan merlot and six Golan semi dry white, please".

"OK, so I need to find the red wine and then the white wine, mmmm, now where is the wine?"

"Yitz, do you need help, I mean it might be quicker".

"No, no, I'm fine just wait here."

I found the wine I wanted while my drunk assistant started chatting up some savta, telling her that with surgery she would look fantastic. The other patrons of the shop shuffled nervously past him.

I managed to get all my bottles to the front of the shop and placed them on the counter.

"Yes sir, how can I help you?"

"I want to pay for these bottles please."

"What bottles?"

"The ones here on the counter, the six red and six white."

"Oh those ones, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, didn't notice them, he chuckled and took a swig from a bottle of white fizzy stuff.

"You Israelis really cant take you drink can you," I challenged him, as he was struggling to find the keys on the cash register.

"We can, I have had two glasses already, and Yitz at the back has had a least one maybe two full glasses too."

He managed to swipe my card and finish the transaction.

"Can I have a box for the bottles?"

For fifteen minutes he struggled to construct a cardboard box for my wine. I wished I had a cam to film him; it was great entertainment, especially the car hooting in the background, until I remembered I had left the family in the car, which sobered me up.

Boxes made and wine safely stowed in the car, I ran back in to get another flat box just in case.

As I walked in a familiar smell overpowered me and Yitz came over, arms out for a big hug.

"Yesh sir, my name's Yitz, have you been here before, how can I help yoooo?"

The Carousel of life

2008-01-22T19:25:00.000+02:00

Godzilla eyed me suspiciously as I waited by the luggage carousel in Ben Gurion's Terminal 1 arrivals halls. After a few days in Eilat, I was relaxed and contented, but in an instant that changed. The kids were tired, our luggage was bound by the laws of Sod (or Murphy) to be last and to make matters worse I had Godzilla standing next to me, arms out by her side to make sure no one encroached on her four meter fly zone. She had marked her territory and although you could have parked 3 trolleys next to her, no one dared.

Godzilla, stood, dragon-eyed by the luggage carousel wearing a large green poncho, flared green trousers and a red T-shirt. Oh, and she had a green and red hair band. She was, in the opinion of this beholder, ugly as sin, scary as Freddy Kruger and she frankly unnerved everybody within a very wide radius. I decided that as the hall was packed it would be my duty on behalf of the other Arkia and Israair customers to ask her if she wouldn't mind moving a few centimeters so I could get closer (on a temporary basis) to grab my luggage.

Godzilla threw me a look even before I approached her. I know her don't I? I asked myself. New tactic, I thought. My youngest was struggling to break free of the constraints of her stroller, gnawing on the straps and struggling like a fish caught on dry land (thank you Sting). Idea number two; the best way to clear a supermarket line, government office or doctor's waiting room is to parade around with an overtired screaming kid. Not even Godzilla would be able to stand that.

Godzilla flashed her a look that Medusa would have been proud of, and the screaming stopped. Bloody marvelous, I thought. I turned to my wife and she laughed, "maybe we should offer her a job", she called. Godzilla stared at her, and my wife fell silent. "I think she just passed the interview", I laughed back. My wife flashed me a stare and I shut up. Whose turn was it to stare and laugh, I was confused.

Godzilla was getting as impatient as we were. The other two kids were causing havoc claiming boredom and hunger. Tempers were fraying. Godzilla started rocking from one foot to the other. Now with my kids thats a sure sign of a full bladder and bathroom trip. Maybe she would have to leave her spot and I would have a front row poll position. She continued to rock. Oh go already, I thought, or I thought I thought, but I didnt think - I said. Another black look. "I was talking to my kids" I said, sheepishly smiling, cheeks as red as Godzilla's shirt.

Godzilla was feeling the strain. I knew she would have to leave. Now I had hope. Hope of seeing my bags emerge from between the plastic stripped curtains and not have to wait until I saw them go past over Godzillas shoulder. I was excited. I could see Godzilla was struggling. I called for extra ammunition. A bottle of water was passed to me. My youngest could be trusted to the do the rest. I waited for her to spill the water, but for the first time in her short history she drank from the bottle and didnt spill a drop. The luggage continued its journey around the carousel towards us.

Godzilla stopped rocking. Two reasons I thought, I hoped the second reason, that I was wrong about her needs, was correct. The cases continued coming. Then I saw a case and I had renewed hope and vigor. A green case with a red sash. Must be the mythical, fire-breathing, Japanese dragons. The case came nearer. I could feel myself standing in her (hopefully dry) spot. She began to rock again, she's getting ready for what I term 'the holiday's finally over' syndrome. That feeling, when you heave your case off the carousel and you realize that finally you are going home and the holiday is truly over. Its a long lonely walk to exit. But before she could grab her case someone else did. She looked at me, smug and satisfied, she knew what I was thinking and that I was wrong and she was staying.

Godzilla, rock solid up until this point, started talking to herself and then she started cursing and then she started talking very animatedly to the guy next to her who pointed to the electronic information board, and then she started backing away from the carousel. But it all happened to quickly. Godzilla had been standing all this time at the wrong carousel, as she backed away I had to move further back and Darth Vader moved into her spot before I had little time to awaken my lightening reflexes. I cursed, my wife cursed, my youngest then started crying and the kids continued their moaning and complaining.

Godzilla had left the hall, Darth Vader walked off with his massive suitcase, wheezing into the night. Our luggage still hadnt arrived. The hall was emptying out. The kids had long since been bribed with ten million packets of overpriced Bamba and chips, bumping off the walls as the E numbers took their toll. I was on my fourth coffee, tongue burnt to a cinder, and my wife had resigned herself to sitting on the trolley. Our youngest was asleep. Then the carousel stopped and our bags still hadn't appeared. Dejected, tired, emotionally and physically worn out, and really, really angry, I turned to walk to customer services. At least, I thought, I'll get some decent compensation. And then I saw a green poncho glide across the hall to the exit.

Godzilla heaved her case out of the hall. It suddenly occurred to me that there were so many flights from Eilat maybe just maybe..................Whatever Godzilla had mumbled to herself, cursed out load and shouted to her neighbors around the carousel was nothing to what I shouted as I realized that I did know her. She was on my flight. I rechecked the electronic information board, and then checked my ticket. I had been standing waiting for 81 and my tickets last numbers were 18.

Godzilla turned and saw me schlepping my cases off the stationary carousel, her gaze met mine and she smiled. I smiled back. She wasn't so frightening after all. My wife noticed us and put two and two together. She smiled. "She's definitely hired", I called to my wife. Well a three second smile is better than none at all.

Of Koalas and Men

2008-01-09T08:48:00.001+02:00

Fat, lazy and smelly. That’s how I would describe him. Gangaroo near Bet Shean is always a good day out (and good drive as well). My kids like the Koalas, but I don’t. Maybe I am jealous that they get to sleep 23 hours a day, but I wont let on, instead I tell my kids that they are fat, lazy and smelly. My wife growls at me for being a grumpy old man, little does she know that we all want to be a Koala once in a while (except for the Eucalyptus leaf diet).

My daughter told me once she wants to be an Arab. I warily asked why, knowing that a child’s use of logic, however innocent could be very damaging. She told me that whenever we see Arabs they are sitting down, either by the road selling fruit, waiting for lifts, on a break from working on the road or just generally laying about. She thought that was a good life. I explained to her that there were Arab doctors and lawyers and in fact Arabs worked in all walks of life.

That seemed to satisfy her. She wasn’t going to be an Arab. On a visit to Gangaroo she concurred with me that apart from the smell a Koalas life was pretty laid back and satisfying so maybe she would be a Koala.

“What’s better”, she asked, “a Koala or an Arab”.

“You can’t really compare”, I answered. “It’s like comparing apples with oranges. You need to try and compare apples with apples. You could ask what’s better being a Koala or a Kangaroo or you could ask what’s better being Arab or Chinese.”

“Ok,” she said, “what’s better being an Apple or an Arab.”

I looked skyward for some help. “OK,” I said mustering all my patience, “you can compare people with other people, fruit with fruit and animals with animals”.

“Look,” she said mustering all her patience, “Some Arabs are lazy, Koalas are lazy and apples really do nothing all day.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and some Jews are lazy too. You have to be a bit more specific.” Ok so the word specific was lost on her but I think she understood.

In her mixed up little world, where everything is black and white, there are very specific categories. I needed to find a way of explaining to her better.

On the crocodile farm in Chamat Gader, we carried on the conversation. “Those crocodiles lie about all day but as soon as they are hungry they jump to life and are very fast at getting food. Are they lazy?”

“No,” she said, “they spend a lot of time waiting for their breakfast, lunch and supper.”

“So there you go then. Arabs that you see are not lazy, they are waiting for someone to buy there fruit, or to carry on working or just waiting for a friend.”

“So what you mean Abba, is that Arabs are like crocodiles.”
OK things were getting out of control.

“Ok, some people are like Koalas, some are like crocodiles and some are like kangaroos, but it doesn’t matter if you are Jew or Arab, everybody is different.”

“I see,” she said, nodding her head in contemplation, “but who are the apples?”

La salle de bains

2008-01-09T08:45:00.000+02:00

The English have a long and well-documented love affair with the French. OK not so much love as mutual understanding. Actually, who am I fooling, it's been a disaster.

From the day William the Conqueror waltzed into London and said "I am you're new King and everyone has to eat frogs legs and soufflé", it's been downhill. Especially as most of Northern France was once part of England. Didn't know that, eh? Well read you're history books. Then came Waterloo, Trafalgar and many other battles, but we kicked their behinds every time. In fact the Brits have never lost a significant battle since. They have always bounced back. Today the wars take on different personas; instead of soldiers we have diplomats and French lorry drivers that burn sheep.

And no more has the French-English been felt than in our land:
This royal throne of Kings, this sort of sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Olmert,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by hi-tech for herself
Against infection and the hand of war?
This happy breed of men, all bringing home the same amount no matter what their salary actually is, this little world,
This precious stone set by the silver sea and tar and plastic bags,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands who would rather drive us into it;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Israel?

You see for all the wonders of Israel, it can still be a breeding ground for internal wars, I kid you not. And there you were thinking we all got along in blissful harmony. Well if it wasn't for the French, maybe we would.

That's painfully unfair, I hear you cry. Well you?re right because it's not really like that, but after years of indoctrination, it's hard to shake it off.

Aliyah is a wonderful chance to shake of your prejudices and enter a new land with an open mind. You are exposed to hundreds of different cultures and where as in London you could keep to yourself safely in the bosom of your snug Jewish community, in Israel everyone you deal with represents a different country or culture.

"Yes", I thought, time to heal wounds, so when I chose a new bathroom and was faced with dealing with a French immigrant I relished the chance. Now some things just aren't meant to be, some things should be left alone, but I was too naïve (to use a purely English word (?)).

"Hi I want to change my shower unit and cupboards".

"Why?"

"Because we moved into a new home and they are not our taste".

"OK."

"Erm, can you show me what you have?"

"They are all over there." He pointed to the back of the shop. My initial instinct was to have a quick look and leave. I mean he obviously doesn't care, so why should I?

But, I thought, I'll give him another chance. "Do these cupboards come in other colors?"

"No."

"Can I change the glass in the shower unit?"

"No."

"Can you help match colors, I have a floor tile to match the wood to."

"Whatever you think matches."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What?"

"Being unhelpful, I mean do you want a sale?"

"You're English, yes?"

"So what?"

"Why are you so fussy, just choose something you like."

"What difference does it make if I'm English, I just need some expert help."

"You know this is a shop, not a law office, if you want something choose it or try somewhere else."

"Would it help if we spoke in French?" I actually know about five words in French and one of them probably has something to do with this guy's mother. "Can I ask you a question, why do we have to be so aggressive, I mean we are both Jews, immigrants, Israelis, we should throw off this intolerance."

"I suppose you're right."

"Good, should we start again?"

"No, we are closing, try somewhere else."

I tried, I really tried, but c'est la vie.

And so the French / English rift perpetuates itself through each generation. And as I stood outside the bathroom shop I thought "I will try harder even in the face of adversity, stiff upper lip and all that. He's obviously jealous, who wouldn't be, Britain created the modern world, gave the people TVs, telephones, trains and more. The Empire was the largest the modern world has ever seen. We are a royal nation, a nation of rulers. I mean we invented malt whisky for crying out loud, what more could you ask. And what did his ancestors present to the world; garlic and the guillotine, rich food and greasy hair. A great big tower and furniture with funny bandy legs."

No, I was going to try harder. He's a Jew, I'm a Jew, he's an Israeli, I'm an Israeli so as I turned my back on his shop I whispered, "au revoir but not goodbye".
La salle de bains

The English have a long and well-documented love affair with the French. OK not so much love as mutual understanding. Actually, who am I fooling, it's been a disaster.

From the day William the Conqueror waltzed into London and said "I am you're new King and everyone has to eat frogs legs and soufflé", it's been downhill. Especially as most of Northern France was once part of England. Didn't know that, eh? Well read you're history books. Then came Waterloo, Trafalgar and many other battles, but we kicked their behinds every time. In fact the Brits have never lost a significant battle since. They have always bounced back. Today the wars take on different personas; instead of soldiers we have diplomats and French lorry drivers that burn sheep.

And no more has the French-English been felt than in our land:
This royal throne of Kings, this sort of sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Olmert,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by hi-tech for herself
Against infection and the hand of war?
This happy breed of men, all bringing home the same amount no matter what their salary actually is, this little world,
This precious stone set by the silver sea and tar and plastic bags,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands who would rather drive us into it;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Israel?

You see for all the wonders of Israel, it can still be a breeding ground for internal wars, I kid you not. And there you were thinking we all got along in blissful harmony. Well if it wasn't for the French, maybe we would.

That's painfully unfair, I hear you cry. Well you?re right because it's not really like that, but after years of indoctrination, it's hard to shake it off.

Aliyah is a wonderful chance to shake of your prejudices and enter a new land with an open mind. You are exposed to hundreds of different cultures and where as in London you could keep to yourself safely in the bosom of your snug Jewish community, in Israel everyone you deal with represents a different country or culture.

"Yes", I thought, time to heal wounds, so when I chose a new bathroom and was faced with dealing with a French immigrant I relished the chance. Now some things just aren't meant to be, some things should be left alone, but I was too naïve (to use a purely English word (?)).

"Hi I want to change my shower unit and cupboards".

"Why?"

"Because we moved into a new home and they are not our taste".

"OK."

"Erm, can you show me what you have?"

"They are all over there." He pointed to the back of the shop. My initial instinct was to have a quick look and leave. I mean he obviously doesn't care, so why should I?

But, I thought, I'll give him another chance. "Do these cupboards come in other colors?"

"No."

"Can I change the glass in the shower unit?"

"No."

"Can you help match colors, I have a floor tile to match the wood to."

"Whatever you think matches."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What?"

"Being unhelpful, I mean do you want a sale?"

"You're English, yes?"

"So what?"

"Why are you so fussy, just choose something you like."

"What difference does it make if I'm English, I just need some expert help."

"You know this is a shop, not a law office, if you want something choose it or try somewhere else."

"Would it help if we spoke in French?" I actually know about five words in French and one of them probably has something to do with this guy's mother. "Can I ask you a question, why do we have to be so aggressive, I mean we are both Jews, immigrants, Israelis, we should throw off this intolerance."

"I suppose you're right."

"Good, should we start again?"

"No, we are closing, try somewhere else."

I tried, I really tried, but c'est la vie.

And so the French / English rift perpetuates itself through each generation. And as I stood outside the bathroom shop I thought "I will try harder even in the face of adversity, stiff upper lip and all that. He's obviously jealous, who wouldn't be, Britain created the modern world, gave the people TVs, telephones, trains and more. The Empire was the largest the modern world has ever seen. We are a royal nation, a nation of rulers. I mean we invented malt whisky for crying out loud, what more could you ask. And what did his ancestors present to the world; garlic and the guillotine, rich food and greasy hair. A great big tower and furniture with funny bandy legs."

No, I was going to try harder. He's a Jew, I'm a Jew, he's an Israeli, I'm an Israeli so as I turned my back on his shop I whispered, "au revoir but not goodbye".

Grandma Lily

2007-12-02T16:50:00.000+02:00

Everybody who is lucky enough to have a close relationship with their grandmother thinks they’re the best, and rightly so. The one difference between everybody else’s grandmother and mine is that Grandma Lilly was the best. Not that there is any competition, its just a fact. But now she has gone, sitting with Papa Jack, looking down on us and smiling with pride at her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. We were all lucky enough to meet her even if some of our kids wont remember the experience, they certainly will always carry a little of her in their hearts.

Our kids will have the photos and they’ll hear the stories and they’ll look at their grandparents and understand that grandparents are not just tools in the fight against their parents especially at bedtime, not just for presents and not just for a safety net when their parents need a night off but an endless source of overflowing love and devotion. Shakespeare quoted the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, and more than ever this applies to grandparents, who only see the unadulterated, untampered good in their grandchildren, often overlooked by the parents.

Grandma Lilly, as your first borne grandson and naturally your favorite, as you so often told me in a whisper (although I knew that the four of us were all your favorites and of course your 8 great grandchildren) I thought I knew you the best, but the truth is we all saw in you different sides in different circumstance.
When I remember you I can see us in Viceroy, drinking heavily seasoned soup and splashing spaghetti bolognese on a huge dark wood table. I see the little room with my nameplate on it; yes Jonny, Oliver and Andre, I truly had my label on that room. In fact I remember every inch of that flat, as I remember the gardens. That flat was also home, safe, cozy, familiar. I see myself sitting in the back of your mini, Grandma, speeding to the Bullring, I feel myself being dragged around, being introduced to everybody. I remember the milkman, the postman, the groundsman (Mr Gardener?).

And then in Southgate when you came to stay, the pride and love you showered on us after we had davened on Rosh Hashanna, or just in front of visitors. And our conversations. It didn’t matter what we spoke about, could be girlfriends, school, work or even about the most mundane things, I knew you were asking because you cared, not to make idle chatter.

I knew you cared because you loved us, as you loved our parents.

The Rabbis tell us that the sun sets slowly so the people arent plunged into darkness and confusion. We were all lucky that your sun set slowly and allowed us to enjoy you and know you for so long.
Grandman Lilly, I don’t want you to be just a memory, memories fade no matter how much you hang on to them, I want you to be a a part of us, so we can still hear you, see you and speak to you the way you were in your prime. Now you will be one of those dear departed looking down on our smachot with pride and love, together with Papa, who until last week was happily resting in peace!

You always used to stay “I’m only hanging on for your wedding” In fact you lived from Simcha to simcha as you saw your children and then grandchildren and then your great grandchildren, born, married, and spread out in different direction following their own paths. Where ever we were you were with us and are with us. You lived for us, but then you said, “I’ve done my job, let me sit back and watch them and enjoy them.”
We all loved you and will continue to love you, we all miss you and that will never go away. We know you will continue to schepp nachas from your family.

Grandma Lilly, you’ll always ‘be hanging on’ in our hearts.

The Football Yid

2007-12-02T16:48:00.000+02:00

Small and huddled in the crowd, swarms of men in uniform standing and chanting Yid and Yiddo. I should be scared, I should run, hide. Our history is ridden with deep pits, where people have sunk or been pushed to very depths of darkness. In almost every country the screams of Yid or Yiddo have echoed down narrow lanes and in open town squares. Today I stand, surrounded by uniformed men shouting Yid and Yiddo and how do feel? Elated!

I rise to my feet and scream at the top of voice in echo, Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiddddddddddddddddoooooooooo! Because this isn’t Europe, this isn’t a pogrom, it isn’t an anti-Semitic rally, this is the Blumfield Stadium in Tel Aviv and uniformed men are wearing replica football kits. This is Tottehnam Hotspur from North London playing a European Football Cup qualifying game against Hapoel Tel Aviv.

I suppose it started as an anti-Semitic chant. Because of Tottenham Hotspur’s (Spurs)large Jewish support, rival fans called then the Yids. This would have been totally unacceptable except that it was Jews. See, if the supporters were Indian or Muslims, people may have been more sensitive to the political correctness of the loony liberals who ban Christmas lest it upset the Muslims. But Yids was OK. Harmless fun etc.

But in the great British tradition of 'if you can't beat them join them', the Spurs fans started to call themselves Yids. Not the Jewish ones, the non-Jewish ones. Suddenly and overnight Spurs became the Yid army, fans watching their beloved team play in Europe had T-shirts with Yids on Tour or flags with their home town like Chingford Yids, Barnet Yids etc.

And so with the best of them, Jews and non-Jews in an unholy alliance, chanted, without any hint (?) of anti-Jewish feeling, Yiiiiiiidddddddddddddddddddooooooooo!

Looking around the stadium I don’t think I've ever seen so many kippot at a Spurs march. In fact I don’t remember ever seeing a kippa at an Spurs match. But here there were also men with beards and velvet kippot, knitted kippot and even a black hat.

The Yids had come home to the Holy land. This time it was ‘Yid’ against Yid and it wasn’t Channuka!
One Israeli sports reporter commented on the anti-Semitism being displayed to the Hapoel teams and their fans. He said that the screams of Yido chilled him to the bone, until one Hapoel fan (being interviewed) told a very confused reporter that in fact they were calling themselves Yido and if he cares to look where the chants were coming from, he would have noticed that these guys were wearing kippot!

I tried to explain this Yiddo phenomena to American friends but they couldn’t get it, and good for them.
Now I am not going to discuss the rights and wrongs of actually using the term 'Yid', because it is still used outside the realm of football as a very disturbing insult, but for 90 minutes plus extra time I can live with it.
The game itself was a little boring but the feeling of unity among the Jewish people was phenomenal. Singing and chanting together, secular, religious, ultra-religious and non-Jew together as one people with one cause.
The Hapoel fans couldn’t get it, couldn’t understand that on the field we have no religion no region, no differences. Football; the great unifier, where the fans become one, standing together. Trouble is they are normally unified against the other fans and that's when all the fighting starts.

And something even more significant happened. The UK was united in it's support of Israel the other night as it battled and beat Russia. For Israel it was just a victory, for England it was the resurrection of their dream to move forward in the Euro 2008 cup.

No one shouted Yiddo at that game, I bet. And if they had, it would have been anti-Semitic. Subtle difference.
Anyway, regardless that I am Yid, I am a Tottenham Yid and I am an Israeli Tottenham Yid.

The Half Baked Swede

2007-12-02T16:44:00.000+02:00

Jaffa, once again. Can't stay away. Something about Jaffa that encompasses everything that is Israel. The mixture of cultures, the history, the architecture and the bread. Well bread is important and although man cannot live by bread alone, it's still good and I probably could. Even within the baker it was an international cosmopolitan multi-cultured, multi-ethnic experience. Every country and culture was represented by bread, French baguettes; Russian Loaves, Challot, Pita, Danish things and Viennese other things, even Ethiopia was represented.

Among the loaves stood one man, alone, smiling, dressed in an Arab robe, but with hair as blond as something very blond and eyes as blue as his hair was blond. There was no way he was the Middle East, maybe Stockholm East would be more accurate. He began cursing anybody that walked within 20 meters of him, he began to throw bread rolls at passers-by and yelling that he was a priest purifying the world. OK, I thought, these guys fill columns every week in the papers and magazines. I mean religious nutters in Israel account for one in ten of the population (I just made that up, but when you think about it, it seems plausible!)

Anyway, as with all these unfortunates, I ignored him and carried on browsing among the loaves. As I stood inspecting a loaf trying to work out if it was filled with raisins or dead flies, I felt a tap on my shoulder. My shoulder, my bloody shoulder, why not somebody else, why my shoulder.

“Can I bless your bread?” The Swedish Arab asked me, his eyes rolling back into his head, wild hair flaying in all directions as his head bobbed uncontrollably.

“No, you can't!” I had my reasons ranging from not getting spittle anywhere near my food or body, to religious doubts that was correct practice.

“I am a priest of the lord, I have the power of healing, take up thy bed and walk, I and no other. Cast of your shackles, possessions are useless all property is theft. Man cannot live by bread alone”. There then proceeded a jumble of gargled rhetoric spawning or spewing random verses from the bible, Koran and even Oscar Wilde (the one about lying in the gutter).

Naturally we all backed up and the poor innocent security guard, whose biggest worry up to today was how to get a double stroller through the narrow doors, approached him with caution, one hand outstretched in friendship, the other firmly at his waist, he actually looked like a teapot to me; funny what you think about in times of duress.

“Please leave the shop,” whispered the guard, “You're causing a disturbance and I don’t want to have to call the police.”

“Fascist, bullyboy, bastard”, he screamed (the nutter, not the guard), “Take you hands off me, I am pure and you are an infidel”.

“I’m not even touching him,” said the now astonished guard in very eloquent English.“He’s right you know,” said an old American woman standing next to me, “hasn’t laid an finger on him. Me, I would smash his face in. In New York if someone comes up to you, you have two choices, run or smash his face. I prefer the latter.”
Now it was my turn to be astonished.

The police arrived. Two young Ethiopian rookies entered the shop and as we backed away, the Swede assumed the Matrix (never seen it? Watch it then and you’ll appreciate this more) martial arts position urging the police to take it further. One of the policemen removed his gun and the Swede collapsed to the floor crying “lord why hast thou forsaken me.”

Off he went in the back of the car for questioning. The owner came running out into the street shouting “he owes me money, 20 shekels, he took a loaf, how can I make a living if nobody pays for my bread”.
I guess man can't only live by bread alone.

The Ideal Husband

2007-11-11T13:17:00.000+02:00

Kraftwerk got it spot on, she’s a model and she looking good, I’d like to take her home that’s understood. Deep, almost Shakespearian lyrics and complicated in their simplicity. A million words unspoken in two lines expressing life, art, hope and little slice of lust.

You can look but don’t touch. Scan the menu but don’t eat anything. You can browse but don’t try anything on. In fact don’t even look. And that’s the way a mans world is, and we’re not talking about food or clothes, if you get my meaning. Living in Israel doesn’t make it easier. At least the majority of women in England aren’t much to look at; most of them are Viking rejects, Saxon leftovers, Norman throw-aways and the significant remnants of a lost empire. But the Holy Land is certainly blessed in many ways and there are more proportionally perfect women here per capita than in many parts of the world. That’s not to say we don’t have our fair share of ‘her mother will always think she’s beautiful’ women. After all beauty is all about symmetry and proportion, oh, and the eye of the beholder. So when Bar Refaeli walks passed you on a Tel Aviv street and you turn your head should you be punished, after all, as in life, art. You are simply admiring lines and curves, contrast and color.

Nachalat Binyamin is one of the most unlikely places you would find an ornithologist. I mean a busy urban market, crowded and polluted with nearby traffic, cigarettes and caffeine fumes, seem the last place on Earth that a society dedicated to bird watching would set up camp. Unless, of course you understand that the word bird has a double meaning, and bird in English can be a winged creature that lays eggs or something with green eyes and a great smile.

Now I’m not a feminist, although I do like women, and I am definitely no more an ‘ornithologist’ than the next red blooded male, but I have to draw the line at an organization dedicated to ‘bird’ watching. If anything its quite stomach churning to think that there are men (and a couple of women) who were there pointing, making notes and discussing the merits of various women as they traversed the crowded market stalls.

Then she walked by, Bar Rafaeli and entourage , Israel’s leading super model, the girl that women like to call ordinary and men would just like to call. As if in tune with all the males in a 100 yard radius, as if there was some spiritual connection, a guiding force governing our actions, in complete and perfect synchronization, we all (me included) simultaneously turned our heads. Some smiled, some commented, some even dared to call her name.

“What are you looking at?” she snapped.

“That’s a nice picture dear,” I answered nervously. Was it so obvious?

“I nearly got whiplash from the way you turned your head, anyway she’s quite ordinary”.

“Who are you talking about?” I was going to ride this out and hopefully avoid a backlash.

“Do you like pictures of trains; do you think it would look nice hung in our salon?”

“Trains?”

“What other pictures were you looking at them?” Trapped, I needed to think quickly, the hole was getting deeper. I looked around, and then I saw a pretty picture hanging in the window of a shop.

“Not the train picture dear, the one in the shop window, the village scene, very English, very nostalgic.”

I didn’t hear the thunder, but it was there. I also didn’t see the lighting or hear the storm warnings.

“You like that picture in the window, are you trying to be funny, are you so insensitive that you have to use unsubtle hints to tell me what you’re thinking?”

Now I was confused, scarred and very nervous.

“What do you mean d……?” Oh boy, I thought, as I saw the rest of the picture and the words Pharmacy above the shop window.

Life is full of missed opportunities. Action never taken, words never uttered, dreams never chased. There is a time to talk and time to keep quiet, a time to lie (or be economical with the truth) and a time just to say ‘yes I was looking at her, she’s famous, that’s all, but you’re the only one for me, she’s really quite ordinary’.

Missed it.

The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Mother

2007-11-05T14:57:00.000+02:00

One of the great cult films to emerge form the 80s was Peter Greenaways film, The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover. A tale of tyranny or as the IMBD tag says ‘Lust...Murder...Dessert. ’ With lavish sets and even more lavish costumes it was a gastronomic feast of a film, not for the week stomached. But what do you care. You might now see the film, or you may think its not my cup of tea and stick with Titanic, each to his own.

Like some scene out of out of a Western, the dust and vegetation blew in swirling circles around the lonely falafel stand. Yossis homemade falafel and hot berekas, read the sign and just under it a neon flashing sign advertising that the falafel was kosher and under that sign and picture hung of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, seemingly giving the thumbs up to Yossis homemade falafel.

A little queue had formed, patrons impatiently waiting for Yossi to fry up some more falafel, chop salad and squirt tehina from a ketchup dispenser.

On the counter top there was a large aluminium bowl full of falafel. Looking like a pile of rotting horse chestnuts, the smell wafted back down the line making us even more impatient. Tempers began to fray, but the ever cool Yossi informed us he was going as fast as he could and what did we expect for 10 shekel including cold drink and extra pickles.

Temptation got the better of the man at the front of the queue who reached up and took one of the falafel balls as Yossis back was turned. No one said a word. Yossi turned around to serve him and his genial smile dropped. He stared at the man eyes narrowing like Dirty Harry ready to take a shot.

“I know what your thinking punk, were there 20 balls or 19.To tell the truth ,I’ve forgotten myself in all this excitement………………… But you have to ask yourself a question do I feel lucky ……………..well do you punk”.

I snapped out it just as the thief’s wife started shouting at Yossi.

“My husband isn’t a thief,” She shrieked, “He’s never stolen anything”.

I couldn’t believe that, I mean the amount of produce consumed in the supermarket as we walk passed the nuts, and grapes and dried fruit. Everyone has a nibble. We justify it to ourselves, no point in buying grapes if they are sour. But I kept quiet.

Yossi faced the queue, “who saw him take a ball. I counted twenty, there are only nineteen.”

What a situation to be in. I did the noble thing, however, and stepped back into the shadow of a great tree trunk the man in front.

Suddenly the thief’s wife’s (Mrs Thief) mobile phone rang. “Immela, listen, there has been some trouble, Yitzy is being accused of stealing…no you didn’t tell me so…..no not the police………yes I know we have a cousin, but he’s in the Mossad………….no Tal cant do anything………..no that wont helpuseither, hes dead Imma……………sorry Imma I mean he’s no longer with us………………Ok, hold on Imma”. Mrs thief handed the phone to Yossi.

“I don’t care who Tal is, he stole a falafel, no of course I wont call the police, yes there are still enough for everyone, but it’s the principle………………….no that’s not what I meant, look you cant just take……………I know he’s a good Jew………..no I realise hes not from your family………….what was the name, yes of course my mothers cousin, no, no, that’s my aunt and she’s her second cousin, yes married you know who………OK I have an idea, shalom, shalom.” He handed the phone back to Mrs Thief.

Yossi faced the thief. “Did you take a falafel, yes or no,” his hand shot up to silence Mrs Thief. The thief nodded. “You know,” Yossi continued that your mother in law is my aunts first cousin, and as your family I wont do anything, but you have to know that your mother in law is very unhappy.

The thief paid for his falafel and walked away, not making eye contact with anyone in the queue, Mrs Thief, obviously very embarrassed walking behind him.

Then Mrs Thief suddenly perked up and ran back to Yossi shouting, “My mother doesn’t have any first cousins, you criminal, I have a good mind to call the police.”

“Call my husband a thief, you’re a thief and a liar”.

And with that she marched away triumphantly.

The Hill of the French

2007-10-28T12:06:00.000+02:00

In the beginning their was the word, fooled you, you thought I was going to quote the old one not the new one. But actually its not even the new one, is my testament. The word was Ahkla, which loosely translated means great, fantastic, nice, etc, etc, etc. Of course the word Akhla, written here in its full phonetic glory is not a Hebrew word, its Arabic and has crept into the Hebrew vocabulary along with many other alien words. When I say alien I mean foreign and when I mean foreign I mean none Ivrit, the sort of words that Ben Yehuda didn’t get around to adding to his fast draft of the modern Hebrew language.

There are of course loads of English words that have crept into the dictionary (which are also alien and foreign before I get bashed) like individuali, or the great phrase ‘ze lo fair!’. Oh and one word which I hear all the time on the TV especially Arutz Hayeladim (kids channel), written phonetically as sh*t! or in its longer version as bullsh*t, as quoted by a former Prime minister.

The bus wound round the streets of Jerusalem getting closer to HaGivah Haztorfatit (French Hill). I rarely take the bus but as my car was being repaired I had no choice.

The guy sitting next me seemed like a seasoned Israeli, in fact I found out he was fifth generation Jerusalemite. We got talking and I managed to understand every other word he was saying under his very heavy Eastern accent and the fact he talked a million miles an hour and oh yes the fact that my Ivrit still leaves a lot to be desired.

During our conversation I joked that HaGivah Hatzorfatit literally means The Hill of the French, but its is named after a general whose name was French so it should have been called Givat French. He looked at me like I was mad.

“What is French in Ivrit?”, he asked.

“Tzorfat,” I replied

“So whats the problem?”

“The problem is that they have translated his name, If it’s named after him they should have kept his name as French.”

He looked at me confused.

“King George street is called Hamelkh George, are you saying we should have called it King George street?”

“No,” I replied slightly frustrated, not sure whether he was joking or winding me up.

“Look,” I continued, “Hemelkh is his title, so you can translate it, but you cant translate his name.”

“How do you translate George into Ivrit”, he quizzed.

“You cant, that’s his name.”

“No, no, George in Ivrit is George (with Israeli intonation), French in Ivrit is Tzorfat.” He sat back in silence.

“I think, with respect you are missing the point.”

“No,” he said between his treeth, “I think you are missing the point! My family have lived here for five generations and as far as I can remember it has always been HaGivah HaTzorfatit and not French Hill!!!”

“Ok,” if it was a fight he wanted its fight he’ll get. “French, was a British officer, nothing to do with the country, so calling him French is really ridiculous.”

“Are you mad,” he nearly shouted, “Were not going to call a hill after a British soldier, after what they did, that’s crazy”.

I looked at him. “Look I agree, but that’s what has happened all over Israel. King George Street, Allenby, French, all of them British, very British.”.

He was now sitting with his chin against his chest. “So we should change all the other street names too.”

“I agree, maybe we should, my only point was a matter of translation, but you’re right, although it is an important part of the States history which is immortalized in the street and even place names. I mean look at Caesarea, should we rename that too?”

“Hey driver!” he shouted, where does this bus stop.”

“Givat Shapira,” he called back.

I looked at the old man and we said simultaneously’ “Givat Shapira it is then.”

“Givat Shapirah is what the residents call this area, not HaGivah Hatzorfatit”, the driver explained, obviously to me.

I looked at the old man, smiling.

“Anyhow,” he smiled back, “at the end of the day it’s all bullsh**t!”

My Child Overfloweth

2007-10-25T12:29:00.000+02:00

I’m not anal (I think I can print that word) I am not obsessive and I am certainly not picky, pernickety, fussy or overly particular about most things. Things are as they are and rarely worth the bother of changing unless they begin to smell or they’re a baby.

I have no problem changing my own 2 year old as I did her siblings, its what you do. Most fathers like to be involved and its one way of escaping for half an hour and having some quality time alone with the baby, who very often is feeling attention starved. Now don’t get me wrong, I really don’t like changing nappies (diapers). I feel the whole experience lacks a certain je nes se quai, maybe it’s the total sensory overload that really detracts from the whole helping / bonding experience.

So what happens when you have to change somebody else’s baby. Not a chance mate, no way, absolutely not a hope in Arsenal (thought Id throw that in) of doing it. Cant do it and wont do it. A child should be changed by their own parents. Each parent has an in build tolerance which only works on their own child, sort of genetic link, match the smell to the parent.

And women seem to be able to change other kids. My wife changes other kids if they need it. How? How on earth can she stomach it, even the idea makes me shudder.

The nearest supermarket to me stocks everything. I mean everything including LCD TVs and fish shaped croutons. Everything that you could ever want (we like the fish shaped croutons) is available on its large broad shelves. My youngest and I were busy stocking up for the winter, actually it was a weekly shop that we’ll be paying for well into the winter, when I hear those immortal words, the words that every father dreads to hear more than ten meters from the house, ‘abba poo’.

“Are you sure” I asked, a nod, “are you really sure”, another nod. So I did the pick up and smell movement, a small but graceful maneuver that I have perfected for lifting babies, passing them under my nose and returning them to the ground while my brain makes the fine calculations and assesses the situation.

She was right, and I was standing in the chalavi (milk) section. We should really be in the meat section, I mused.

What to do?

Well clearly other people had noticed and I could sense their overall shopping experience was being affected as the smell started penetrating the 1% yogurts section, wafting into the fresh pasta and 9% cheese slices reaching as far as the pre-grated mozzarella. Soon it would reach the Soya products and over to the bakery, we had to take action.

“OK, little girl, you need changing but I don’t have nappies, wipes or a nappy sack.” Now I was being tested, all my resourcefulness and my survival techniques were being called into play. My survival techniques, up till then, had been the four words that every man uses while ducking i.e. its not my fault. That wasn’t going to help me now.

Brainwave, look for mothers with pushers a kids similar ages who obviously would be well stocked. Genius, except there were none. New plan, buy some nappies and wipes. Wipes was easy and after five minutes they were safely under my arm, but nappies.

I looked at my daughter, “how big are you, how heavy are you, what size are you?”.

“Abba, poo.”

The smell was becoming overpowering, even standing in the vegetable section.

“Are you having trouble,” a voice asked from over my shoulder.

Oh no, I thought, another interfering Israeli who wants to tell me my daughter is packing a full load, or is too hot or too cold or just wants to tell me that her hair is out of place, but I smiled.

“Erm, as it happens yes, but I doubt you could help me”.

She smiled the smile of an experienced mother looking at an idiot father who was stuck miles from home with a child, a full nappy and no equipment.

“Come with me,” she ordered.

So we followed through the supermarket, out through the storage area, to a small table.

She motioned me to pass her my daughter, who she placed on the table. Thoughts of Abraham whizzed through my head, but I doubt if she was about to commit child sacrifice she would do it in a supermarket warehouse.

She flipped open a previously unseen bag and produced a nappy, wipes, all the equipment. I went to take them, but she brushed me aside.

“You think if I have all these things I cant change a child’s nappy?”

“Just thought you wouldn’t want to, I mean she’s not your child”.

“Typical man, just because you are unable to change another child don’t think that a seasoned my mother like me can’t do it. Who do you think changes your child at gan?”

Actually I had never thought about that.

That day I learned two things, number one, always be prepared and have the right equipment and number two to have maximum respect for all those gannanot who change our kids when we’re not there.

The Digger and the Sifter

2007-10-21T14:26:00.000+02:00

The sea lapped gently at the crag, to paraphrase Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, and the sun gently settled on the horizon of Caesarea beach. Channa Senesh would have been proud of the way that her beloved Caesarea had been lovingly restored. I stood with my kids looking out to sea, it was quite idyllic. But we had a mission. To collect as many useless bits of broken pottery and if we were lucky to find a handle to add to our mounting collection of antiquities. As we turned to go we saw sticking out of a rubbish pile a small but perfectly formed handle from an ancient jug (it didn’t say Aroma and wasn’t plastic so I reckoned it must be old). We all fell to ground like a team of Indian Joneses, digging at the rubble, wiping away the sand and exposing our treasure. And then it was free, our prize. We held it up and admired its form, its curves and its fine workmanship. Soon this piece of ancient history would be assigned a place in a shoebox, protected for all time, forever a tiny piece of the Holy Lands history.

The new road and junction construction works by Eshtaol, just outside Bet Shemesh came to halt while the department of antiquities sifted through the rubble in a vain and last ditch attempt to find something of historical significance before the tarmac covered the site sealing its secrets forever. Now from my limited knowledge of the history of the area I know that Bet Shemesh and Eshtaol has millennia of history associated with Samuel, Samson, Saul and David, the Ark of the Covenant, the Philistines (no relation) in fact it’s a pretty important place, historically. So when a road is laid or a house is being built the department of antiquities are first on the scene.

The workers were digging a sifting under their sun protective canopies. The area had been divided up into small sections each manned by two men, one digging and one sifting. I wanted a closer look as I have a small penchant for archeology and history. I asked one of the worker if they had found anything. They looked at each other and towards the foreman.

“Nothing,” they told me, “Nothing”.

“Not even a hard of pottery, a handle, nothing. They must have suspected something was here in the first place, what did they originally find”?

“Nothing,” they told me, “Nothing”.

“Very strange”, I said but left it, after all who am I to interfere with their important work. I knew the score. If they found anything significant it would delay the road project. If they found anything really significant it could jeopardize it altogether.

Then I saw one of them pick up a large piece of pottery and cast it aside.

“What was that,” I asked, hoping that of they didn’t want it I could take it.

“Nothing,” they told me, “Nothing”.

“Then can I have it?”

“Its just a piece of roof tile”.

“No its not its got a handle.”

“It’s a milk jug then”. He looked up at me nervously.

“It must be very old.”

Then the foreman walked over.

“This area is not open to the public, please leave it could be dangerous”.

So I had no choice. As I left I gave the digger a long hard stare, he looked down and as I turned to leave I heard a whistle.

Flying through the air for me to catch was an ancient jug handle.

The Divine Comedy

2007-10-11T10:48:00.000+02:00

Every stone in Jerusalem is holy. “So what’s that?” asked one of the teenage group, sarcastically, as he pointed to a sign saying WC, “is that holy to, well it’s got a hole in it anyway”. The other teenagers fell about laughing; their leader had just managed to embarrass their poor tour guide, probably not for the first time today. “Well”, continued the tour guide with full and impressive composure, “why don’t you check it out”. “Oooohhhh,” squealed the teenagers, feigning mock insult and hurt feelings.

The guide was fighting a losing battle. I almost felt sorry for her, almost but not quite. Then one of the group shouted something deeply personal and embarrassing about the guide and all hell broke loose. The girls started shouting at the boys, who knew they had overstepped the mark but were clearly in denial and who shouted back at the girls who they figured were over sensitive. Then out of nowhere a man carrying a huge tray of bread tripped and fell sending his tray (and bread) straight into the face of the offending teenager. In the commotion that followed and as the boy sat crying holding his bloody face in his hands, I couldn’t help notice a smile of contentment on the tour guides face as the offending criminal received his punishment immediately and some would say divinely.

I have never managed to get to the bottom of whether we are punished instantly for our sins or if there is a long term payout. Is it a case of attributing everything that goes wrong to something bad you did a few minutes ago. I mean, for example, when you bump the car is that a punishment for something you said about your wifes driving a few weeks ago.

I’d also like to know if when you ignore a person hitching and they shout something after you, are they cursing you, do you have to worry or care, should you attribute another ‘small’ car accident to the fact you ignored your brother who hitched and low ye ignored him?

Well how about this. I had a running battle with cats in my last house and did some questionable things to them in order to rid myself of them. Now in my new house there are no cats but a dogs either side of me and across the road from me. When one starts barking they all start. I’m scarred to do anything about it in case I move to a new house and find myself face to face with a lion.

And here’s another. I once moved some rubbish from outside my house closer to the neighbors so that it would look like it was theirs. The next thing I find is the rubbish collectors turning up at 2am in the morning three weeks in a row making so much noise that it more than ruined my day, and I need my sleep, believe me.

Some people would laugh this off, tell me I am being paranoid and tell me that you shouldn’t waist your time worrying about but I do and only because recently these instant forms of retribution seem to be more frequent.

So walking through the Old City in Jerusalem and seeing this teenagers face get mashed under a tray full of bread really drove home to me that sometimes we are punished instantly. Laughing to myself that I am not the only one and that he really deserved I didn’t notice the hoarding of a nearby shop had come loose and before I could say, I’m sorry I’m not perfect, I walked straight into it, bruising my cheek and shoulder, much to the amusement of the teenagers, and their guide.

I am a rock I am an Island

2007-10-08T14:20:00.000+02:00

My policy in life has always been to make the world a better place through laughter and song. My family will tell you how I leap out of my bed in the mornings and dance from room to room waking my children with song and laughter. My colleagues will tell you how their working day only really starts after I have skipped from office to office offering morning salutations with a smile and a joke. And as I dance home throwing open the front door, my family all light at up the site of me, and with laughter and song we end the day with homework, supper and baths. Well sort of anyway.

Years ago I was known from time to time to consume a couple of pints of Guinness and stand before the masses at the well known NW London pub Load of Hay (now a housing development) karaoke night, singing my favorite 80’s classics to an uncompromising and cruel audience. But what did I care, I was standing or rather leaning, filled with Dutch courage belting out some Frankie Goes to Hollywood number completely oblivious to the world around me. So when the chance to shine again presented itself I grabbed it with both hands.

The closest I ever got to Romania was on old cold war films, tails of poison tipped umbrellas and John Le Carre thrillers. But my real encounter with Romania, where I learned to appreciate Romania a little more, occurred last week in the unlikely setting of Jaffa Port. I got to see Romanian fashion; taste Romanian food and most importantly listen and join in with a Romanian band.

And so, as the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea and Jaffa was enveloped in the light of hundreds of bulbs, I took my seat to listen to the best of Romanian music in Israel. I was quite enjoying the tunes and enjoying even more making up lyrics to accompany the melodies, much to the annoyance of those around me and the embarrassment of my wife. So I left my imaginary love stories of shepherds and farmers (Freud would have had a field day) to the dulcet tones of guitars and panpipes.

Then the lead singer in a very broken Hebrew or as my wife pointed out to me ‘better than yours’ Hebrew, asked for a volunteer to play second pan pipe accompanying their band to a well known Israeli classic, Od lo ahavti di. Well here was my chance at stardom, my five minutes of fame and my entry into the world of rock and roll. I raised my hand, my eldest pulled it down, I raised it again, and my other children collectively pulled it down. I raised it again and my wife glared at me, so I pulled it down. But too late, I had been spotted and one of the singers dressed in a poncho, looking more like an extra from the Good the Bad and the Ugly, than a Romanian rock star, grabbed my arm and pulled me on to the stage.

A quick pep talk and a ten second lesson on how to play panpipes and then I was on. The crowd hushed, the spotlights focused on the musicians, my family shielded their faces and braced themselves, and then I suddenly realized that the courage and bravado that I had once displayed in my youth had disappeared.

Someone shoved a glass of some foul smelling alcoholic drink into my hand which I drank down, coughed, retched and then smiled; and like a formula 1 racing car with a full tank I was revving and ready.

The music played, the crowd clapped and sang, then suddenly all went quiet as the spotlight shone on me, I blew the panpipes which sounded (to me) like they had been blown by Pan himself, the crowd roared (with laughter I was later informed) and the band played on. This went on for what felt like hours although it was only five minutes.

Of course the whole thing was a set up to make second panpipes look as stupid as possible. And there was I thinking I had done that myself.

Five minutes of humiliating myself and my family but providing Romanian TV with a deep insight into Israeli culture. Some sacrifices have to be made and as I explained to my family, now all Romanians know with absolute certainty that I cant play panpipes and the world is a better place through laughter and song.

The Malawian Zionist

2007-09-24T17:13:00.000+02:00

“Hello”, said a deep voice, “my name is Oscar and I am from Malawi, what is your destination.”

Ah Paris, what a city, maybe a strange comment from an Englishman, but as I’m Israeli now I suppose I can allow myself to soften my upper lip. Anyway I am talking about the city not the people. Ever since and probably a long time before William the Conqueror waltzed into England shooting people in the eyes and declaring himself the monarch there has been at best and uncomfortable tolerance and at worst all out war with the French. One of the strangest questions on this topic came from an American who wanted to know if the English hated the French more than the Americans. All I could tell him to do was to refer to his history (not the American version which started a few weeks ago but the British which predates the Romans). As Disraeli put “when the ancestors of the right honorable gentleman were brutal savages in an unknown land, mine were priests in the temple of Solomon.”

So Oscar was waiting for me to decide where I wanted to go. As an innocent abroad and keen to see as much of the city as I could (even though this must have been my tenth trip to Paris) and on the companies generous account, I asked him if we could take in some of the sites on the drive to my hotel.

The Eiffel tower loomed up ahead. I’ve always seen the Eiffel tower as some Freudian attempt at compensating for their inadequacies. (Of course those words were actually uttered from French lips regarding Big Ben, so I reckon we’re quits.) I jumped out the cab to buy the kids some souvenirs.

“How much money you pay?” Oscar asked. “Oh , about 5 Euro.” Oscar shook his head. “No,no, no, no”, he repeated in almost a trans-like rhythm. He grabbed my souvenirs and ran over to the vendor. I saw his arms flying around in a very animated display. He certainly wasn’t gesticulatery? challenged. He ran back to the taxi and deposited 2 Euro in my hand. He smiled at me and pointed to the vendor, “He’s my brother,” Oscar beamed.

Next we turned to the Arc de Triumph. Now I could make some very sarcastic comments about famous French triumphs, Waterloo for example, bit I’ll leave it because I may be accused of racism, and being Jewish, I am only allowed to be on the receiving end, besides do I want to sink as low as them.

So we drove passed the Arc de Triumph, that celebratory arch, celebrating French triumphs, when suddenly another taxi cut in front of us very dangerously. I have to admit for a second I had visions of Oscar and the front of the cab disappearing under the other taxi. We chased the other Taxi and at the next set of lights Oscar jumped out. More arm waving and shouting. Oscar got back in the taxi and smiled, “he’s my brother”. Now call me stupid and you wont be the first, but a sensed a pattern forming.

Now I have never met a Malawian before but if they are all as nice as Oscar I think Malawi could be my next holiday venue. Osacr was a great advocate for his country, something that shamefully most of us fall short of. But then came the final test.

“So,” Oscar piped up, “where are you from?” Now I could say London and get a shrug and no reaction, I could say Israel and risk the conversation going two ways; a torrent of abuse or compliments. But how to gauge Oscar. He was obviously a good man, who was giving me excellent service. But what was he all about. I quickly looked around the cab, there was no Arabic, no fancy tissue box, no pendants, chains or even crucifixes, just a nice clean taxi.

So I decided to ignore the question until I got more info. “So Oscar, where did you learn English?”

Oscar smiled, “I learned English in St Georges School, in my home country”.

“I’m from Israel”, I blurted out.

“Ah Israel”, Oscar smiled, “he’s my brother!”

The Crisis of Two Halves

2007-09-05T12:53:00.000+03:00

Edging towards that time of life when men traditionally decide on having a mid-life crisis, it heartened me to meet Yitz an electrical engineer, who having experienced his own mid-life crisis, gave me some hope for the future.

Yitz turned up at my house to discuss a complicated rewiring strategy in order to incorporate the gardens lighting and swimming pool onto one circuit and maybe have the Shabbat clock turn on the Jacuzzi.

“Erm, you do realize I don’t know who you are or have a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi, but just out of interest how much will it cost?” After picking, myself up off the floor, and getting some semblance of reality into my head, I pointed him to the right address, shook his hand and said goodbye.

“Who was that?” my wife asked. “Yitz an electrical engineer, came to give a quote about rewiring the swimming pool, garden lights and putting the Jacuzzi on a Shabbat clock”. “How much was his quote?” “25,000 shekels”, I answered.

“We cant afford that! Get another quote, here I’ll find the numbers and you can call from work. I wont have time, what with my own work and the kids”.

I prayed that reality would return once more. “Darling”, I called as sensitively and as non-condescendingly as I could, “what are you talking about.” “Don’t condescend me, she shouted”, “we can never afford that much!” “But darling we didn’t call him, he came here by mistake and we don’t have a swimming pool or Jacuzzi and our garden lights are wired perfectly alright.”

The third reality check of the day and it dawned on my wife that with all the work we had been doing in our new house the price quotations had blurred into one.

“Shouldn’t have answered the door to him, should you!” And with that I left it.

Well not really because I wanted to find out who had the garden with the pool and Jacuzzi. I called Yitz and explained that we may be sinking a pool in our garden and wanted to see how this guys garden was laid out. We made an appointment and I met Yitz outside the house.

“Now listen,” Yitz ordered, “whatever you see, you tell the husband its great and tell the wife that you could never afford this type of luxury, that way everybody will be happy.”

We went up the drive careful not to scratch the jaguar sports car through the house past the 1000 inch LCD (ok but it was big), tripping over the video games, and numerous DVDs, peeking into to his computer room with twin monitors, and the biggest speakers you have ever seen, on past his football hall of fame room lined with shirts, signed footballs and pictures and finally into his Chinese landscaped garden.

“Oh my G…….this is amazing,” I said. He Glowed. “But I could never afford this luxury.” She glowed.

After we left I commented that at 25,000 a time Yitz must be doing very well. So he told me his own story.

“This area is predominantly populated by the 30-40 something age group, in any event all headed for that mid-life crisis. The men want to freak out but also justify it to their wives, and that’s where I fit in. I am what you might call a mid-life crisis contractor. The men come and tell me they want a pool or Jacuzzi or turn their house into something Bill Gates would b jealous of and I work out a scheme and then tell the wives that it’s the height of luxury, something their neighbors would be jealous of”. “Something that makes their bums look small in,” I interjected. “Yep, that sort of thing. See its that Israeli rosh that makes this country so great and breeds entrepreneurs like me. The men get what they want and settle down, the wives get what they want and suddenly have more dinner guests and everyone’s happy, genius!”

“So how many have you done?” I asked “Er, this is the first but its going to be a great business.”

After seeing the results of two men’s crisis’s I wondered if I would bother having after all.

I came home and sat in front of my very inadequately looking TV and just mentioned to my wife, in passing, that it would be the height of luxury and we would be the envy of our neighbors if we bought a bigger TV.

The look I got said it all.

The House of the Setting Sun

2007-09-05T12:49:00.000+03:00

There is a house in Ramat Bet Shemesh, they call the rising sun, actually the House of the Sun. This particular house has new owners. Wow I hear you cry that information will take me far in life. Actually it is pretty bloody great news because it was my house and I sold it, and after months of complete and absolute stress that nearly made my wife’s head explode and put me in an institution with stress levels that would have killed a lesser mortal, I am now a resident of Modiin, another one.

The removal truck arrived and then the second, a giant forty footer packed solid with denim skirts, shoes, skirts and T shirts. I calculated that if she was to wear a different item of clothing in her cupboard everyday by the time she got to the end the first items of clothing would be retro or simply come back into fashion.

How little old Ahmed and his team of geriatric schleppers managed to carry nearly three hundred boxes on their backs and then all the furniture still makes me shudder and felt a little inadequate as I stood puffing after running up stairs with nothing but a book in my hand.

My extra efficient half had everything labeled and color coded so that each box could be ticked off as received, arrive in the correct room and everything but unpack itself. Alls fine in a world where everyone has had some exposure the three Rs but Ahmed was illiterate and the van driver, also called Ahmed, colorblind. So I ran behind Ahmed and followed my hired packhorse pointing him in the direction of the correct room.

“You know you should help him”, my socially conscious doctor wife whispered. “The amount I am paying him, he should do this all twice,” I snapped, rather unnecessarily.

Then the painter turned up. “Shalom,” he smiled beaming from ear to ear, as he side stepped Ahmed. “You’re a day early,” I told him scowling from ear to ear. “Its OK, he continued, “I start downstairs because all the boxes are going upstairs.”

“What!” I shouted, as I saw Ahmed heaving our leather sofas up the stairs.

After a few brief words with my wife, we agreed it was all my fault and I walked back to the painter.

“You’ll need to start upstairs, can you help just move a few boxes,”. “Sure no problem he beamed, how many boxes?”

Now it was my turn to beam from ear to ear, “a hundred and seventy five”! After three boxes we were both exhausted so I set him to work in the salon.

As I turned my attention back to Ahmed who had been joined by a few more pensioners the plumber arrived, then the electrician and finally the internet technician.

I looked at my wife then rushed into street announcing open house for all skilled workers. “Got it out your system,” she asked sympathetically. “I really didn’t know Ahmed was illiterate and Mahmoud was colorblind”.

There were people everywhere, in every room, every cupboard, painting, drilling and hammering. Boxes, nails, wire, paint, wood, metal screws littered our floors. Our house looked like someone had taken a shopping mall, turned it upside down and emptied it into every room.

The kids were bored and fractious; we were all on the edge. Other deliveries hadn’t turned up. Has our new TV arrived, my kids kept asking. Blood, sweat, tears and a huge amount of dust made us look like we had been living in the trenches of Northern France for a week.

And then the money. This is 2000, that’s 3000, that’s 500. “Look”, I shouted, “Here is all my money on the kitchen counter, everybody take what you want.”

Another look from the wife. I smiled, sort of. “Just joking”, I croaked.

And then just as soon as it had started it finished.

All the boxes were in, the painter and all the laborers had gone home and there was quiet. We swept up the smashed glass left by an anonymous worker, we vacuumed up the wood shavings, picked up the loose nails, bits of wire, masking tape and Stanley knives and put and end to day one of our move.

The Bet Shemesh was just a dream now. Our new home, for all the hassle was a reality and we knew we had time on our side to straighten everything. The Modiin evening breeze brought a little comfort, settling our nerves, as we sat on our new front doorstep watching the sunset, joking that at least now my wife wont have to wear a Niqab every time she goes shopping. And then Ahmed turned up with truck number three.

The Scottish Play

2007-08-13T16:22:00.000+03:00

‘Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.’ Three witches stand around a boiling cauldron quoting ingredients for Elizabethan chicken soup (including liver of blaspheming Jew). Keeping your head when all around you are losing theirs is a very admirable trait. Not flying off the handle, getting mad or whatever local expression you have for just boiling over, is, however, easier said than done. Last week, through no fault of my own, I was both a boiling cauldron and very nearly a blaspheming Jew.

“Hello, directory, I would like the number of the office of the former Sefardi Chief Rabbi of Israel, you know the Rishon Letzion, Rav Mordechai Elyhau.”

“Hello caller, I have Eliyahu Mordechai, who lives in Rishon Letzion”

Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!

“No sorry directory, maybe I wasn’t clear I need Rav Mordechai Eliyahu former Sephardi Chief Rabbi, he is called the Rishon LeTzion, its not where he lives.”

“Hello caller, what’s his family name?”

“His office is called Lishkat Mordechai Eliyahu”

“Is that in Rishon LeTzion?”

“No Rishon Letzion is his name, like the Chofetz Chaim or Sfat Emet.”

“Which town?”

“What do you mean which town?”

For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

“Which town does family Chaim Chofetz live in?”

“Radin, in Poland, but that’s not the point, I want the number of the office of the former Sefardi Chief Rabbi, Harav Mordechai Eliyahu.”

“I am sorry but we do not have international numbers.”

“What are you talking about? I think his office may be in Jerusalem”.

“But you said the Chofetz family live in Poland. I am sorry caller but please could you be more specific. Please give me the family name, first name and city of the person you want”.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

“OK, lets start again, by the way what’s your name?”

“Liat.”

“Hi Liat, tell me are you Sephardi.”

“Yes, my family is from Morocco, via France.”

“So your French, well that explains most things. Do you know the name of the Sephardi Chief Rabbi?”

“Yes it’s Rav Shlomo Amar.”

“Correct, now his predecessor’s name was Rav Eliyahu Bakshi Doron, and his predecessor was Rav Mordechai Elihayu and I want the number of the office of Rav Mordechai Eliyahu.”

“Oh you mean the Rishon LeTzion, why didn’t you just say you wanted the number of the office of the Rishon LeTzion.”

“Yes, yes, do you have his number?”

“I’ll check.”

“Nothing listed under Rishon LeTzion, maybe Harav Mordechai Eliyahu. Nothing, do you have his family name?”

“No, but that won’t help, I need his office.”

“Oh, you want Lishkat Mordechai Eliyahu.”

“Finally! Yes, yes please.”

“Wait caller, I have also found Chaim Chafetz, in Beer Sheva. Do you want me to look for Family Emet in Sfat?”

Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

The Bonfire of the Insanities

2007-07-12T12:00:00.000+03:00

The Golan is possibly one of the most beautiful areas of Israel. We love it and at any given opportunity (which usually works out at about once a year if we’re lucky) we hope in the car and drive north. Its like a different world as you leave behind you the intense and pressurized world of middle Israel, the political scandals, Haredi rioting, the irritatingly slow post office, the frustratingly pig-headed bureaucrats and the woman who you meet in many different guises who tells you your children are under dressed, over dressed, under nourished, overfed or just cute, and proceeds to slobber over them.

Ah yes, just to breath the fresh air and lose yourself in the Hermon (it wasn’t my fault and I know its bloody great mountain near Syria, no I don’t need a map, and we weren’t trespassing and we wont get blown up by mines) I love it!

At this point I want to make it clear, especially to all the Nefesh B’Nefesh Olim that I wouldn’t trade living here for anything.

With the kids getting utterly fed up in the back of the car we looked for an ideal picnic spot. Actually the ideal picnic spot is the Golan. We pulled over and started unloading our supplies. I collected all the chips that littered the floor of the car and began to scatter the remnants of crackers and pasta? into a nearby field. The birds, I explained to my kids, will befit from the food mountain they had accumulated and deposited in the car. As I found the last scraps of matza probably left there since our last grand family tiyul, I noticed a large shadow overhead.

Now being English, its not unusual for a large shadow to appear in the sky on a summers day. In fact its par for the course, expected, it would be strange of it didn’t happen, but this is Israel. Even in the Golan its still strange for a shadow this dark to appear.

It was the smell that struck me first. Bar-b-q. Possibly one of planet Earths best fragrances. I once suggested that they should bottle it. To my mind it’s the essence of a great afternoon, reminders of lazy Sundays, Yom Ha’atzmaut (otherwise known as the great Israeli Sunday), overbuying and gorging yourself on meat until even the most manly of men has to say ‘no more’.

I took my eldest two and we decided to investigate where this heavenly smell was coming from. We followed the dark cloud and the smell until we arrived at a small clearing where another family picnic was in full swing. My eyes scanned the party for the bar-b-q. There it was, burning away and the source of the black shadow was a cloud caused by the billowing smoke coming from the fresh leaves and branches inadvertently thrown on to the fire.

Then I noticed what was cooking and quickly told the kids to run back to their Imma. After a bit of persuading they got bored of trying to look around me over me and through me and ran back.

There on the bar-b-q was a hole deer, a bambi, a once cute, future buck, roasting like some sacrifice from another age.

The family looked round to see me looking at their prize catch. The patriarch, I assumed, stood up and beckoned me forward.

“Please,” he said a broad American accent, “Please join us”.

“Are you allowed to catch and eat Deer in the Golan?” I asked rather sheepishly.

“This animal is not from the Golan, its from Syria and therefore probably OK to eat”.

I looked at the guy, planning my escape rout.

“I have my own family picnic, so I wont be joining you, and anyway unfortunately I only eat Kosher meat killed in the proper way.”

“This was killed in the biblical way, it was stoned and its neck was broken, then we roasted it in the manner of the Paschal sacrifice.”

“That’s great, urm but I really have to go.”

Now I’ve come across many alternative slants on real life since I’ve been living in Israel. You only have to walk through the Old City in Jerusalem to find King David, the Messiah and a whole plethora of prophets, but this struck me as not only decidedly odd but really quite sick. I considered called the police.

In retrospect the more I think about it the more I worry. What type of people is capable of stoning an animal and breaking its neck in front of their kids? What sort of family go out on a family picnic catch and kill a deer (which I actually don’t believe they did) and roast it.

Arriving back in the relative reality of Bet Shemesh, I was happy to see that our MKs were still misbehaving, that the haredim were still rioting, that the guy in the post office was still annoyingly slow and the frustratingly pigheaded bureaucrats were still frustrating and pigheaded. Why, because suddenly I was back in reality. OK so its not perfect, this young country of ours, but as I have now witnessed first hand the alternative is a lot more scary.

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

2007-07-05T12:28:00.000+03:00

Once again violence was aimed at Jewish Israelis going about their ordinary lives. The news reported that stones and bottles were hurled at Israeli cars, oil was spilled onto the road, graffiti sprayed and trees ripped up. The perpetrators, known as a radical branch of an otherwise peaceful group, took full responsibility, proud of their actions and apparent blatant regard for human life and property.

These terrorists were not attacking Jews because of the ‘occupation’ or because of the ‘right of return’; these terrorists were attacking Jews because certain signs, erected illegally on traffic lights, were removed from their neighborhood. The natural response of course is rioting.

As it was with the famous cartoons so it is with signs but these radicals were not Palestinian or Arab, they were Haredi Jews who felt the need to disregard every word they spend their time learning in order to cause wanton destruction and violence on innocent parties. Its like kicking up a communal tantrum ever time something doesn’t go their way.

As one resident of Bet Shemesh put it, “They preach like angels and act like the devil”. Strong stuff and probably unnecessary but when you get a rock thrown at your head, that point of view suddenly seems more understandable.

Still there’s good and bad as I am constantly being told. Black sheep and rotten apples.

Tantrums are as much a part of parenting as being woken up at 3am or schepping nachas at a ballet performance.

I have always had a love hate relationship with the beach. I love to swim in the sea, hat the way sand manages to penetrate everything from your picnic to your er, ears. (Tamed that down a bit!). So when we last visited Netanya of course the cry went up to go to the beach, heaven forbid we could sit round the pool. No the kids wanted the sand and the sunburn, they wanted me to run around after them, never taking my eye off our youngest, in short they wanted me to have really bad time just so they could realize I was right about the sand and the sunburn. (By the way we are very careful about sun cream but there is always one little spot that get missed).

I decided to put my foot down, but it was a bad decision for two reasons, firstly because it started world war three and secondly because I was driving and we sailed forward very suddenly narrowly missing a truck, we will remember 36 807 18 for a very long time to come.

The kids started with the shoulder shrugging and the oofs’ as only Israeli kids know how. “Oof its not fair, oof our friends all go, oof you never do anything for us, oof why cant we go, oof, oof, oof!”

Then came the negotiation, “we’ll only be good if you let us go”. Then the tears came, the welling up of emotions, the shouting, the kicking the back of my seat and the fighting.

“No,” I said sternly, trying to keep my cool. This time there was no giving in. I was going to stand my ground. They couldn’t behave like that, I had certain standards and they were expected to meet them. No negotiation under tantrums. I was taking the hard line.

“Ok kids”, my wife said, “we’ll go to the beach”.

Suddenly there was silence, I was fuming. “Well look at it this way,” she said. The only reason why you don’t want to go to the beach is the sand. You’ll enjoy it when your there, so its us against you. We are more than you so we win.”

As I looked at the deep blue sea I thought to myself ‘no where to run to no where to hide’. Some battles just aren’t worth the fight.

The Cup

2007-06-21T10:47:00.000+03:00

Some people will use any excuse to turn a minor insignificant incident into a major disaster either by their own design or just because of their nature.

Spilt coffee can be cleaned up, chocolate puddings can be wiped of the wall, and a little scratch on the car in unforgivable, but we’ll get used to it in time. It’s been one of those mornings.

It’s all about how you approach a situation. Whether it’s a knighthood or cartoons some people just don’t understand perspective.

I would say to these people who would rather burn their towns and people than be civilized that we are ‘not at home to mister temper’. I could have worked for the UN or the BBC! I could also say to the people of Sderot that its your fault that you are being bombarded, now if your don’t mind please, you and all your people, cease to exist so we can have world peace. Now my job at the UN or the BBC is surely secure.

It’s all about perspective.

The Kotel stood there before me, its huge stones reflecting the afternoon light as they had done for 2000 thousand years. Filled with or and renewed spiritual vigor I slowly backed away from the wall determined to do some good in the world, determined to shine some light on these dark times and determined to repair the worlds ills.

My opportunity arrived quicker than I determined when I saw an old Hassid milling about the worshipper, plastic cup in hand. Here was my chance. The first step on the road to spiritual renewal was to give to the needy. And what better way than slipping a few coins to a schnorrer at the kotel.

Without wasting another second I raced over to the old man. He said nothing as he lifted his cup. I opened my wallet looking for a decent amount, finally selecting a shiny 10 shekel piece. I smiled at him and then dropped the money into his cup and turned to walk away.

“Oy”, shouted the old man. Wasn’t it enough, I thought to myself, had I insulted him, was he being rude?

“Oy”, he shouted again. I turned to face him, uncertain on what my next move would be.

"Oy”, he wailed for a third time, “you’ve ruined my coffee!”

“I may have ruined your coffee” I answered kindly, “but at least you’re ten shekel up. You can buy a new coffee and still have change for your chosen charity. And anyway look on the bright side at least your cups half full now.”

His old face cracked in a beaming smile and he went on his way giggling with the words ‘my cups half full’ trailing after him.

It’s all about perspective.

This story is for Chen to celebrate her Bat Miztvah

The Mobile Phone

2007-06-05T12:58:00.000+03:00

“Abba, Abba, I need the phone”. Those are the words that every parent dreads. It means two things; firstly, the kids are growing up and secondly, the phone bills are about to skyrocket.

“Whoever it is you’re going to phone you’ll see in school tomorrow, cant it wait?”

“Abba, what are you talking about? I don’t want to speak to anybody; I want to take a photo.”

And so my fear of aging continued. First it was being in the company of people who were not born when Star Wars premiered and now it’s my techno savvy kids who equate telephones with taking pictures.

After banging our heads together trying to come up with an idea for a surprise birthday present for my mum, we decided to have professional pictures taken of the kids. Nice idea, easy to arrange, get a nice frame and there you have it. Tears, pride, happiness and a lot of schepping nachas. Everything you could wish for in one complete bundle.

My wife was in charge of the clothing. I suggested we all wear jeans and white tops. Sort of smart casual. But my wife was thinking Yom Tov. Then I suggested that the kids should wear their hair down, but she was thinking clips and tails and plaits and everything you could possibly affix to hair. So I suggested I stay out of it and she finally agreed with me.

Seconds after I had sat down, the yelling and screaming started as the kids began to object to be decorated like circus ponies, I got the inevitable call to deal with the situation. Of course it was my fault for suggesting a photo in the first place. Words were exchanged, bribes were negotiated and peace retuned to the region.

Sof, sof, finally, finally, we were all ready. Everybody looked smart, nobody’s bottom looked big in anything, and the kids were beginning to relax.

The photographer started schepping nachas as only an Israeli photographer could. She commented on their beautiful hair (sarcastic smile from the wife), she noted how they might be slightly over dressed for the spring (no smile for her), and she started telling us about her nieces and nephews and extended family until early into the night.

Arranging the kids posing positions was, as you can imagine, a whole lot of fun. Our youngest wouldn’t sit down and the two older ones started fighting. After stepping in to diffuse the situation we told the kids to look natural. Don’t over smile or under smile, look at the photographer and don’t look at each other.

Then my youngest started saying something. “Picture”, she called out in a very stressed voice, “Picture,” she repeated.

“Yes we are going to have a picture, look at the lady and smile.” But she wouldn’t be consoled and her little face creased up in that all to familiar ‘I’m going to let them know I am not happy with the situation but since I am very young they will have to guess what the problem is to diffuse my frustration’.

And then the tears started and crying and screaming. “Picture”, she shouted “Picture”.

Now its not often that I get flashes of pure inspiration and while everybody tried to calm her down I spoke to the photographer.

“Look”, she called “picture”, and as they all turned to her the tears stopped almost immediately.

“Look at the phone,” she called.

Smiles all round and good job well done

The Force

2007-05-27T17:19:00.000+03:00

……….And this is our basement. 25sqm, ideal for an office, spare bedroom or playroom.

“We’re not really allowed down hear”, said my eldest daughter, “its where Abba keeps his whisky and his Star Wars toys. See over there”, she pointed, “that’s a Darth Bader mask”.

“Darth Vader”, I corrected her. The prospective buyers of my house just stared at me blankly.

I tried to break the silence. “I don’t suppose they have Darth Vader masks in Bnei Barak.”

Needless to say they didn’t buy my house. I tried to use the Force actually I tried to use force, but to no avail.

The next lot of prospective buyers seemed a little more modern. “Yeah I love Star Wars, I remember my Dad telling me about going to the premiere”.

“Er, he didn’t take you?” I asked nervously. He just laughed. “Don’t be silly”, he said, “I wasn’t even born then, it was thirty years ago!”

I suddenly felt old, and I blamed it on George Lucas. If we didn’t have milestone I wouldn’t be able to gauge my age and would live in the everlasting sunshine of the spotless mind. Everything would be just a few years ago. I wouldn’t have to say 20, 25, 30 or even 35 years ago and I certainly wouldn’t have to say that I went to see Star Wars 30 years ago, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Yes a bloody long time ago.

I suppose its all relative. My grandmother was born just before the First World War. History will probably record the world wars as more of a milestone than Star Wars. She remembers a time before the modern transport and television. More importantly she remembers a time before the State of Israel. She remembers a time when there were 3,500,000 Jews in Poland and she remembers a time when you could have a night out for shilling, and still have change for the bus.

I tried to explain to my daughters the significance of Star Wars and why after 30 years people still love it. They stared at me blankly.

So I walked away feeling old. Could I still be Luke Skywalker even though I was nearly 40, or would I be Obi Wan Kenobi? That was a sobering thought. I can remember running round the garden in my parents house, plastic light saber hooked to my belt, as my brother (an even younger Han Solo), and I fought off the imaginary storm troopers and Darth Vader. Ah, happy days I thought, swimming in the sea of nostalgia.

And then my heart lifted as I saw my daughter with my light saber hit her sister, wearing the Darth Vader mask, over the head, shouting “Die rebel scum”. But as with all waves they come crashing down eventually. First the tears then the arguments then the ‘yes dear I was looking after them, and scum isn’t a rude word, yes I’ll take it away from them, when I was their age I used to hit Jonny over the head, it doesn’t hurt, OK, OK, bedtime girls’.

Then I settled down to watch TV and as channel 2 came into view I heard a reporter on the news talking about 30 years of Star Wars. In typical Israeli style they claimed to have invented the concept, the technology and even traced the actors Jewish and Israeli roots.

The concept was obviously that the Torah was the Force. The technology was the same as ideas people were working on here at the time and the actors or rather Natalie Portman was born here.

So its official Star Wars is Israeli. The country isn’t even 60 yet, in fact when Star Wars was released Israel was 29, hardly old enough to create such a masterpiece of cinematic history. Then I realized that George Lucas was about 29 when he started the Star Wars project.

I can feel a mid-life crisis coming on.

The Donkey

2007-05-09T09:45:00.000+03:00

In the shadow of Samuels’s tomb we sat admiring the spectacular view obscured only by a donkey and two kids from a nearby village. We watched as these kids whipped and kicked the donkey, jumping on and off its back, the distressed groans from the poor animal making it all to clear he wasn’t happy. Even at, or especially at 14 I could sense the injustice and suffering caused by these kids. It was time for action. First shouting then fist waving. Resolutions were made; I would never cause harm or watch harm being done to another living being. It was my moral, religious and ethical duty. Two legs, four legs, six, eight or numerous, I was the protector of all living things.

But as the years went by spiders were crushed in tissues, ants were decapitated, cats were blasted with water and even the occasional lizard was executed. I am not proud of these crimes and should repent but since I am human I don’t feel the need. I suppose my warped sense of animal justice is that the wild is for them and the cities and towns for us. I would also like to point out, before I get the cat lovers letters again, that I would never intentionally out of malice or spite hurt an animal

But I still had this nagging memory of the donkey, it truly was very sad, reminded me of that sad depressed donkey, Eeyore.

So when I returned home from Bet Kenneset, last week the last thing I expected to see was a Donkey tethered to a lamp post outside my house. The kids were gabbling something about a donkey and I was conscious of drawing some very odd looks from passers by on my way home. I kept thinking why are the kids talking about donkeys and getting so excited?

And there he was, definitely male, standing in his breakfast, outside my house. The first thing I noticed was he was very exposed to the sun. The boys in the street who had ‘rescued’ him explained he couldn’t be moved until after Shabbat.

“Are you all mad, I am not having a donkey tied up outside my house for the rest of the day”. Visions of a dehydrated or even worse donkey came to mind. “It’s cruel, he needs shade.”

The boys protested about not moving him until after Shabbat. I had other ideas.

I knocked on their parent’s door.

“The donkey has to go, tell your kids they had no right tying up outside my house, its unhealthy and unclean and making a mess of the pavement.”

They just laughed and said they’re only boys. Then they closed the door in my face.

I grumbled something about Israeli parents and returned to the donkey.

“This donkey belongs to somebody, you have to let it go and maybe it will return home”.

“It’s a stray,” one of the boys shouted, “doesn’t belong to anybody.”

“Oh and I suppose it put its own bridal over its head, clever donkey.”

Enough was enough, I didn’t have the time, patience or Ivrit to carry on arguing with these boys. I marched towards the donkey, untied him, gave him a slap on the tuchos and sent him on his way.

End of story I thought. Nothing in life is ever that simple.

After lunch the donkey was back, tied to another house. By this time all the kids in the neighborhood were staring at it, like some alien being.

“If that donkey is still here in half an hour I am calling the police after Shabbat. You and all your friends will be arrested for causing harm to and stealing a donkey.”

That did the trick, they all jumped up and scattered. The donkey was led onto the road and ushered forward in the direction of the surrounding hills.

After Shabbat the donkey was back. This time it wasn’t the village kids jumping on its back, but locals. To say I lost my cool was an understatement. Even the donkey was startled, but relieved.

That evening the donkey was escorted out of Bet Shemesh back to his home somewhere in the hills.

As I said goodbye to the donkey I felt a strange warmth, mainly around my shoes.

So I returned home expressing my strong opinions about animals and especially donkeys.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

2007-04-30T15:38:00.000+03:00

If you know me you know I have a near pathological hatred of cats. It’s only since I came to

Israel

. In the UK cats are clean domesticated pets, but here they are anything but clean and domesticated and it baffles me how people can keep them as pets.

In my quest to prevent cats from using my garden as a breeding ground and toilet I have employed many methods from spraying pepper and lemon juice, using the garden hose (still the best method), and using electronic sensors that blow their eardrums inside out.

For a long time the cats stayed away, in fact it was almost a year until the new cats unwittingly encroached on my garden. It seems the cats come in waves. Every winter there is a mini cull and new cats come to take up arms.

So this year, after surfing the internet extensively and using just about every combination of the words cat, garden, eliminate, prevention, painless (actually that was a lie but I don’t want to offend animal lovers), repellent, safe (another lie) and pest, I found the perfect solution – lion poo!

Well it looked like the Lion of Zion was going to be my favorite. Used all over the world it is the perfect substance to scare animals off. One whiff of a predators scent and they’d never come back.

I saw the advert on the internet clicked and looked for a way to get a bag sent to Bet Shemesh. The instructions read that for orders outside of the US special permission had to be received from the Ministry of Agriculture or equivalent ministry in your country. Then a customs form had to be filled out in detail with a million and one check boxes with statements such as; I will not use lion poo as a food additive, I will not mix lion poo with any other substance and the best one, I will not substitute human feces if I intend on reselling the lion poo.

So I phoned the Ministry of Agriculture and explained what I wanted to do. The women on the other end was most unpleasant, cackled on about me being a lunatic and slammed the phone down on me. What a witch, I thought. Admittedly my Ivrit may not have fully explained my intentions correctly. I was subsequently told that I was lucky not to have been arrested after what I said, which, incidentally, will remain my secret.

Then I had a brainwave and after a brief rest I phoned Jerusalems Biblical Zoo and explained what I wanted. Apparently I was one of over 50 people all requesting lion poo since Pesach. Apparently the secret of lion poo was out the closet. Now there’s a business. My mind started ticking over. Three lions, three times three poos a day, must be a few kilos, dried and bagged, minus labeling and distribution, the letters TASE came to mind.

Unfortunately, for me and all my fellow lion poo seekers the zoo weren’t prepared to cooperate even after I explained the economics.

Despondent I returned home and readied the hose just in case. Then a gardener friend of mine happened to mention in passing that he had a mate who works in the zoo and might be able squeeze them, so to speak, for some lion poo if I really wanted it.

So now I have set everything in motion.

The Fisherman

2007-04-16T14:22:00.000+03:00

The surreal worlds that various cults through the ages have built for themselves have been the inspiration for numerous religions, films and cookbooks. According to the last UK national census there were more Jedi Knights then Jews, proving that there are more Jedi Knights than Jews in the UK, actually what it proves is that there are lot of over 30's in the UK.

The Dead sea housed many cults and organized religions, most famously the Essenes. When the Essenes set up monastery in Qumran they not only brought with them a new slant on Jewish literature, they not only inherited a view of the desert and the Dead Sea to die for (no pun intended) but they exported from Jerusalem the syndrome that affects so many of it visitors and inhabitants. You know the syndrome, the madness that overtakes normal straightforward gentlefolk and turns them into prophets, messiahs and kings. And lets face it on a practical level you’ve got to be one dragon short of an apocrypha to live in a cave by the Dead Sea.

So, on our decent to the Dead Sea it came as no surprise to be overtaken by a four by four with fishing rod strapped to the roof. Maybe it’s because I am constantly on the lookout for my next article that I have become more perceptive and sensitive to every oddity this country has to offer, but it took the other passengers in the car a good few seconds before they also registered, comprehended and appreciated the scale of weirdness seeing a fisherman heading for the Dead Sea.

In the end my wife decided that he was in fact on rout to Eilat and there was nothing weird or unusual to worry about.

“Whatever”, I retorted.

The next morning as I walked on to our balcony to survey the deep blue sea and red mountains I could hear from our 9^th story room a very load male voice, nothing strange about that especially here. My eyes surveyed the sea once more and there on the waters edge was our intrepid four by four fisherman, holding his rod and tackle (thank you Benny Hill) trying to hire a boat from an unsuspecting tourist.

“I have traveled many miles from Jerusalem, I want a boat so that I may spread my nets over yonder blue waters (loses a lot in translation)”, he proclaimed in broken biblical Hebrew.

“I don’t speak Hebrew”, shouted the Scandinavian tourist and turned his back on the fisherman.

“Whatever”, the fisherman shouted back in English.

An hour later and we were by the pool, kids splashing around, the wife trying to read a book and me trying to hold it together with the old ‘kids and hotels don’t mix’ trial, when I heard a voice from the street below, “who will lend me transportation to the other side so that I may cast my nets and perchance eat a little before evening prayers?”

Sure enough our fisherman was still standing in the same spot. A largish Israeli approached him, poked his finger in the fisherman’s sternum and proceeded to try and explain in broken Hebrish how the Dead Sea was called Dead for a reason and if he would care to take a gulp of the water, might realize why there are no fish residing for miles and miles around for a very god reason.

The fisherman removed a book and began quoting how the Essene inhabitants not content with writing about dragons and making up their own Da Vinci codes were also vegetarians and only ate fish.

“From where, from where I ask you,” he yelled defiantly. “did they find fish? From the canyon, from the local store in Arad or maybe you think the birds dropped them from the heavens!”

“Well,” the Israeli yelled back, “They certainly didn’t pull them out of this sea.”

“Satan!” Cursed the fisherman.

“Whatever,” replied the Israeli and walked off.

The four by four fisherman turned on his heel and headed back to his car.

“They told me Eilat would be full of fish, they lied to me, lied, do you hear, lied” he shouted to no one in particular.

I listened slightly bewildered, then I heard a voice called from behind me whisper, “see I told you he was on rout to Eilat”.

“But the Essenes were here by the Dead Sea not in Eilat”, I answered.

“Go watch the kids” she ordered.

“Oh whatever”, I sighed.

Back to reality.

The Neighbor

2007-03-26T14:33:00.000+02:00

‘Come on England, Allah Akbar, come on England, Allah Akbar’ and so the bizarre sound of England football supporters echoed by the call to prayer bizarrely echoed each other, and where else could this have happened but the Kotel plaza.

“So who are you supporting?” My friend teased me. “Gonna’ show your true colors as a Brit or as a loyal, Israeli citizen?”

The nightmare scenario had happened and the ultimate question was being forced on me. Now, however, much as I tried to convince my friend it was nothing to do with loyalties and it wasn’t traitorous to hope that both teams won, he wasn’t convinced.

Truth is I wasn’t convinced either. I felt terrible. Should I really be entertaining the thought of supporting England. Yes I still have a UK passport, but then I have an Israeli passport too and an Israeli ID card.

I looked to the Kotel for inspiration, then my wife phoned.

“Oh, you speak English,” a voice behind me yelled. “Listen mate, where is the Western Wall?” I looked at the man up and down, his freshly laundered England football shirt, blindingly white, was pulled taught barely covered his rather large bear gut. His hair cropped to short you could have filed your nails with it. I thought of my answer carefully. Irony and sarcasm would have bounced off this guy, like a bear glass off his head and if he got the wrong end of the stick, could have endangered my life.

“Erm, its, er, there, right in front of you, that huge wall where all the people are praying.”

“Thanks mate.”

“Listen”, I continued, “if you want England to win tell your mates to give their money to all those guys in the black hats, it might help, this is a very holy area and they have a great deal of influence”.

“Great, thanks mate.” And off he walked towards the Wall, coins tickling in his hand.

Could I really be associated with these guys, maybe Israel is the right team. But supporting a team is nothing to do with national pride, not for me. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t national pride but I wasn’t happy.

Then the Friday night before the match it all became clear to me.

Just as we were relaxing after a very filling meal and superb desert there was a knock at the door. Our friend L stood there composed but obviously troubled. Our daughter just feel off her chair and is missing a tooth, can you help. We immediately sprang into action, my wife, the doctor, went round to there house while I tried to find the nearest dentist. When I arrived at their house H was standing there in a blood soaked shirt, their daughters crying emanated from the house.

We eventually managed to help them sort things out and everyone returned home.

Relaxing, I suddenly asked my wife if she knew the names of her neighbors who lived two doors away from her in England. No idea she replied, me neither I said. Then I proceeded to name all the people that lived in the 15 or so houses around us.

Then it all became clear to me. It’s not supporting a team, or national pride but it’s deeper than that its giving support to your neighbors, your community. Its being apart of everything that happens around you. It knowing the names of your neighbor’s neighbors and being there, all the time for everyone. It’s a unique feeling being told by a stranger how to dress your baby or having a heated political discussion on the bus with a guy you don’t know, and would probably never meet again. And that’s because we live in one huge community.

You love them and care for them They wind you up and you may even hate their guts but ultimately their your family, your community and when things go wrong we all wear the same colors.

From the day we came out Egypt and throughout our history we have been together regardless of boundaries, cultures and languages. That is national pride. Our people in our country, at ground level looking out for each other.

There was no question, Israel it had to be, it always was and it always will be. I just took me time to realize it.

The Sailor

2007-03-20T14:57:00.000+02:00

I hate chatzilim (eggplant), I was probably attacked by one when I was a baby. It does not have a single redeeming feature. If I appeal to the artist in me, maybe an unblemished specimen has some aesthetic value. Despite the fact that Israelis have mastered the art of unlocking this most versatile of vegetable by cooking it, roasting it, mashing it and frying it, in fact turning into a billion types of dish, I cant bear any of them. It could be the look, the texture, the smell or just the fact that it’s purple. However the real reason, which I discovered recently, for my aversion hails from the ports of Odessa.

Igor, the name has changed to protect the innocent, stood by his stall in Machane Yehuda, a row of chatzilim lay immaculately polished before him. So highly polished were these chatzilim that in any other circumstance charedim would have banned them in case they fell at the feet of their daughters. I couldn’t help admiring them, Freud would have had a field day with them, and if it weren’t for the fact I can’t bare the thought of actually eating them, I would have spent every penny I had.

“Are you going to buy them or are you just lonely?” Igor’s gruff voice bellowed. I looked around and realized his comments were aimed at me. “Just, er, looking, I, er, don’t like chatzilim” Ok, so, in retrospect telling an Israeli chatzilim seller in Machane Yehuda, you just want to look at his chatzilim but not buy them, probably wasn’t a good idea.

And as the volcano came to a head ready to boil over into a rush of molten lava, hot ash and acid, Igor, red as a heifer, began his angry rhetoric. I didn’t really understand all of it and I knew certain words I couldn’t repeat so all I can say is he was most displeased with as a time waster, something about my mother, some form of accident and something else about my lineage. Nice man, good customer service. I told him what he could do with his chatzilim and left him

Now the reason why I chose a Russian name for our chatzilim seller, before I get accused of racism, was because tattooed on his arm was a word written in what I assume was Russian and a picture of an anchor. I presume, but will never know, that once, in a previous life, Igor was a Russian sailor. Oh and he had a large purple black stain on his arm as well.

My obsessive hatred with chatzilim was nearly compromised when I recently attended a wedding. I am one of the many that stuffs themselves at the reception forgetting about the meal ahead. Sort of carpe diem (canapés diem), seize the day, eat drink and be merry, (not Shakespeare version but Kohelet) make the most of it, never save that expensive bottle etc, etc.

During my canapés frenzy I got talking to some friends and horror of horrors before I could say ‘no thank you I can’t eat chatzilim’, I had popped a piece into my mouth but instead of spiting it out in disgust I actually enjoyed it. It was chopped liver flavor and everybody loves chopped liver in Israel. Just like everybody loves cheese and onion crisps in the UK even if they never admit to eating them.

“You know what,” I said to my friend, “I actually enjoyed that, I’m going to find another one.” So off I went and when I returned to him I started to tell him the story of Igor.

“So what you’re saying”, my friend continued, after my story, “is that apart from the fact he was a Russian sailor, he sells chatzilim in the market and he has a chatzilim colored defect on his arm.”

“What you mean chatzilim?” I asked.

“You said he had a black and purple stain on his arm, well it sounds like a chatzilim”.

So from that day every time I look at a chatzilim I see a Russian sailor with a chatzilim colored skin defect selling vegetables in Machane Yehuda. Not even chopped liver flavor will console me now.

Did I tell you hate chatzilim.

The Wizard

2007-03-15T11:19:00.000+02:00

There was a time when going to work without a suit and tie wasn’t an option. You may laugh and looking back it seemed rather pointless to sit there in a tie all day, but the tie represented a formality and sobriety that shaped our work ethic. The point of wearing a tie, I suppose, was if you dress smart your frame of mind becomes more serious (unless you’re at a wedding). So the tie controlled our work ethic, mood and professionalism. I should right a book and I would except I think it’s all a load of rubbish.

I have ties that cost the same as a small flat in Ashkelon. But I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn a tie since aliyah, and never for work. If I wear a casual shirt and jeans people think I off to a wedding.

Its different here isn’t it. Wake up smell the coffee and all that.

The last minute Purim panic was upon us and the kids were discussing what to wear, except the youngest that had no say. Can’t string a sentence together, cant have an opinion, life’s tough at 20 months!

We made a list of possible choices and while I checked to see what we had in our craft boxes, my wife took the kids to buy their costumes. There was a time when a kid could hold his head up high and be proud of his homemade fancy dress, a time when cardboard and balloons were acceptable accessories, but oh no, they have to have the Versace costumes.

So my little Jewish princesses (quite literally) wore their off the peg costumes and paraded their sparkling accessories like Tiffany jewelry.

My wife had sorted out her costume and agreed to swap her doctors clothes for her lawyer friend’s robes. So I exchanged one professional for another. But it didn’t seem to help our mortgage.

What about me? I searched and searched for something suitable. And for a man that thinks shopping is a form of physical and psychological torture, I spent a lot of time browsing. Browsing by the way is one of those words that has different connotations between the sexes. To her its shopping to me it’s the net and never the twain shall meet.

I decided on a wizards outfit, quite regal, nice cape, impressive hat and with a bit of makeup (purely for the overall affect) it would be fine. Last years Darth Vader, although in my opinion timeless, lacked the X factor and spared me the ‘not StarWars Abba’ groan. Philistines!

Now the big question, would the kids disown me? It’s the subtlety of the outfit that makes it work. I mean too scary and the kids will be hiding under the table, too corny and they’ll just laugh at me, too cheap and they’ll be embarrassed and too boring and I’ll just get ignored.

Now for accessories. As I scanned (not browsed) the shelves I couldn’t help laughing as I found the perfect dressing up accessory hanging in front of me. I wasn’t that they were colorful, if anything they were quite conservative, but there on the rack was a stack of, you guessed it, ties.

So there you go. The tie is a symbol of the Diaspora and Israel, just different philosophies. I think that ties symbolize aliyah, the greatest example of going from the sublime to the downright ridiculous.

The Restroom

2007-02-28T18:26:00.000+02:00

Oscar Wilde once said ‘we are all lying in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars’.

They say you can always tell a good hotel by the state of its toilets. And lets face it if you are going to be caught short; a five star hotel is the place to be. These hotels certainly top the restroom league when it comes to local water closet comfort.

That’s where I found myself last week, in one of Jerusalem’s five star hotels. I headed quickly, always keeping my composure and looking as official as possible, to the toilets. It’s a funny thing, using hotel toilets, and restaurant toilets for that matter. Really they are for patrons. Some people have trouble walking into a restaurant to use the facilities. In the UK it was never an option, but here in Israel if you actually grit your teeth or cross your legs instead of using a restaurant toilets you’re a real frier.

Hotels are a little different and most people can easily, and in a relaxed manner walk straight in (passed security) and make a b-line straight for the bogs.

Along the far wall of this particular restroom were three urinals. Now women never have this problem but in men’s toilets there is the issue of urinal etiquette. For example always use the one nearest the corner. Never use the middle one and never, never, never stand between two men. If there are three urinals and the outer two are occupied, wait or use a booth.

And so the situation arose with me. With urinal one and three being occupied I found an empty booth. Entered and locked the door, no one wants someone shoving the door open when you are standing there, it can be painful and embarrassing. I’ll leave that to your imagination or ask the first available man.

As I tried to leave the booth I found the lock wasn’t working. The first thing to do was use that multi-purpose tool that every dati man has upon his person, a silver kippa clip. First I tried to pick the lock, then to unscrew it and finally to try and force the lock.

No luck. So the next option was scaling the door and climbing over, except there was very little space for me to climb through, and, as athletic and nimble as I am I still couldn’t do it.

Finally the last option open to me. I waited and as soon as I heard a flush and door unlock I shouted for help.

“Hello, can you help me, I am trapped in the toilet and the lock is broken.”

“I am sorry, I do not speak Ivrit I am French.”

“Hello, can you help me, I am trapped in the toilet and the lock is broken.”

“I am sorry, I do not speak English I am French.”

“CAN YOU GET HELP!” I shouted in English

“I am sorry, I do not speak English I am French.”

“HELP ME!”

“I am sorry, I do not speak English I am French.”

For some reason the thought of King Saul failing to kill Amalek and Wellington failing to finish of the job at Waterloo came to mind.

“ASSISTANCE!” I shouted in a French accent. Well the word sounded like it could be French.

Then I was hit with a barrage of French and the man left. All went quiet. I sat there waiting for the flush from a booth and the squeak of the toilet door signaling another potential lifeline.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a tool box being set down by my door. A little bit of scratching and the door suddenly flew open.

“There is nothing wrong with this door!” the maintenance man grumbled.

“But it wouldn’t open, see I’ll show you. I closed the door, locked it and once again confined myself to my restroom prison.

Then I heard the maintenance in a cool and calculating voice explain the problem.

“In our toilets the doors swing out and not in!”

Sometimes, even if nobody pushes the door open, it can still be painful and embarrassing.

The Trend Setter

2007-02-22T13:04:00.000+02:00

A long time ago in a country far, far away I let a friend borrow a music tape. I promptly forgot about it and several years later decided to look for it, but it was gone. I had since lost contact with my friend so I went to every second hand music shop to try and buy it again. I obsessively phoned every shop in Camden, famed for its secondhand record shops, and then realized that just around the corner from my apartment was a small dealer. He had the tape. I raced to the shop, explaining to the owner the story of my prized possession. He found the tape and as I checked the box, low and behold, I found my name written on the inside cover. The owner still charged me, even after I showed him my driver’s license, threatened him with trying to sell stolen goods and generally tried to appeal to his better nature and sense of fair play, but all to no avail. 50 pence later and the tape was back in my possession. Of course I didn’t have a tape player so had to buy the disc, but that’s another story.

It’s hard to let go of prized possessions. Next to music I reckon clothes rate highly in the nostalgia stakes.

The day of the big purge had arrived. I had tried to avoid it but it was no good, I had no choice and what had to be done had to be done. My wife had already thrown out 7 bags of clothes (see girls, it can be done!) and now it was my turn.

I think that men tend to hold on to clothes for nostalgic reasons. So sorting through my clothes was a trip down memory lane. By the way I have a question for the women; why is it that if a hole develops in a pair of boxer shorts you feel the need to make dusters out of them? What you don’t understand is holes are a sign of a well used, comfortable and reliable garment.

While I was busy sorting through my clothes, hiding various items so they would be spared the black sack, forcing myself into clothes that fit me before I was married, and generally being in denial about my waist and collar size, my wife was looking up suitable charities. There are thousands of charities catering for all types of religious observance, culture and country of birth.

But while, to you and everybody else my clothes have no real value, could I really give away an Armani jacket to a charity. Would the wearer appreciate it? Would they understand that the tie (one careful owner, no creases) they were wearing was bought in 1996 for £70? So I had to decide what sort of needy person was deserving of my designer clothes. Then I instantly felt guilty of my materialism (no pun intended), the shocking realization that the snob in me had made an uncharacteristic appearnce and that after all its only cotton, silk, and wool, much the same as money is only paper! So I packed my clothes into black sacks and left them in the basement while I tried to decide my next move.

That night I had a strange dream about charedim wearing designer jeans and T-shirts, sipping cocktails in a nightclub. I think it was New Years Eve 1994.

I learned a new piece of crucial information a few weeks later. You can no longer do a U-turn back to Bet Shemesh outside of canyon Harel in Mevasseret. Apparently this isn’t so new but I haven’t been there for a while. So on my way back to Bet Shemesh I drove up the street opposite the canyon by the absorption center. There was a bit of a traffic jam so I sat watching the mainly Ethiopian olim sitting on the wall outside.

When you’re stationary the world takes on a different perspective.

My friend at the Mercaz Klita now wears an Armani jacket. His kids have designer jeans and their shirts have a small polo player on the chest. I did hear that a couple of H&O sweatshirts were thrown out because of the poor quality.

There is an Ethiopian quote ‘the prosperity of the trees is the well being of the birds’. I am sure there is a Jewish equivalent.

By the way if you’re wondering, all my old boxer shorts ands socks didn’t even make it to the duster basket although one pair of socks has been hidden away, something about New Years Eve 1994, but that’s a different story.

The Slurper

2007-01-29T15:27:00.000+02:00

I have very few pet hates and none of them are really earth shattering or out of the realm of what might be considered normal. If my socks are not sorted into shades, my shirts hung in alphabetical order according to make and my shoes sorted by season, I just lose it. But seriously, my biggest hate is noisy eaters. Having to listen to someone eating like a cement mixer is frankly the worst mental torture I can think of. Gum is the worst, but soup definitely comes a close second.

The restaurant was packed. The noise was deafening. American yeshiva kids yelling from table to table, four Israeli taxi drivers all apparently called Achi discussing their best fair of the day and the hub of families and friends laughing, arguing and chatting.

Above all this rose the noise of a slurper’. He sat there oblivious to world slurping his soup. Every slurp sounded like tearing paper magnified a hundred times. And it got worse. The slurper was sitting right behind me, with his head barely inches from mine, in this most crowded of restaurants.

I couldn’t carry on my meal. I felt sick angry and frustrated. I practiced my best sarcastic lines like ‘my, your soup sounds nice, can I wallow in it with you’ or ‘I didn’t know they raised pigs in Jerusalem’. The sensitivities of the others dining with me, plus a certain amount of English decorum prevented me from venting. But that didn’t stop me planning an attack with an outcome nobody could have predicted not even me.

Anybody who has read my blog will know that I have a near pathological hatred of cats especially the ones that use my garden as a toilet and playground. I cured my cat problem with a hose, some very cold water and lightening reactions (actually it was mainly the hose and the water.).

Now my plan was coming together. I asked the waiter for a jug of water. Then as he brought it to me I stood up quickly, startling him, he lost balance and as I went to catch him I bent his hand back so the water poured over Mr Slurpy.

Well that did the trick, sort of. I spent the rest of night begging the manager not to fire the waiter, explaining the whole story to him.

I went to get my coat still on the back of my chair. As I did I slipped on the water and very ungracefully sailed into Mr Slurpy. My shoulder hit the table sending his food in all directions.

Purple faced, I retuned to begging mode. His wife came up to me and with an expression of ‘thanks mate you’ve done me a favor’ whispered “thank you, he is such a noisy eater, its so embarrassing and I was looking for an excuse to go home, you’ve saved me”.

Always like to do my bit for shalom bayit.

See me in the Jerusalem Post online edition and in the Jerusalem Post, In Jerusalem print edition

The Post Office

2007-01-22T10:37:00.000+02:00

There are certain places in Israel you avoid like the plague if you are in a hurry. Prime candidates for the label of ‘in a rush, avoid’ or IRA establishments are a certain chain of pharmacies, any bank, any shop, government office, Friday mornings and any road between six and ten in the morning and three and eight at night. In fact for a nation with the patience and demeanor of any woman who can’t get into last years dresses, and I think the boys know what I mean; this country seems to be made of millions of people rushing around very slowly.

Of course chief among its peers is the post office. Now as far as I can gather (my market research was made up of an international cross section of Israeli society working in my office) Post Offices across the globe are notoriously slow. Apparently post workers even get nose bleeds from their high octane sport of watching paint dry.

“That’s not funny at all,” the teller barked, “this is a very complicated and involved job”.

I turned to the stranger I had been sympathizing with. Half an hour queuing (that’s English for standing in line) and he still hadn’t been served. I was behind him wishing that I didn’t have to be here.

I was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. It was my wife’s birthday and she had received a card informing her that a package had arrived in the post office. So you see I had no choice, to return to my wife on her birthday without this package would have meant banishment to the basement but waiting in line at the post office was as painful as forgetting to buy an anniversary card, which incidentally I pay for on a daily basis.

Finally, my turn. I slid the card under the glass window.

“Whats this?” the teller asked. Confused I told him it was a notification that a parcel had arrived. “I know that, I’m not stupid, just wait.” Thinking he was going to take the card and look for the package I turned my back to talk to a friend who had just walked in.

When I turned back again my teller was still seated and looking intensely at a sheet of stamps.

“Er, excuse me, but aren’t you going to look for the package? I have been waiting a long time.”

“Shhhh,” he sprayed, “I am counting stamps. Its post office regulations, I have to count these stamps.” I noticed he had five or six identical sheets of stamps.

“Can you not do this later?”

“You think I have nothing to all all day. I have barely time for my coffee breaks and lunch. We open at the crack of dawn (8:30pm) and close late (4:30pm). I am doing it now and you’ll have to be patient”.

“I have a suggestion that may make it quicker for you to count your stamps. Each sheet is identical. Why don’t you count one and multiply it by six. You also don’t need to count every stamp just multiply the rows by the columns.”

I thought he was going to leap through the glass and throttle me. The look in is eyes I haven’t seen since the day I forgot to buy and anniversary card.

“Post office regulations state that I have to count every stamp!”

“Is that every stamp or every stamp? Surely you don’t need to count every individual stamp,” I asked, in desperation.

“Now I’ve lost count and will have to start again.”

I watched him, slowly counting his stamps, the line behind me reaching out of the building onto the street. I calculated that the last guy in line wouldn’t get served until Pesach.

Finally, finally he finished and slowly got up with my card. He slowly and meticulously looked through each and every package until he found mine. Then he slowly, and I swear he was grinning, returned to the window. It wasn’t a very big package in fact it was a registered letter. I recognized the logo on the envelope, thanked him for his help and grinding my teeth, left.

At home I presented all my wife’s birthday cards and presents to her and slipped the letter amongst them.

When she saw it she went red and opened it very quietly. Then she beamed a radiant beam, the sort of beam that all men should avoid.

“Its actually for you dear,” she growled (that’s the growl that always follows a radiant beam)

I looked at the letter, and looked up at her.

“It’s a mistake;” I cried “I promise you I wasn’t there and never drive that fast!”

See me in the Jerusalem Post online edition and in the Jerusalem Post, In Jerusalem print edition

The Office

2007-01-15T16:02:00.000+02:00

Corruption, jobs for the boys, nepotism and proteksia. I really wished this wasn’t the recipe by which local government was run. But, you know, when I made aliya I had hoped to leave all that behind. Didn’t think it was like that in the UK? It is, but they are just better at hiding it and aren’t so arrogant. Oh, and the chances of being related to anyone is much slimmer.

I wanted to live my life in Israel avoiding all of this corruption, but you kind of get sucked in. Don’t be a frier, they said. Don’t be naïve, that’s the way things are, just go with the flow.

The office was dark, overcrowded, windowless and reeked of cigarette smoke. It was housed in a portable cabin, set in an idyllic setting overlooking the hills around Bet Shemesh.

“Shame you can’t move your desk outside,” I said, straining to make conversation and trying not to be ignored by the woman ignoring me from the opposite side of the desk.

In fact, as I sat at this particular civil servant's desk, not only did she blank me, but proceeded to make calls to her family, make a coffee and generally do everything in her power to deal with the most mundane things, avoiding any chance of helping me.

As I sat watching her line up paperclips on her desk in size order I felt enough was enough. First I moved two paperclips that were clearly out of order and when I finally had her attention we began to communicate.

“What do you want?” she snapped; I had obviously spoiled her otherwise very interesting day.

“It's about school registration.”

“What’s about it?” she snapped again. Well that question took me by surprise. I noticed she wasn’t making any attempt to look at her computer, gather any forms and tell me I needed to make eight trips to eight different offices and spend half my day paying money into the post office.

“I want to register her for………..” It wasn’t worth continuing. We both knew that as soon as the clock struck eleven, one of us would turn into a pumpkin and come back the next day.

I fingered my list of the who’s who in Bet Shemesh, sort of ammunition in case she tried to cause trouble. I had the names of the deputy mayor, the guy in charge of this and the guy in charge of that. His mother and sister and long lost uncle’s names. But of course I didn’t want to stoop to that level.

“Look, can we get things moving I need to get to work.” Another glare, she looked at me, staring deep into my eyes. A puff of smoke nearly blinded me. She got up and filled her cup with water. After a minute she returned to her desk.

“Name,” she demanded. “Cardash, Jeremy,” I answered as the clock struck eleven.

She carried on talking. Great, she hadn’t noticed the time.

“Cardash,” she paused and thought. "You have a relation who is a dentist."

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You know we are distantly related. My uncle is your cousin's brother-in-law.”

I sat there very confused. Was that good? What was she getting at? Then she noticed the time.

“Look,” she said, “Its after eleven, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

I looked at her with my best puppy dog eyes readying my list of who’s who.

“You know what,” she said looking around, “Since you’re a cousin,” she whispered, “I am going to do you a favor.

The Holy Underwear

2007-01-14T15:58:00.000+02:00

Tsfat, city of mysticism, home to some of the most famous minds in Jewish history. A city surrounded by the graves of the greatest halachic authorities from the time of the mishna to the present. And of course, the city with the most alternative English spellings in all the land of Israel.

Our hotel, just outside Sfat (yes I know I spelled it differently) which shall remain nameless is one of the areas better hotels. It is known for its almost utopian atmosphere; no kids, good food and a spa.

So with great excitement we started unpacking. I pulled open a drawer ready to pile in my clothes and jumped back, for there staring at me was a large pair of red knickers. The sort of knickers that make men lie when their wives ask ‘does my bum look big in these’ only to be answered by ‘no dear’ while thinking ‘even a hippo would lose herself in those, or ‘maybe we could rent a marquee for our upcoming simcha’ or ‘stand at the end of the garden so I can see all of you’. I could go on all night and alienate myself from all female-kind, but whoever owned those knickers was married to a good liar.

A call was made to housekeeping. “We have a large pair of red knickers in our room”.

“That’s very nice sir, how can we help?”

“They don’t belong to us can you get someone to remove them.”

“Just leave them outside the door and the maid will take them”.

“No, you send the maid to get them; there is no way I am leaving these outside our room!”

“Someone will be along soon.”

Thought – wasn’t there a book called the Red Tent?

Ten minutes went passed and nothing. I decided to march to reception.

“Excuse me; there is a large pair of red knickers living in one of our drawers”.

“That’s very nice sir, how can we help?”

“Can someone come now and remove them.”

Muffled voices came from behind the desk, then arguments.

“Look I very rarely get to stay in Safed (yeh, yeh) and I would like this dealt with before the end of the Shabbat.”

Suddenly, and as if from nowhere a maid appeared.

“You know, Zfat is very holy place”, said the maid as we walked back to my room, “red wards off evil eye”.

Well what can you say to that?

The following week I was at the Kotel, where I was approached by a bearded man offering red strings in return for charity.

“Wear this and it will bring you luck and ward off the evil eye”.

My wife looked at me with that ‘don’t say anything’ look in her eye.

But who could resist?

“Sorry”, I said “I prefer boxers.”

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The Cobbler

2007-01-01T12:12:00.000+02:00

I am not easily scared, although to my children’s great amusement I’m not too good with heights. The recent thunderstorms saw the tables being turned as my kids sat quivering on the end of my bed jumping out their skins as the celestial furniture was being moved.

Yesterday I was probably more frightened than I had ever been, for no reason of course. The mind has a cruel way of blowing events out of proportion and this event was no exception. I needed shoelaces and was on Agrippas Street in Jerusalem. There are several small kiosks there and I thought it would just be a formality to pick up a pair of black laces. Oh no, nothing is ever simple.

The guy told me I needed extra long laces for my boots and should try his brother-in-law in Mea Shearim. He gave me the address, asked me if I wanted to buy a lighter or a beret and waved me on my way.

I found myself walking down the very narrow street of Mea Shearim and eventually arrived at the address. It was in an underground cavern, the sort of cavern that makes you feel a real sense of history.

Anyway, that’s when it got spooky. The owner, a very old Chassidic gentlemen, asked me what length lace I needed. I told him my boots had 9 holes. He smiled, looked at his watch and disappeared up the stairs and out of the cavern. I stayed and waited for him. Five minutes passed and he didn’t return. Then I heard a voice call down “hello?”

I shouted up that the owner had gone out. “Ok,” said the voice and then I heard the door creak closed. I ran up the stairs and pushed the door. It didn’t open. I banged on the door, calling out. No answer. I suddenly realized that it was very dark, in fact the lights had all been turned off and there wasn’t any light at all.

Then I heard a faint brushing noise. I swung round and realized just in time I was still on the stairs, caught my balance and slowly felt my way down the stairs into the cavern. I sensed that it was getting colder and the brushing sound was getting louder. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I was aware of another door at the back of the cavern. The brushing was coming from behind this door.

I tried the door. It seemed unlocked so I pulled it as hard as I could. The door swung open and I jumped out of my skin as I was faced with a tall bearded man dressed in all black. He stood there silently, not moving, just looking at me. Panic struck me and I started apologizing and explaining the situation. He stood there not moving just looking at me.

Then he stepped backwards and smiled. “Sorry,” he said, “just davening, couldn’t speak, so what’s the problem?” I explained the whole story to him, about the shoelaces, the owner of the store and the locked door, lights going out. As I finished talking the door at the top of stairs opened and the owner bounced down the stairs, smiling and holding my laces.

“Behind my store there is a schteible, a small synagogue. There is only one power source so I share it with them. When I am not in the shop or at prayer times, they turn my lights off so they can have light. I always lock my door when I go out, so when it was time for afternoon prayers, as I was out my friend locked the door figuring you’d know there was a back door.”

“And what about the brushing noise?”

“Ah that was probably me,” the other guy said, “probably my hat brushing against door as I was praying.”

“Just one last question,” I said, “where did you go to get my laces?”

“Ah, yes, I had a quite a walk,” he gave a sheepish grin, “my brother-in-law has a small kiosk in Agrippas, he gave them to me.”

The Cave

2006-12-25T10:45:00.000+02:00

Everyone needs a safe place. Some people have a safe place deep inside their psyche, some people use alcohol or drugs. All men need a cave. I have a basement and Beethoven.

After a particularly harrowing bath-time, I retreated to my cave, made myself comfortable in my big fake leather chair, warmed my hands on a cup of herbal tea, slapped in Ludwig's 8^th and closed my eyes. Nothing, not a sound, not a note. I opened the CD draw and closed it again. Nothing. I took the CD out and polished it, nothing. Then I noticed written across the underside of my beloved CD was a scratch like none other. Actually this scratch was a signature, written in year-one handwriting, bearing the name of my eldest daughter. "Oh dear," I said, "but how sweet, she’s so clever," I thought; then remembering I wasn’t her grandparents, went on the warpath.

A good argument in the morning always gets the blood flowing. But my little darling was asleep, so I resolved to discuss the matter over breakfast.

But that wouldn’t bring my CD back, so I decided at the earliest opportunity I would need to shop for a new one.

My first stop was my local music shop in Bet Shemesh. “Do you have a classical music section?” I asked hopefully. “Yes we do, it’s in the corner.” So I went to the corner but there was no classical music, not a Beethoven to be seen. “I thought you said the classics were in the corner.” “They are, classic Carlebach, All Time Great Classics of Hassidic Music, Chaim Moshe Classics.” “Never mind,” I said, and left the shop.

Ok, so Jerusalem was my next stop; bit further afield, and in retrospect should have taken the left fork and gone to Tel Aviv. Life is much easier in retrospect, but getting there is harder (I don’t really know what that means either!).

I remember my favorite Israeli record shop: Piccadilly records. It reminded me of the small record shops in Camden (London). But when I arrived at the shop, to my dismay, it had closed down; "for some time," I was told by a neighbor.

I went home despondent. The next week I had a meeting in Tel Aviv so I looked up record shops in the area and found a small shop very close to Rothschild. I called them and asked if they had a copy of Beethoven’s 8^th - they did, and whether it was the Berliner Philharmonic - it was. Wonderful, and was it conducted by Karajan? It was. Jackpot, the exact copy. I asked them to save it for me.

After my meeting I went straight to the shop. I Asked for Moshe and reminded him of our conversation the day before. “Yes, yes, I remember I have your copy right here.” I picked it up, the cover read Andre Previn conducts the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Ok, also very good, but it was Beethoven’s 5^th.

“Look,” I said, “I asked you for the 8^th and this is the 5^th.” So what do you think he said to me? What’s the most Israeli answer you can think of? Well he could have said, "no, no Beethoven never wrote an 8^th," or "this is better, buy this one," or, "you asked me for the 5^th," or "what’s wrong with the 5^th , not good enough for you?"

Well none of the above. What he actually said to me was that although the CD and cover say it’s the 5^th it’s really the 8^th!

So I asked him to play it and it started with the classic ‘da da da daaaaaaa.’

“That’s definitely the 5^th," I said, “do you have the 8^th?” He looked at me like I was asking for one of his kidneys. He got out of his chair and brought me a selection of CDs. He dropped them on the counter between us. “These are all I have,” he growled.

So is sorted through them. Apart from Kate Bush, Etnix, Talking Heads and Abba, there were only 3 remaining CDs. The first was Mozart, second was Vivaldi and the third was Beethoven. I checked the cover and the CD, it was the 8^th. I couldn’t believe it.

I wanted to be sure it wasn’t scratched; it looked like a second hand copy to me so I asked him to play it and guess what, it started with the classic ‘da da da daaaaaaa.’

“This is the 5^th” I complained. “Oh that’s the one, I got confused,” he looked at me and smiled, “I knew one of the Beethovens’s got mixed up. Still what’s wrong with the 5^th, don’t you like it? I tell you what, I’ll give you a discount.”

“I just want my safe place,” I murmured. “You want a safe place, I’ll tell you about safe places, my family escaped from Poland in the war, running from hiding place to hiding place, pretending to be Greek refugees, never safe, and we arrived here in Israel with nothing, and now you want to share your safe place with some German!!!!”

“But Beethoven wasn’t in the war,” I feebly answered. “Yes that’s what they all said,” he shouted, “I wasn’t there, didn’t see anything, just following orders, you’re all the same.”

“Don’t you mean 'they’re’ all the same?”

“You listen to them, pay money to buy their works!” Then, a voice from heaven, actually from the back office, shouted, “Moshe Reuveni, will you stop shouting!”

“Reuveni, that doesn’t sound very Polish…” He looked at me and lowered his voice, “it's not it's from Persia, but a good argument in the morning always gets the blood flowing. My wife calls me a cantankerous old man; I say if the birds are allowed a dawn chorus I can always have my midmorning symphony.”

I left the shop thinking about the Iranian music shop owner who had an identity crisis thinking he was a German-hating-Pole disguised as a Greek refugee and accusing me of being a collaborator for listening to a German composer who lived in Vienna.

Everyone needs a safe place.

The Bookseller

2006-12-14T10:25:00.000+02:00

“So what type of book are you interested in?” I looked at the bookseller, must have been half my age, acne ridden and the air of one who I suspect has never read a book in his life. I turned to my friend.

“Er, preferably made of paper, maybe a cardboard cover.” He stared at us blankly. Was my humour too English for him? “I like old books,” I explained, “I collect old books about Israel or Palestine, you know from the turn of the last century, travel books are the best”. He stared at us blankly. “Don’t worry,” I said sympathetically, “I’ll look for myself.”

The shop was very dusty, badly lit and so disorganized I thought I would need the bookseller after all.

“Can you explain your library system, I don’t seem to be able to find anything, and there is no consistency regarding genre or author.” He stared at us blankly.

So I continued searching among the books. Eco was next to Rushdie. History was mixed with Judaica. Old books sat next to new ones. I was ready to give up when I realized a pattern and asked the bookseller if I was right. Actually that was a lie I just wanted some sport.

“I think I have worked out your system. On this shelf are all the foreign authors divided into countries. Former British colonies are here, unless they are still part of the commonwealth in which case they are here. Of course American authors are not with the former British colonies and have been separated here. Books from the 19^th Century and prior to the First World War are here. Post 1918 books are here, unless they are in German in which case they are here with all the foreign literature. Foreign literature is sorted according to international boundaries unless there is a dispute between nations. Poland is more or less in the middles and the other countries surrounding it. Scandinavian books are at the top and you work your way down accordingly.

My friend continued

Books in Turkish and Cypriot are not next to each other as explained. Middle Eastern books are here again according to geographical location, except for Israel which is separated on account of border disagreements. Jewish books in Hebrew are next to foreign languages as are Jewish books in English that may have Hebrew in the title. Books in Russian are with books in Greek and German because they use all those funny looking letters. All books from the former Soviet Union are in one bloc, pardon the pun, unless they are renegade states in which case they are here with the Turkish and Cypriot books.

We were really enjoying ourselves.

“If the authors surname starts with an E or R then they are placed in the medical section. If the ISBN numbers of the book start with 100, 999 or 911 then they placed with books to be read in an emergency. Of course if they are Egyptian Judaica books written by an African, published in the USA and only sold in Gibraltar then they are on the top shelf straddling former British colonies, protectorates and mandates.

I paused for air and saw the booksellers face, I thought he was going to cry but he just stared at us blankly.

We continued to look around. “I cant read,” said the bookseller, “I am dyslexic”. “I’m sorry to hear that I said. “What about the owner, is he dyslexic too?”

“No the owner is not dyslexic.” “So how is it that the shop is so disorganized, doesn’t he tell you what to do, where to book the books?”

“Yes, he does but he is blind! So he tells me and I guess and he doesn’t know so I don’t say anything!”

Astonished is not the word. But this is Jerusalem after all and anything can happen here. My friend was on the floor laughing. I picked him up and walked out of the shop into a cool sobering Jerusalem winter morning.

There is a book by Edward Whittemore called Sinai Tapestry. It explains how the original Christian bible was dictated by a blind man and written by an insane one. I always thought this type of idea only lived in the realm of stories.

I’m not so sure anymore.

The Weather

2006-12-07T12:53:00.000+02:00

That special feeling of cold icy air rushing through my body heralding the end of autumn only really served to remind me to shut the bedroom window before going to sleep.

Rhetorical question: How cold is it in the mornings? Mental note: Change over summer clothes to winter. Change summer duvets to winter. Decide on minimum temperature before the aircon switches to heating mode.

Kids coughing, their noses streaming endlessly, refuse to get out of bed. Yep, winter has arrived.

I am (was?) English I can take the cold, it’s a part of my culture, they don’t call us blue blooded for nothing (the Royals must really be cold, er, no comment).

And after all the initial panic, bracing ourselves for the change of season depression, the temperature shoots up, has a good laugh at us getting caught out in our winter woolies, and then plunges again. Another rhetorical question, why does it do that, I have a theory.

Sorry, I am rambling, but, in my usual ambiguous style, I am trying to get to the point.

Why do we find the difference between summer and winter so confusing? I know Olim who wear open toed sandals all year round. Despite the intense cold of a mountain evening, there they are prancing up and down Emek Refaim in their thick coats, scarves, and ‘sandalim’. Or the guys who wear T-shirts all through the winter, or at the first sign of rain even if its still 25 degrees will get out their winter apparel.

In the UK it was easy, when it was warm you wore light summer clothes and when it was cold you wore warm winter clothes. Why is it so confusing? What happens during the Aliyah process and even after years of living here that prevents us from understanding the simple formula of clothes = weather / temperature.

The other day, can’t remember which one, I walked through four different weather / temperature zones from wind and rain to hot and humid all in the space of about 15 minutes. By the time I had reached my destination I had removed three layers of clothing and flicked on the aircon.

Then I realized that in a small country where the landscape changes every 2 kilometers, where the political climate changes every 2 hours, where the only certainty is uncertainty, the weather just falls into line.

We have an Israeli culture and the weather just follows suit. Its the ‘I don’t care where you’re from, where you are going and what you’re wearing, I’ll do exactly what I want, when I want and how I want’ attitude.

I can just see it now, the new Ministry of Tourisms slogan:

Israel, Land of the Bible and Weather with Attitude.

The Queue

2006-12-05T23:19:00.000+02:00

The plane came to a safe stop and the usual round of applause emanated from the seats around me. Way before the safety belt sign had been turned off everybody around me was up on their feet opening the overhead compartments and talking on their mobile phones.

For once none of this annoyed me. In fact it amazed me. You see the people around me were mainly blonde, blue eyed Nordic types and the plane had just landed in Sweden.

So I got to thinking, are we really so different from the outside world. I mean if it’s good for the Swedes it must be good for us. They ignore the basics of in-flight safety, we do as well. They chat incessantly on their mobile phones not able to wait a few seconds longer and so do we.

That hazy naivety soon wore off as I saw the well ordered Scandinavian society obeying the rules of the road, being polite and ever helpful, making that special effort to please and always smiling.

But we have blonde blue eyed Israelis surely a throwback to some time in the distant past when we lived side by side with the Swedes, but history had the upper hand and shattered my illusions because as with every European country and beyond, Sweden burned its Jews.

Still it’s a pretty country, boring, but pretty.

I decided to do some souvenir shopping. After wading through the shops selling hats and scarves, wooden horses and gnomes, I found a beautiful little shop in the old town and waited in line to pay.

Now in this shop there were two lines, one very long and the other much shorter. Standing at the back of the long line I considered moving to the shorter one, but them wondered, why isn’t everyone else moving lines?

I decided to take the bull by the horns and switched lines, much to the disapproval of everyone else in the shop.

Awaiting arrest, I ignored the disgruntled people who regretted not plucking up the courage to move lines, when a woman switched lines and stood behind me.

Again, the sound of murmuring. I turned and smiled at, what turned out to be a typical Nordic beauty, even had her hair braided, not that I was paying that much attention or to the fact that despite the minus 3 temperature she still wore a very revealing top, not that I was paying attention or worried she would suffer from exposure.

She smiled at me, easy tiger, I thought. I wanted to talk to her but remembering the wedding ring, the kids and my happy life, decided to err on the side of caution and smiled politely back, that smile you give to a schnorer who comes collecting when you only have three shekels in your wallet, the sort of I really want to help but cant, smile.

She asked me how long I had been in Stockholm. She had seen my camera and figured me for a tourist. “Just two days”, I answered, “here on business.” “Tell me”, I continued, “what’s the deal with the queues?” “Well”, she smiled, “ in Sweden once your in a line you stay there but I’m a bit of rebel and I have been out the country for a while, been traveling seen new places new cultures, and I am fed up with this institutional behavior.”

“Where have you been?”

You guessed it…………….

The Vendor

2006-11-12T14:10:00.000+02:00

The Vendor

Afula bus station isn’t the most prestigious bus station in the country. Some might call it retro some might be more honest and call it bloody ugly, but whatever your feelings and architectural eye, you can still catch buses to all over Israel so its serves its purpose.

All bus stations in Israel (the old ones anyway), I think by law, must contain certain characteristics and characters. The ticket booth must be just a little too high to see the teller, get your ticket and retrieve any change before it falls to the street. The bus station must smell of fumes and falafel. Speaking of falafel there must be a least one independent falafel seller. There must be a group of at least 10 male soldiers sitting on a bench to fit two and another 10 sleeping under it. There must be at least two Arabs selling Jeans out of a plastic bag, a group of spiky haired pre-teens smoking, a gaggle of females soldiers, two beggars, two street peddlers selling bootlaces and string, one man collecting shekels outside the toilets and a hardedi family with 14 kids who are hopelessly lost. There must be one Habad rabbi asking if you would like to put on teffilin, two policemen, one security guard, one rubbish collector and 500 taxi drivers lurking around the exit.

Afula is no exception. A glimpse of all that is great in Israeli society, well maybe not.

I forgot one other character, the guy who sells telephone cards. But in Afula he was selling telephone tokens, you know asimonim, the special telephone tokens with the holes in. Now I know enough about business to know that since all phones use cards, asimonim aren’t exactly a growth business. But that’s where I was wrong.

So I walked over to the guy, sitting on the ground in his rags, smelling of anything but rose petals, and mentioned that none of the phones in the bust station use tokens and that maybe selling cards would be a better idea.

“Mind your own business”, he snapped. Fair enough I thought, I shouldn’t have interfered.

So I stood there watching him, wondering what on earth he hoped to achieve by sitting on the ground hoping to sell out of date tokens.

A little while later a group of school kids gathered round him, each one waving money in his face. Then another person and then another. OK, I thought, so I just learned a lesson in business. I went back over to him and apologized for my comments. I told him it actually was a clever business.

“Business”, he laughed (the laugh of a man that’s smoked 100 cigarettes a day since he was 5) “this isn’t business its nostalgia. I’m not in it for money. For 30 years I have sold asimonim, now they don’t use them anymore, I have over 1000 left in my store. All my life I sold them why should I stop now?”

Nostalgia, I thought. How sad. There he sits all day, a sad and downtrodden human being, ignored by the State, by his family, with no friends. This is all he has, a dream of a former life he refuses to let go.

Then for an instant I was 15 on holiday, walking through a bus station, I see an asimon vender, buy three and then thread them on a chain around my kneck.

I looked down at him, “I’ll have three please.”

The Sale

2006-11-02T09:58:00.000+02:00

What could be simpler than buying a car. Well in Bet Shemesh I would say quantum physics, nuclear fission, mating pandas and honest politicians.

So here’s the story; The guy I bought the car off, bought it when he was a tourist for cash. He paid the tax and had an official white piece of paper proving that he was who he was, had done what he had done and all was kosher, kushti, safe, above board, transparent and most of all followed all the government regulations.

We agreed a price, shook hands and proceeded to the post office where they were supposed to stamp another piece of paper and we would sign, pay and run off into the sunset, he would take a cab and I would take my nearly new car.

Of course that’s no how it happened. The post office said that because he bought the car when he was a tourist we needed to go to the licensing office, which by the way was closed until tomorrow.

The next day.

With a price already agreed, hands shaken, we proceeded to licensing office where hopefully they would stamp another piece of paper and we would sign, pay and run off into the sunset, he would take a cab and I would take my nearly new car.

We waited patiently in line. We reached the front only for the very helpful young women to announce that she was only dealing with driving licenses at this point. “Why?” we asked, “because I am” she replied.

We waited patiently in line. We reached the front again. She asked to see our driving licenses. “They are ok”, she said rather irritanted. “We know” we replied, “we are here to transfer ownership of a car.” “But I told” she barked “only driving licenses.” “But there is nobody else here.” “Yes’, she practically shouted “but the computer is down so I cant help you.” “Why didn’t you mention this 45 minutes ago”. She saw red. “There is a sign on the door!”

We went to the door and there on floor in illegible scrawl was a notice that the computer was being repaired, come back tomorrow.

The next day.

With a price already agreed, hands shaken, we proceeded to licensing office where they would stamp another piece of paper and we would sign, pay and run off into the sunset, he would take a cab and I would take my nearly new car.

We could feel her scowl before we even entered the office. We reached the front of the line and explained why we are here and what we wanted.

“Why didn’t you do this at the post office?” she snapped. “Because they wouldn’t let us”. “Give me your ID cards.” “I don’t have one” said the seller, I am a tourist.” “Then you cant sell your car.” “But I have brought my passport and the bill of purchase.” She huffed and snorted. She looked at the passport, “that’s not you she shouted”, “yes it is”, the seller retorted, “but the numbers different she shouted”, “but I have this white piece of paper check”. Then absolute silence. Pay me this, go to the post office pay that then bring back this paper stamped.

“Do we both have to come back?” I asked cautiously, “no just one of you.” “Are you sure?” “Yes I am sure now go I am very busy.”

We ran to the post office, stamped, paid and signed, then I dropped him off and returned to the licensing office. Presented papers receipts etc. “Where is the other guy?” she snapped. “You told me only one of us has to come back.” “No I didn’t, get him, he has to sign here and pay this so I can stamp that.”

Three days, 80 kilometers of round trips, 5 hours of waiting in post offices and government offices, 6 stamps, some money and signatures and I have my new car.

My friend called me from the UK and told me he also bought a second hand car. It took him 15 minutes to do the transfer. I thought at that second maybe life would be better in the UK.

But who am I kidding?

The Desperate Househusband

2006-09-25T20:52:00.000+03:00

“Hey, doesn’t her bum look big in that skirt?”

Warning bells, oh my…. What have I just said? Think of something quick. You can’t have a weight, shopping or school conversation. These things do not compute. Remember you’re from Mars; we don’t talk about those things there. “Erm,” I splutter as several Bet Shemesh wives look at me, “she’d, er, never be good in goal.” Have I got away with it? Stony faces, stony silence.

“That’s the single most typical thing any male could say. Two things on his mind; sport and anatomy.”

Oh the joy, the relief, I got away with it. But I nearly didn’t. Got to get back to work. These coffee mornings are killing me. Roll on Sunday and the start of my new job.

“We went to the Herzliya mall,” one wife was saying, “and so we bought one in each size” another answered, “yes but the shoes really go well with my new Shabbat outfit and you should see the hat.”

This is all one conversation. Need to get out. If I say anything my testosterone levels will be brought into question. Can you catch estrogen just from talking to women?

Then I spot a friend across the café. I run up to him. “How are you?” I ask. “Good,” he replies. “You won’t believe the conversation those women are having, I needed to escape, talk about real things. So how have you been?” “Good,” he replies “and work? The family?” “Good,” he replies. “Well,” I say, as I see my wife motioning me to return to the table, “It's good speaking to you.”

“That was nice to see your friend, dear. Nice conversation.” The other wives snigger. They know we can’t talk to each other. They know we have an inability to communicate in small talk, to talk about anything. We just state the facts. I am good, my job’s good, the family is good. Do I need to know any more? So long as my wife knows I don’t need to know.

I smile. It’s lonely being a man. We don’t really talk, it's true. We don’t feel we need to. But sitting in Aroma, listening to all the wives chatter on incessantly about everything and anything you kind of get jealous that you can’t talk to your own friends. But let’s face it - and I think I speak for most men; most of our friends are our wife’s friends' husbands. I, for one, left some of my closest friends in London. So the guys I hang out with, great as they are, have no real history with me. So common ground is hard to find and we don’t talk about shopping, clothes or school.

“You’re very quiet,” my wife nudges me. “Well, it’s just I don’t think I can be involved in a shoe, shopping or school conversation. I don’t know anything about handbags, clothes and makeup. I can’t talk to you and your friends about football, ex- girlfriends, whisky and poker.”

So I sat and listened as they talked about everything and everyone. I have to admit it’s hard not to get drawn in, and then I found myself smiling, and then commenting and then joining in the conversation and then……… and then it all fell to pieces. “Look at her”, I said, “she wouldn’t need extra floats in the swimming pool”. I knew I’d overdone it. I forgot these were women not men. They could have said it, they’re allowed to, but it was another anatomy comment. I survived the first, but didn’t stand a chance again. The first black look came from my wife, and then her friends, one by one, they looked at me with those female, disapproving eyes.

The next thing I said would redeem me or exile me. Think, think, I urged myself. Silence, then I looked up and smiled.

“She’d, er, never be good in goal.

The Dripping Tap

2006-08-28T22:24:00.000+03:00

The next morning I leapt out of bed, ran outside and breathed in the pure Judean mountain air. What a wonderful morning I thought; the birds singing in the trees, children playing in the streets, the scent of flowers and pine calming and relaxing my senses. OK, so it wasn’t quite like that. The next morning I dragged myself out of bed, crawled into the bathroom, swore at the leaking tap, grumbled at the wife and was quite inexcusably rude to the neighbor who phoned to borrow some milk.

I nearly fell down the stairs, turned on the TV to watch the war, boiled the kettle and manhandled the phone book trying to focus on the plumber’s number. Even dialing his number was a challenge. “Is that Yossi? Get here as soon as you can. Got a leaking tap, driving me insane. No I’m not up north it’s the TV. And you, bye.”

The kids crept silently into the salon, the news disappeared and the cartoons took over. I decided to ignore it. Fell down some more steps to the basement. Sat at the computer and read all the news feeds.

As I read the feeds and saw the videos of our incredible country being torn apart a rush of anger overtook all my senses. I don’t think it was sleep deprivation I am sure it was just raw emotion that caused me to cry a little.

So many questions unanswered about the Lebanese, the international community and the blatant anti-Israel reporting. Nothing new there. But I asked myself, why are we not immune from all of this. For thousands of years we have suffered under just about every government in every country throughout history. You’d think we would have evolved into some thick skinned toughened up nation. But no. Every time the BBC refers to Hezbollah or Hamas as militants, my blood boils. Every time they call Israel’s response disproportionate I end up shouting at the TV, and every time they ignore Iran’s call for Israel to be wiped off the Earth, I stand there incredulous, waiting for someone to condemn them.

These people are tearing our State apart. Safed is unrecognizable. Haifa, Nahariya, Maalot, Shlomi, the border Kibbutzim, Rosh Hanikra and Kiriyat Shemona, to name but a few, have all sustained huge amounts of damage. Everything we have tried to build and rebuild in the last few years smashed to pieces and soaked with Jewish blood.

And just like a dripping tap, you never, ever, get used to it

The Dealer

2006-07-30T22:22:00.000+03:00

The room was deadly silent, you could’ve heard a pin drop if you had one, but as it happened none of us had one, just two cards and another five on the table in front of us. The silence was shattered by five red poker chips being thrown into the pot. “See your five and raise you five”. One by one all of us peered at out cards, making all the necessary calculations, trying to count the cards, trying to assess what each other was holding and hoping for a little luck.

In Edward Whittemore’s classic Jerusalem Poker, the stakes are no less than control of Jerusalem itself, but this game the stakes were higher, this was a morality play, charity over lies.

“Ok. I’ll see your five” called my friend, “and raise you ten, what the hell its only money.” I have a little bit of a social conscientious and the phrase ‘what the hell it’s only money’ some what disturbs me especially when I think of Jews lying on the streets of Jerusalem in poverty. I threw my additional five chips in, “see you” I called and made a mental note to divide my winnings, half for me half for charity. The human mind has a wonderful way of justifying and rationalizing two concepts which are the antithesis of each other i.e. throwing money away and poverty.

I lost.

Now I was upset, he had prevented me from making a sizable donation to charity. I resolved to continue playing until I was ‘up’. Anything over twenty shekels would do it. This was big time gambling.

“Look”, I said to myself or maybe it was a deal with heaven, ‘I need to win so I can give charity, its up to you, you make the cards fall right and the poor get a few shekels, if they don’t fall right I lose and have to lie to my wife, its all in your hands.”

I lost, again.

This was ridiculous; “look”, I whispered under my breath, “are you seriously telling me you would rather I lie to my wife than have the opportunity of giving charity?”

I lost again.

Then came the knock at the door. A voice mumbled tzeddaka, tzeddaka. We all counted our chips. Making the mental calculations. I came with twenty and am now three up, but I have a good hand and might have to bet more than I have, but I could win. Then again I could lose, but if I give him my money I will never know.

I answered the door, and a long black clothed arm with a letter from some Rabbi was thrust at me. It was written in Yiddish so it could have been about anything. “What do you know about Texas Hold’em?” I asked. He looked at me blankly.

My cards were good but my conscientious better. I removed twenty shekels from my wallet and handed it over. He nodded his head in thanks and walked off.

No change in my luck though, I lost again and again and again. When I went for my reserve twenty I realized I had given it away so I left the table despondent, thinking up an excuse for my wife.

“So how was it tonight? You win?”, “Actually, darling, I gave my money away to charity!” “Yeh, yeh, I’m sure you did”.

I lost again

The Greengrocer

2006-07-26T23:39:00.000+03:00

I distinctly remember Mrs. Tudor, the last of a bread of traditional greengrocers that only sold groceries.

Mrs. Tudor was old twenty five years ago. Mrs. Tudor used to complain, did she complain. We used to joke that if it wasn’t for her strict Anglican upbringing she could have been a Jewish mother.

But her complaining always took her back to fond memories of the war, the Second World War. “Ah”, she used sigh, “happy days all of us getting together, mucking in, down the Underground when the blitz was on. Everyone helped everyone else, happy days.”

It never occurred to me to mention that while she was having such a grand old time of it ‘down the Underground’ that the Jews were being murdered in Europe. Still she had her war and we had ours and I am sure if she had lost her house to a V2 rocket or lost a relative she wouldn’t have such happy memories. Try a whole family, Mrs. Tudor, try a whole dynasty, village town, country, continent, that’s what we lost. But I could never bring myself in later years to correct sweet old Mrs. Tudor. So she carried on sighing and serving fresh fruit vegetables and cola bottles.

Mrs. Tudor told me that although she was having a grand old time of it, she was eventually sent with her sister to live in the countryside away from the big city, just to be safe.

“You see in war you can’t guarantee that the enemy soldiers will only attack the enemy soldiers, its just not cricket you know”. I knew what she meant. War is evil and cruel and the civilian population always suffers, but just like the forties, the evil has to be wiped out.

What would Mrs. Tudor have said if her brave army had used her home as a base, launching rockets from her garden and firing from civilian areas, winning every perverted PR war because the other side was killing more civilians than them?

I don’t think Mrs. Tudor would have had a ‘grand old time of it’.

So this is a message to the Mrs. Tudors of today who think war is about mucking in and should be a sporting occasion, forget it. War is dirty and ugly and it has one sole purpose, destruction. Defending your country, on the other hand, is about survival.

The next time a suicide bomber blows up in a grocery store, I hope for Mrs. Tudors sake it’s not hers.

To Mrs. Tudor’s credit she doesn’t sell the UK Jewish Chronicle: http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3281084,00.html

The Scientist

2006-07-19T22:27:00.000+03:00

Curley snorted, to me and any innocent bystander, a noticeable wave of concern rushed over us as Curley sucked his brains down to the back of his throat and then, to the envy of all terrorists, managed to launch his brains further than any suicide bomber could ever hope for, caught neatly in a handkerchief.

“What was the question again?” He asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Being such a controversial figure, what do you think your chances of receiving any recognition for your work in the field of genetics?”

“Well”, he continued, and then another snort and suck as everyone around him ran for cover, “I believe my work to be so revolutionary that the world will have to listen.”

In the UK no one sniffs on television, sweats and shows any discomfort. No one would scratch, itch, pick their nose and absolutely no one would pass wind. But this wasn’t the UK.

Curly snorted again, everyone cringed, than he rubbed his groin and started twisting his chest hair. His shirt was ironed in the Israeli fashion with his collar pressed back out to reveal a perfect ‘V’ from between his collar bone and the center of his chest. The collars were then folded back over his very 70’s looking jacket.

“I am an Israeli scientist”, he continued, “I am proud of my country and its achievements but its time we tried to integrate into the big world, you know blend in a little, then maybe we would be accepted.”

I can just imagine him blending in at the Nobel Prize ceremony. Amongst the Armani and Versace steps H&O man. Blend in, I think not. He reminds me of the charedim who switch there black hats for baseball caps when on holiday in Europe. They blend in like ET at Miss World.

“I recently spoke to my family in Haifa,” he continued “I said to them, keep your head down and don’t worry, I was there in 56, 67 and 73, I kept my head down and prayed I’m here today as a famous scientist on the brink of the greatest genetic discovery this year, so be careful, you never know what will be.”

I laughed but then I could get away with it, I wasn’t in the audience. But I saw people visibly weeping. What he said made a lot of sense to these seasoned Israelis.

I wanted to analyze what he said that set these people off into torrents of tears. Emotions were understandably running high. 1 week into the Hezbollah missile attacks and the North was taking a beating. People all over the country were scared and, with no end in sight, nervous for the future. Together with what he said would have brought a tear to anyone’s eye;

“Protect yourselves and be brave, I understand war first hand, all you can do is stay undercover and pray, I am testimony that the enemy cannot beat us and despite the odds Israel have excelled, we don’t know what will be but there is always hope “

With Israelis you have to read between the lines, see through the bravado, penetrate their masks and understand them.

The Israelis are not very good at blending in and nor should they be. Let them be proud of who they are. I could have watched the scientist’s interview in any other country with the sound turned down and still instantly recognized him as one of us.

Israelis have a style all of their own. Often embarrassing, especially if you’re from the West, but always distinctive.

Our badly dressed, uncouth, arrogant scientist will probably never get the Nobel Prize but I’m proud of him because he’s one of us. Even when he tries to blend in he’ll always be an Israeli.

Pray for our missing soldiers, our injured countrymen and the families of those lost to a heartless, bloodthirsty enemy.

The Green Line

2006-07-11T16:00:00.000+03:00

The three American yeshiva students piled into my car.

“Thanks man, we’d be like stuck if it wasn’t for you, and we didn’t want to be here after night fall, we’ve been warned not to stay out by ourselves at night.”

Visions of all those 80’s horror films came to mind, Freddy Kruger meets Jason, young students being hacked to death for being beautiful and naive. These guys were certainly not beautiful.

“Yes, I said, Kfar Sava is in very close proximity to the green line.”

I looked in the rear view mirror at there appreciative smiles and clear relief to be inside a car speeding from the dangerous hotspot of Kfar Sava to Bet Shemesh.

“How long have you guys been out here?” I reckoned on about two weeks.

“This is our second” (smug smile) ………….” year.”

I nearly crashed the car. I did all that was humanly possible not to laugh.

“Oh,” I said.

“But this was our first time in Kfar Sava, we looked on the map and saw all the Arab villages and towns nearby, you know like Kelkilia and Jaljulia, dangerous places man, dangerous places. Much respect to the settlers who live here.”

“Where do you live?” I asked

“In the Old City” they replied together. I detected much pride and quite rightly, but I was confused.

“But isn’t the Old City very close to the Arabs you are so afraid of?”

“No man,” one of the laughed at my apparent naivety, “we are in the Jewish quarter, safe as anything”.

“Well actually, Oh forget it”. I hadn’t the strength to put them right and why ruin the stories they’d tell their pals and parents.

I decided to take the very long rout home. I had to make a stop in Tel Aviv. As we drove south through Tel Aviv and passed all Hotels, the boys started marveling the beach. Jaffa shimmered in the late afternoon sun. Then one of the boys started shouting.

“Hey guys, look over there a mosque, wow this is really turning out to be a dangerous ride man”.

The mosque in question is the one just by the Dolphinarium.

Then another shout, “look guys in the distance about three kliks, another mosque”.

This time it was Jaffa. It went very quiet in the back, nervous chatter turned to Tefilat Haderech.

“I had no idea,” said one of the boys, “that we were so close to the Arabs even in Tel Aviv.”

Heaven help them if they ever opened an atlas of the world and saw the tiny Jewish States location nestled among its Arab and Muslim neighbors.

You can imagine, a postcard arrives in Beverly Hills:

‘Dear Mom and Dad, hope you are OK. I am missing you. Israel is great and I am attending most of my lessons. Please can you increase my credit limit as the card doesn’t seem to be working, Dad can sort it out. Jerusalem is great, but my cell phone doesn’t work everywhere, but it’s not so bad. We were in Kfar Sava, its really on the edge, quite literally, right by the Arabs. It was dangerous but we are OK. I was thinking of visiting my cousins in Netanya but someone told me it’s only a few miles from Tul Karem so I think its best that I don’t. We are going on a trip to Hebron with the yeshiva in an armored bus, cant wait, it’ll be really cool. Not sure where Hebron is and why we need an armored bus, maybe its because of the dangerous drivers here.. Anyway, send my love to everyone and if Dad can fix my credit card it would be great. Your loving son, Shmuel (Sam).

“Any of you thinking about making Aliyah?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Of course man, this place is an adrenalin rush. We need to defend our people. This is our land. Jews for the Jewish Land, Israel is real! “

“So man, like did you do the army? Did you kill anyone? “

I thought about telling them the time I killed a fox on the mountain road to Jerusalem, very messy.

“Look guys, Israel isn’t just about the army, it’s about living day to day and not day by day. We worry about the country, the conflict with the Palestinians, but we also worry about work, what schools to send our kids to, where our bar-b-q will be on Yom Ha’Atzmaut. Israel is about real life and real people.”

Silence and then “Yes, but we can do the army to?”

“It’s your duty”, I replied.

“Our duty”, they echoed with smiles on their faces.

I dropped the boys off in Bet Shemesh to catch a ride to Jerusalem. I wondered if the boys understood what Israel really meant, if they could see past the army and delusions of grandeur.

Who am I kidding?

At the time of writing this blog Gilad Shalit is still missing, please pray for his safe return.

Our heartfelt condolences go out to the families of Eliyahu Asheri who was recently murdered by Palestinian terrorists and St.-Sgt. Yehuda Basel, killed serving his country. Their pain is unimaginable as the entire nation grieves along side them.

The Grail Quest - Part 3

2006-06-23T00:42:00.000+03:00

How the Opus Dei got my email I’ll never know, but the fact that they read my blog is quite flattering. The email said quite simply that while they respect my faith, as a Jew, they feel it is improper to speculate about a religion and a faith that I have no formal learning or training in, do not subscribe to and have no interest in proving anything except my unfounded theories and an unacceptable element of humour. And then I analysed the email address and saw it was opusdei78@gmail.com.

Even so, I accept the above, and while my personal theories don’t need to be aired again, this story is about a Christian searching for something and the Jew just hanging around trying to help, in a manner of speaking.

Roger’s revelation in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre sparked a bit of a theological tiff with his father, the parish priest.

Roger had moved to the Old City and was staying in some rundown hostel in the Christian quarter. I hadn’t heard from him in a few days and then one day I received a call from his father demanding to know where he was, what he was doing and what the hell am I going to do to get him back to their village in Somerset. I had the number of the hostel and left about forty messages asking him to call me. Eventually I went looking for him. I could, I suppose, have told his dad I had no clue where he was and that he was not really my responsibility, but I have kids too, and the guilt got to me.

I found the hostel and asked for Roger. No one had heard of him. I described him and waited while the receptionist went off to speak to another of the workers. The hostel was grim. Damp oozed through the walls, there were hundreds of insects on the ground and an unusual smell of something dead coming from a back room. The walls were littered with icons, crosses and posters for the Underground nightclub.

“I think you want John.” “No, I want Roger.” “Yes but he now calls himself John.”
Its happened, I thought, the good old Jerusalem Syndrome has claimed its next victim. “Where can I find John?” I asked. I was directed back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where, sitting on the ground in rags was Roger or John, mumbling in English and schoolboy Latin something about the end of days.

“Roger, what’s going on?” I foolishly asked. “Call me John.” “John, what’s going on?” Stupid question number two. Roger then proceeded to explain that he was the incarnation of John the Baptist and that he was back to lay the way for the lord’s second coming. “It’s just that your dad is really worried and wants you to return to England.” “Did those feet in ancient times walk upon England’s pastures green…” Roger began to sing, very badly and causing two soldiers to look round and fidget with their riot sticks.

The words are from the English national hymn, “Jerusalem.” Look it up for yourselves and the meaning behind the words.

“Yes, John, and that’s why you must return in the path of Joseph or Aramathia, come let us make haste and prepare for the arduous journey ahead, and when we get to the airport, I’d wear trousers and not that dress.”

Roger is now a management consultant in the City of London, he has a Porsche, a wife, three daughters and the biggest house you have ever seen.

He claims the secret to his wealth was found that day in the Church.
I think it’s because he has a very wealthy father-in-law, but what do I know? I’m just a Jew.

The Grail Quest Part 2

2006-06-13T19:37:00.000+03:00

By now with all the Da Vinci madness the small village of Rennes-le-chateau has once again been in the spotlight. You’ll have to look up the remarkable story of abbé Bérenger Saunière and how his strange find of a few parchments earned him unbelievable wealth. Also how the whole area, the churches and local natural landmarks link up in a series of perfect geometrical shapes most importantly the pentacle.

It’s hard not to be drawn in by all this madness. There are elements I don’t believe in for example the Grail, the holy blood lines and all the mysticism associated with it. But the Knights Templar did have a very special knowledge of geometry that is a fact shown in thousands of cases, even by lining churches and other locations in perfect measured geometrical patterns. That, I think, was the knowledge, the Grail, they had. Just like the ancient Egyptians who created and built the Pyramids and placed them at exact angles etc, this incredible knowledge has been lost.

Try convincing Roger. Well you don’t have to but since this knowledge the Templars had was ultimately Jewish, Temple of Solomon and all that, I felt it was my mission to put the record straight. So I invited him to Israel. Where better than to continue his Grail quest than where it all began?

Israel is absolutely full of Templar buildings, monuments, and legends. In order to get into the mood I watched the essential Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Then I drove to airport to collect Roger. “Did you know,” he said, “that from the air, London airport takes the shape of the Star of David”. We hadn’t even left the car park, but Roger was already in the Grail zone.

Where to start? Well I needed to know what Roger wanted to get out of this trip. “I want to find the beginning of the Grail trail”. So off we went to Jerusalem. We had a tour of Davids Tower, saw the Crusader halls and heard about the battles for Jerusalem. Meanwhile Roger inspected every stone, apparently looking for something. Then he went outside and started drawing what he saw. There is a minaret which sits on top of many civilizations worth of building works. There is also an arch. Roger drew a line from the top of the minaret to the arch, then from the base of the arch back to the base of the building the minaret stood on and then back up to the top of the minaret. “A perfect triangle”, he announced in triumph. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that joining any three lines would give him a triangle and that the minaret was not crusader.

Roger took some rubbings off of one of the walls which he claimed was a lion, but like looking at the clouds; you see what you want to see. Roger had a lion and a triangle. A symbol of the crusaders and geometry, he was a happy man. Insane but happy. I could feel a touch of the Jerusalem Syndrome about him and decided just to agree with him and suddenly longed for his three day trip to be over.

Roger took out his map and drew a line from the Old City to Caesarea, up to the Crusader castle of Beauvoir, near Bet Shean and back again. With eyes alight with the flame of, OK I’ll use the word again, insanity, he exclaimed with much excitement “another triangle!”

Ok now this is where it gets a bit weird. We travelled north via Jaffa to Caesarea and then Nazareth and finally Beauvoir (great view). Roger took his map out linked all the places and nearly fainted. He had found a pentacle. Not very symmetrical one but that was enough for him. We were on the verge of discovering something. Then Roger started linking Crusader sites in the north, like Acco, Tiberias, etc and found more pentacles. “Absolute coincidence, the geometry is completely off, there is no symmetry and in more than one case you’ve started at the end of the place name and not the place marker”. Roger ignored me and in a frenzy demanded we go back to Jerusalem.

Finally day three had arrived and Roger was due to return to the UK. It had been a real experience but what on earth had he discovered from all of this? I arrived at Rogers’s hotel to pick him up. The hotel told me he had taken a taxi to the Old City and said to meet him by the Kotel.

Roger took me aside. “I have discovered that there are ancient tunnels under the Temple Mount. I was talking to a guy in the hotel bar who told me he could take me there. I am supposed to meet him here in ten minutes.” I pointed to a sign saying Tunnels tour, just above his head”.

I suppose despondent, disappointed and down right depressed doesn’t even come close to describing Rogers’s mood. I thought he would cry. He wasn’t allowed to climb to the Temple Mount, he had only found a few markers and codes in the Old City but they were on the usual tourist routs anyway. He had found his Templar pentacles but even they were a bit, how can I put it, manufactured.

So I took him to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, gave him a lecture about searching his heart for what he was looking for and shoved him inside. I sat outside chatting to a couple of soldiers and told them about Roger, Glastonbury Tor, pentacles, Rennes-le-chateau and Dan Brown. An hour later, Roger reappeared from the Church, dazzled by the sunlight, but unusually elated.

He refused to tell me why and no matter how much I pushed him he kept quiet. As I said farewell he took a step back and said to me “I found it, the Grail, I saw it. A monk in the Church showed it to me, said it was a holy cup, the holy cup. He offered me a drink and then asked for a donation. I asked him if I should renege on all my possessions as others had done before me, he said he needed just enough money for a taxi, so I gave him $50, I hope that was enough. I also know the secret of the Grail, but that I can’t tell you. Farewell old friend”. And with that he disappeared into the crowd.

But that’s not the end of the story…………………

The Grail Quest – Part 1

2006-05-23T10:00:00.000+03:00

The sun that had shone so fiercely during the day began to sink slowly, plunging the Temple Mount into a confusion of dark shades and shadows. Migrating birds overhead sang there evening vigil as they returned to the surrounding hills and the safety of the pine trees. The call to prayer echoed across the valleys as multiple minarets, bathed in the green neon glow that surrounded their parapet’s, simultaneously chanted the Koranic verses of divine submission.

On a similar evening 900 years ago (without the neon) Godfrey de St Omer, one of the founder members of the Knights Templar, committed to writing five short words that would hold the key to a 900 year quest and the future fame and fortune of one individual. Those words translated from the Latin were; ‘The Grail is a fake’. The Grail will never be found but Dan Brown still got his money.

With a supreme stroke of genius the Knights Templar created the myth in order to reap the benefits of 900 years of merchandising even surpassing George Lucas’s Star Wars.

The legend and myth of the Grail and the extraordinary pull of the Knights Templar which led men to give up their money, possessions, land and livestock to the church, enabled them to become the wealthiest organization and allowed the church to cash in and increase its powerful hold on the Western World and beyond.

The beauty of the Grail is that not only did it not exist but it was never defined as a definite object. Was it a chalice, a plate, a stone and scroll or just good advice? The truth is nobody knows or probably will never know except of course for Dan Brown and a guy I used to work with from Somerset, England.

Roger claimed he knew the exact resting place and secret of the Grail. According to his very secret information, passed down from father to son to internet, the Grail was buried in a chamber below Glastonbury Tor, a strange and almost supernatural hill near the town of Glastonbury in the south west of England.

Together we set off on our own Grail quest. As we drove south west from London I wondered what the Opus Dei, Knights Templar and all the other secret organizations would have thought of us; an observant Jew and Roger the son of parish vicar on their very own Grail quest. We drove passed Stone Henge instilling within us wonder and dread. How did the ancients lift those stones, why did they waste all those virgins lives, if the virgins were martyred did they have 72 terrorists to look forward to in heaven?

Glastonbury Tor said to be the mythical isle of King Arthur’s Avalon, rose out of the landscape, its strange tower looming menacingly. The meeting place of lay-lines, mystics, hippies and spiritualists. Not far down the road are the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, the last resting place of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Every educated English school boy knows the story of King Arthur, Excalibur and the Grail Quest. “Come Lancelot, I said to Roger, let us climb the Tor, retrieve the Grail and all England shall be saved.” He was not impressed. “This is serious, this is the Grail.” Serious business I thought.

We climbed the Tor, noticing the strange ridges that had been cut giving the hill a screw like effect. Roger told me that from the air the Tor represents a pregnant mother. Great, now I have to be careful where I walk.

“How did the Grail get here from Jerusalem?” I asked Roger, genuinely interested in his response. “Some bloke brought over and buried here I think.” “So you’ve researched this thoroughly then”, I joked with cynicism and sarcasm.

I told Roger of the Crusader sites in Israel and the legacy they left in the form of many national parks. Roger was planning a trip to Israel to research his Grail quest.

We reached the top and stood under the shadow of the tower. Roger asked me the time. “2pm”, I told him. Roger ran round the far side of the tower and began to look around, running his hands along the cold wind-blasted walls. “Quick”, he shouted, “come here I’ve found something”. Not knowing what to expect but still remaining extremely cynical I ran over to him. I saw he was holding a piece of paper and could make out some of the letters on the top of the page. Each letter was in a different color, the first letter was G, the second an O, the third an O, I couldn’t see the next letter but the last two letters were L and E. “Well, I’ll say one thing, Google is the font of all knowledge”, I joked. Roger looked deadly serious, he had been duped. His information had led him to the Tor, he had found the marker stone and had dug out the sacred scroll which would lead him to the Grail.

Roger read the scroll; ‘I Godfrey de St Omer, of the founder members of the Knights Templar, can confirm that the Grail is a fake, sorry and have a nice day.’ “Don’t worry Roger”, I tried to comfort him. “Still from the top of the Tor the view was fantastic!”

Onward to Jerusalem………………

The Highwayman

2006-05-21T11:30:00.000+03:00

I dialed *147 or whatever it was and they told me to go to the office of highway and road repairs.

Mr. Extraordinarily Long Nose Hair sat on the corner of his desk excavating his huge cavernous nose. “Er, excuse me, sorry to disturb you, are you in charge of roadway repairs?” “No,” he barked rather nasally, obviously with one stubby finger blocking a nostril, he was probably in charge of archeology. “Can you tell where the office for road repairs is, please?” He looked at me with a ‘for crying out loud I am very busy’ look and with his free hand pointed down a long corridor.

What I didn’t realize was he was pointing down a long corridor out of the building, round the corner down the road, to a new building where the office for roadway repairs was located on the second floor at the end of another long corridor.

I knocked on the door. Inexplicably, the same man stood in front of me, still digging for gold in his long nose. You know your head’ll cave in if you carry on, thankfully I only thought, mouth clammed shut.

Without asking how he had made it to this office before me, I started to tell him of the problems with a road near my house that had been damaged by an overweight truck.

“What number ticket have you got?” he asked. “What ticket?” I asked. “When you were in the other building there was a sign which advised you to take a ticket and await your number. When your number comes up you can then ask your question.” I am going to kill this man, I thought. I ran back to the other building, got my ticket, found the number display and waited. Half an hour later I realized it was broken.

I ran back to Nose Man and told him that the ticket machine was broken. I showed him my ticket and he asked me to wait in the corridor outside his office. Another twenty minutes went by as I stood and watched him drilling for oil in his nose. I was certain he would rupture something and waited for the large spurt of blood. It never came.

He walked to the door and asked me what I wanted. I told him the problem. He asked me to fill out a form, asking for my name, address, mothers maiden name, ID number, education, army service record, criminal record and of course credit card details. I mentioned this might be the wrong form. He looked at it said “just fill in your name, address and phone number and give it back”.

After doing this he opened up a large filing cabinet and withdrew a huge folder with, what seemed to be, several thousand forms similar to mine. He motioned that I should sit at his desk. He opened the folder, placed my paper on top of the others, closed the folder and replaced it in the cabinet.

Now what seems to be the problem?” “Well because of building work I think several trucks have ruined the road surface and it’s become dangerous.” “Danger!” he cried “Danger!” He jumped up from his desk and for a split second I naively thought something truly remarkable would happen, he would deal with the situation. But of course life isn’t like that, not here in the Holy Land.

“Here,” he said passing me a piece of paper, “call *147 and tell them what the problem is.”

The Ambassador (HaShagrir)

2006-05-05T00:38:00.000+03:00

I’m still trying to find that magical combination that would produce Israel’s super ambassador and champion of advocacy. It’s difficult. The other night I found myself shouting at the television. The program was HaShagrir and one of the contestants was spewing her rhetoric about the need to allow all the Palestinian refugees back into Palestine and compensate them and the other was saying that we need to keep a tough line against those who preach our destruction. Now its easy when you on the extreme right or left, you have no problems in stating your absolute, clear cut, totally blinkered opinion. But when, like the majority of us, you have become so confused between right and wrong, where you rally behind one politician only to find you’re still moving forward when he has made a U-turn and when you see the appalling tragedy perpetrated by the Palestinian leaderships lust for power, money and blood, you have to ask yourself what is right and wrong.

So who is the perfect Shagrir?
The Shagrir should be right, left, and center.
Speaks at least Ivrit, English, Arabic, Russian, and Amharic.
Knows Israel politically and historically, geographically, culturally and religiously.
Has a realistic approach to security, the Palestinians and a general understanding of the world’s attitudes towards Israel and the Jews.
Ideally worked in the city, on kibbutz, on a falafel stand, in a market and in a factory.
Has lived in the north, south east and west, in the Golan, Galil, Jordon Valley, Haifa, Sharon, Judea, Samaria, Shfela, Jerusalem, the Negev, Dead Sea and Eilat (to name but a few areas and places!)
A person who has done the army, yeshivah, sherut leumi, been a lifeguard, taxi or bus driver, played basketball professional, floated a dot com and swept the streets. Worked in hi-tech, biotech, low-tech, software, hardware, manufacturing, law, medicine, accountancy, tourism, advertising, internet and worked in an office, from home or in a field.
Someone who is irreligious, national religious and ultra religious.
Someone who knows how to carve sh’warma, roll falafel and knows the difference between lafa and pita.
Someone who is orange, blue and white all over.
Someone who is rich middle class and poor.
Someone who lives in an apartment, duplex, triplex, cottage, house, villa, estate, ranch or sleeps on the beach.
Someone who is a sabra, an immigrant, has a holiday home or visits Israel.
Someone who weeps on Yom Hazikaron and celebrates with all his heart on Yom Ha’atzmaut.

I am sure you can find yourself in more than one of theses categories so I guess you’re the person for the job.

Since that probably goes for all of you, on this Yom Hazikaron and Chag Atzmaut make a concerted effort to love your country even more and do everything you can to defend her, support her and celebrate her.

The Astronomer

2006-04-03T15:12:00.000+03:00

When Mahmoud explained the recent solar eclipse to his fellow laborers no one could have predicted it would end in violence and a very near fatality.

Picture the scene a half built apartment block somewhere in Jerusalem. The news has announced that there will be a partial solar eclipse. The Romanian, Thai and Arab workers all react differently. The Romanian takes it in his stride, its just a natural event he comments, happens all the time. The Thai worker has a slightly more spiritual view claiming that just the fate of the world in for a change as the sun hides its face. The Arab claims it’s a Zionist plot to shield the sun so the Palestinian crops cannot grow.

The other two laborers laugh at him explaining that if that’s the case why is there an eclipse in Israel to? The Mahmoud retorts that it is to lull the world in to a false sense of security covering lies with lies.

Text book stuff I’d say.

Mahmoud’s friend arrives and the other workers explain their feelings about the eclipse. His friend explains that it is the way of Allah who controls the heavens and move the planets. The Romanian and the Thai are also satisfied with that answer. It’s a standard religious belief that they are not going to argue with.

But Mahmoud’s face flushed and he started shouting in Arabic at his friend. Then, from his pocket, he produced in Arabic and Hebrew a pamphlet printed on green paper with the title Tomorrows Solar Eclipse – A Zionist Plot. The pamphlet explained in great detail how the Israelis, using American technology had managed to fake the affects of a solar eclipse and divert the suns energy away from Palestinian fields in order to cause great hardship on the Palestinian economy.

Now you’re reading this saying, ‘yeh, yeh’, but you have to believe it’s true. The truth is with all the crazy notions the Palestinian propaganda machine has come up with this really pales into insignificants.

A so in the spirit of true brotherhood, diplomacy and tolerance Mahmoud and his friend began to push each other, just a little at first and then harder and harder and then the fists come out. Between shouts of collaborator and infidel, Mahmoud started to pound his friend.

The Thai and Romanian turned their backs and got on with their work.

Eventually the site foreman decided to intervene and called for the police and an ambulance. They interviewed everyone at the scene except the Thai who had vanished and the foreman denied all knowledge of him.

Mahmoud was arrested, still screaming conspiracy and decrying most of astrophysics as a Zionist plot, even to the extent that this fight was perpetrated in order to sow the seeds of disunity among the Arabs and Palestinians.

Mahmouds friend then turned to his Romanian counterpart and said “isn’t education a wonderful gift.”

The Tour Guide

2006-03-31T12:45:00.000+03:00

‘And so dear friends, that is why this glorious city, king of all the modern Israeli cities, is called after the very man whose dream and vision it was to establish and resettle the land.’

You may be forgiven for thinking that maybe, just maybe this unofficial Israeli tourist guide was talking about Hertzliyah, but of course that would be utterly ridiculous. Instead the city we were standing in was, well see if you can guess……

I’ll give you a clue. As is well known, documented and laughed at, the transliteration of many of the Israeli place names was undertaken by a German, Austrian, Pole, and a chimpanzee. Consequently the ridiculous spelling is symptomatic of the Europeans being unable to pronounce and distinguish certain letters.

So, on the approach to Tzfat you will see signs to Safed, Zefat, Z’fat and Tzfat. Even tourist books spell it several ways in order that the unwary traveler shouldn’t be too confused. Pure logic!

Nitza boulevard in Netanya has three road signs along its cliff top road, Nice, Nitza and Niche, presumably this road was named after the famous philosopher Nitcha! (Yes I know I spelled it wrong).

Other good places are Jaffa, Yafo and Joppa, Lod, Lud and Lydda, Hebron, Hevron and Chebron and Shkhem, Shachem, Sh’chem and Nablus. Choose one guys.

Of course this Israeli pastime of not really caring to standardize their spelling is evident in shops, magazines and my personal favorite, restaurant menus. Yes I’ll order the onyon soup, then the stek and mishrooms and popper sauce and side order of frize. For dessert I think I’ll just have the orangze sourbet. After a time your eyes just get used to it and your brain adapts so I could type; thise Israolis caint spill for thir livvs and you’d either think was I Scottish, drunk or an Israeli menu writer. (The only job where an education is thoroughly frowned upon.)

Boasting one of the world worst propaganda machines, you would hope their English would be correct and appropriate, right Mr Barak?

If you’re good at word games then looking up a road name is a fun pastime, if not it can be an absolute pain in the atlas.

So the poor tourists have no chance. It can get dangerous with bad spelling like Ramla, Ramala, Ramela, Remala and Ramalla etc. Another good one, and then I’ll stop, is Petach Tikva. Spelled in so many ways it defies belief from Peta Tikwa to Peha Ticwa it is probably the most consistently multi-spelled misspelled place in the entire State of Israel

So back to our tour guide who was now elaborating on the virtues of St Peter, the first Pope. This city, he told his Christian tour group, was founded by Christian missionaries as a city of hope for the future of the Children of Israel. The word Tikva (or Tikwa or Tikwer) means hope and so the city was named…………………

The Atheist

2006-03-31T12:44:00.000+03:00

Atheists today rioted through the streets of London, incensed by cartoons published in a UK daily paper depicting a blank sheet of paper. One leading atheist was reported to have said that the depiction of nothing is an insult to our sensitivities. The ‘nothing out there, be praised’ should not be made the brunt of the Western World’s Zionist stranglehold on civilization.

Meanwhile in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, several thousand Palestinians rioted, attacking UN and EU buildings in a day of rage highlighting their plight. A senior Palestinian and wanted Hamas terrorist was quoted as saying that the publication of the blank cartoons is a cynical Mossad plot to draw away attention from the Palestinian cause. The Zionists, he continued, have for too long been the great oppressors. Using the Atheist religion as a weapon is despicable.

The Israeli government released a statement saying this was irrelevant.

The Iranian government spokesmen for Anti-Zionist affairs said that his government was appalled that the Jews would stoop so low as to ridicule another religion. Sure they don’t believe in god, sure they say there is no heaven, sure they are negative about religion and don’t believe in the prophet, but they are human beings and should not be the subject to this Zionist Jewish brutality.

The Israeli government released a statement saying this was irrelevant.

It should be pointed out that this UK newspaper does not have a single Jewish employee. While we are not allowed to publish the full details, the owner of the paper is a member of the Saudi Royal family. When confronted with information, the Saudi government accused our reporter of being a Zionist spy and the Iranians decided to have a competition to see who could produce the funniest Holocaust cartoon.

A senior Israeli politician and ‘always nearly the Prime minister’ called from his holiday home in Oslo and suggested that as an act of good will we should supply the Palestinians with a nuclear reactor in a joint venture of friendship with Iran - oh, and while we’re at it, let’s give away all Judea , Samaria and Ramat Hasharon.

The mayor of London provided a brief statement in which he compared the plight of the atheists to the plight of the Palestinians under the Zionist regime of world tyranny. When asked if he would be taking his annual holiday in Teheran this year he replied, “stop hassling me you Nazi Jew boy reporter.” The answer was taken as yes.

The Israeli government released a statement saying this was irrelevant.

The President of the United States of America convened a meeting with the Israeli foreign minister and asked him if he had anything to do with this, and maybe they should hold off on the security barrier for a while. In response the Israeli government spokesman cried, ‘oh for the love of…..!’

The Arab boycott drew new momentum as the cartoons were rumored to have been published on the inside cover of every book written by the Zionists. They said that a blood thirsty, uneducated, power crazed, radically and violently anarchic religion with no respect for human life and dignity or tolerant of other religions could only be expected to turn this matter into a world crisis. It’s not sure whom they were referring to, but shortly after their spokesman was blown up in a ‘work accident.’

The French, worried that this incident may trigger world war three, offered a very lucrative arms contract to North Korea for the manufacture and supply of two million white flags. The Germans denied everything and the Greeks blamed the Turks.

The UN issued resolution 786,553,467,862 against Israel blaming them for the decline in Palestinian economy by restricting the sale of Kassam missiles to their brothers in Shchem (Nablus) and Chevron (Hebron), citing this as a direct consequence of the publication of a blank cartoon in a UK newspaper.

The Israeli government released a statement saying this was irrelevant.

Meanwhile the tiny country of Micronesia stood before the world in Israel’s defense. (yeh!)

The Russians, acting on the sound advice of Hamas and Iran have decided that if you can’t beat them, join them, and have supplied Syria with a new army and equipment ready for Yom Kippur.

The Israel government released a statement saying this was irrelevant.

The editor in chief of the UK paper primarily responsible for publishing the blank cartoon released a statement this week saying ‘the Paper deeply regretted this big fuss over nothing.’
Disclaimer.
The above story isn’t true. All characters and countries alluded to are purely fictitious, no sorry that fractious or is that ferocious. Of course the real world is run according to much more sane guidelines, NOT! Anyway this article is in no way meant to harm or discriminate, unless you’re the Mayor of London in which case you are totally irrelevant.

JC

The King

2006-03-06T10:46:00.000+02:00

“Confront all your demons, expel them from your presence, never let them back.” All I asked was ‘which is the quickest way to Agrippas Street’. Still its an original answer though the directions were a little cryptic. “Beware for today is the day of the coming of our lord, he continued”. “So is that left at the lights or right?” I had the feeling that my time would have been better spent asking someone else. But this guy was kind of interesting. Still I have wasted too much time in my life and I wasn’t about to waste another three hours of life chatting to Nathan of Gaza or whoever this guy was.

As I turned to go he shouted, “The day of the lord is nigh, loosen your belt, unbutton your shirt, lay bare your head and prostrate yourself so he may walk upon your back.” Tempted as I was to say its sounds like a Thai massage, logic clicked in, and rather than incur the wrath of this prophet and get my head kicked in I remained silent as I walked away.

I’d almost forgotten about this man (in Israel with all the ‘colorful characters its quite easy) then last week as I was walking in the Old City and there he was, but instead of rags he was wearing a white toga and strumming a small harp. “King David is here, so fear not, for I shalt fight thy battles with the spirit of the lord and my army of seraphim and cherabim.”

Now I know all about the Jerusalem Syndrome, this overwhelming need for sane and insane alike to become biblical characters. Go to the Old City on any given day and you will be confronted with a least two Messiahs (one of them must be wrong), a King David and a Jeremiah.

“Minister, minister, care for your children, order them not into damnation so they may eliminate those who may trespass against you”. An American tourist standing next to me said “that kid sure knows his bible.” “Actually,” I said in a pompous sort of way, “Its Marillion!” “Is that an Old or New Testament book?” “Erm, try 80’s rock band who sold out to commercialism after there lead singer, Fish, left.” He just stared at me. Look, I thought, he’s the nutter not me.

“Do you realize, tell me do you realize, this world is totally….” “Fugazi”, I shouted. King David looked at me. It was a very despondent; you’ve taken everything away from me, look. “You like Marillion to?” “I’m sorry, but if you want to get your message across, try your own words, not some Scottish poet called Fish.”

“Of course youre right, but the words are so powerful and instill this feeling of dread and awe I me.” “So when you hear Marillion singing ‘Lavender blue dilly dilly lavender green’ you feel the yolk of the kingdom of heaven?” He looked at me. Maybe I pushed him too far, maybe I was a bit out of order, maybe my tolerance levels just gave in, but the look he gave me was as black as a swarm of locusts. As I waited for the hail, frogs and ground to open he said, “You know the redemption is coming”, and wondered off singing Kayleigh.

The Commando Part 2

2006-02-16T13:29:00.000+02:00

First of all an apology for all those feline lovers who were so keen to contact me and express their views, all I can say is for what you are about to read I am truly sorry and I hope you treat humans with as much compassion and care as you do cats. You bunch of lunatics.

So we left off last time with phase one of my anti-cat operation. The freezing hose water seemed to do the job. Sprinkling pepper and lemon peel kept most of the cats away but that was short lived as my wife objected to all the lemon peel littering our garden. In her words ‘it looks like a rubbish dump and will attract all those cats’. Sometimes it feels like ‘I’m putting out the fire with gasoline’, as Bowie would say.

For now the battle was won but the war was far from over. Son of white appeared one day. Absolutely devoid of any sense of smell or not bothered by the pepper, chili and lemon mix he just sat there. Then out of nowhere another white cat. I remember a Rabbi once said ‘always two there are, a master and apprentice (I think he was a Rabbi!) The family was coming to play. Not in my garden. This was the new breed of cat. Evolution had hardened them, strengthened their senses and now they were here to take revenge

Keep cool, I heard myself say, anger leads to pain, pain leads hate, hate leads to suffering. The cats were immune to all I could throw at them (not literally you lunatics)! Powerful you have become the dark side I sense in you. Enough was enough. Back to the internet.

Phase two; operation sensory destruction. I bought myself a sonic blaster. A sensor picks up all movement and then lets out a sonic sound wave guaranteed to make all wildlife with 20 meters soil themselves or at least run for it. And you know what, it works. It’s absolutely bloody marvelous. Not a cat in two months. And its totally humane you lunatics, so go burn your fur coats.

Phase three; operation fear. With my garden clear and cat free all I needed to do was clear our little street. They avoided my garden but used our communal garden and to be quite frank the smell was getting to me. My wife called me obsessed and threatened to refer me for counseling if I didn’t stop. “What would have happened if Churchill had given up, huh?” I countered. She called me an animal lover and walked off.

Little did she know that phase three was about to be launched and if she thought I was a lunatic then heaven knows what she was going to think. Well she was remarkably calm when one morning a small bag was deposited outside our house with a note from the Jerusalem Zoo. The note said, keep in a well aired location, contents fresh and undried, there is plenty more where that came from.

“Please tell me its not what I think it is”, she pleaded. “Sorry love, but it is care of the lions in the Jerusalem Zoo. If this doesn’t put the fear up those cats nothing will. I’ll give up the fight and maximum respect to the hardest meanest Israeli cats in the world!”

So with a plastic glove and a spade I sprinkled the lions dung over the gardens, by the trees and anywhere where humans (you know the important and dominant species) don’t walk.

And you know what, the cats disappeared. Apart from white who we now know to be deaf and devoid of any sense of smell.

I am the official distributor of Jerusalem Zoo dung. You can order through me. Please let me know quantity and animal and I’ll send it to you. (Not by post.)

It has been said that maybe I belong in Arkham but in this world of hate and war where people would rather kill a human than see a rat be experimented on for the good of human kind, I like to think I am doing my bit for the good of human kind.

The Recruitment Consultant – Why?

2006-02-01T14:28:00.000+02:00

The Recruitment Consultant

Its no secret I am looking for a job. I have a job but I want a new one. If you want to know why I want a new one you’ll have to contact me.

So I sent my resume to certain employment agencies, recruitment consultants and through various websites. Then I got a call. Please come and see us next week for an interview. We like your resume and would like to try and develop an idea of how we can find you the perfect job.

Nice, I thought, very efficient. I mean they even bothered replying and they called me. This must be good. So I prepared myself. Make a good impression; you know the thing, brush all my teeth as Woody Allen would say.

The office was in central Tel Aviv. I used to work in Tel Aviv, and remembered the traffic, so left myself plenty of time, stocked up on CD’s, food, drink and a good book for the inevitable slow crawl from Ganot to HaShalom junctions. Actually it was just as well I stocked up because the traffic started at Ben Gurion.

As I sat in the traffic, I went over my well versed lines, about why I wanted to leave my company, what I was looking for, where I could see myself in 5 years time (hopefully not still here in traffic by Ben Gurion!) and what salary I wanted.

Due to a traffic accident I arrived in Tel Aviv nearly two hours later. But it was cool, I had left early and it only took me half and hour to find a parking spot. I was still going to be early.

I casually walked into the office and announced I had a 10am appointment. Then it started to go horribly wrong. First the blank stare, the nervous look, the ‘oh dear, we’re sorry but we have totally forgotten who you are and no one is available to see you’ red face.

I was told to wait as the receptionist ran off to consult with a colleague. Then I was asked numerous times who I was and would I like a drink. Half an hour later, my counterpart swaged into the office, looked at me, went red and realized he shouldn’t have drunk all that arak last night.

I was shown into his office. “Do you have a copy of your resume?” he asked. “I have a printed copy here, but I did send you one, because someone from your office phoned and asked me to come in.” He got up and walked over to a filing cabinet, and then to a computer, and then another computer finally he turned to me, “can I have your copy?”

I gave him my copy and then he began to read it. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but some one called me and said they had read my resume, thought is was very interesting, and thought that there were certain possibilities we could discuss today”.

“Oh,” he said. Lets have a look at our website and see what we have available.”
“I have the internet at home; I didn’t need to come to your office to surf your site.”
He was so busy surfing he just answered, “you don’t need to put that on your resume, most people have the internet at him”

I physically choked. How does this man make a living, how does he eat, how does he sleep at night?

I was getting a bit agitated and when I get agitated my dry, British sarcasm takes on a life of its own.

“I would like to get something straight in my mind.”
“Shoot,” he replied.
“Look, you dragged me into your office from Bet Shemesh; it has taken me two and half hours door to door because of a traffic accident. You dragged me here, forgetting we had an appointment, having not read my resume; you do not have any suitable jobs and have absolutely nothing helpful or constructive to tell me. In fact it has been a total waste of time!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he smiled, “you haven’t wasted my time, I like to meet our clients, get to know there faces, find out what makes them tick.”

Visions of me looking at what made him tick, like his one brain cell and his heart in my hand came to mind. But I was cool and calm, kept stiff upper lip and forced a smile or maybe it was a look of total amazement. And with that look on my face he shouted ‘smile’ and took my photo.

“Just for the records so we can remember you for our files”.

I thanked him for his time

I’m still looking for a job.

The Security Guard

2006-01-24T23:28:00.000+02:00

She grabbed my hair and gave it a yank, mustering all her strength to scalp me. I felt the follicles protest as my hair held on for all it was worth. I could hear the follicles yelling “I know he’s Jewish but he’s gonna keep his hair beyond 40!” Luckily for me she released her grip and tried to pull my nose and upper lip off instead. What is it with babies and the need to disfigure whoever they come in grabbing distance of?

My baby thinks great, her comes Abba, let’s try and pull his nose off. Let’s see how far my little figures with the razor sharp nails can penetrate his nostrils, and if we’re lucky draw blood! Bless her she’s only 7 months, but already familiar with all the great rugby moves.

My wife tells me it’s all about learning so I stuck my finger up her nose and learnt that if you stick your finger up your wife’s nose without her consent you get a slap. She was right!

So what’s my point? Well the other day I saw a security guard wrestling some one to the ground. Needless to say the Spetsnatz training came in handy and within two seconds the offender was on the ground one arm bent impossibly behind his back and his head pulled back while the security guard held great tufts of his hair. As the inevitable crowd of onlookers migrated to the scene to observe and offer their opinions, one woman congratulated the guard on the way he had totally incapacitated the offender by puling his hair back. I casually joked that my 7 month old could do the same. Mr. Spetsnatz, didn’t find it funny and likened me to a person whose mother was a female dog, in surprisingly good English.

“All I meant”, I dug deeper “was that my baby really knows how to pull hair, it just reminded me, your man must be in a lot of pain”.

The police arrived and the crowd dispersed, except for me. As I left to go about my business being a model citizen, my legs, shoulders and head turned to go but my arm didn’t move. I realized that my arm was attached to a huge hand, which in turn was attached to a black bomber jacket, which in turn was being worn by a very determined security guard.

“I work #*%$^ hard” he shouted, “I don’t need @#$% like you taking the *$%#%#!!!” (I’m not drunk but the words he used are not really fit for print).

“Look, I’m really sorry, I know you work harder than any of us appreciate, I was just passing comment at the strength of my baby, not that you in anyway resemble or act like my or anybody else’s baby.”

That seemed to pacify him.

He looked at me, his head cocked to the side and with a deep and meaningful Clint Eastwood sort of croaking, final line of the movie, said to me “you know I have a baby to, she also pulls hair, but she’s no match for me, she only learns, I teach!”