Thursday, May 2, 2002
I spent last night at a friend's birthday party in a neighbourhood bomb shelter in a remote Israeli mountaintop village between Ramallah and Shekhem/Nablus.
Well, the only reason we were in the bomb shelter was that it is a convenient large room for community events, parties, kids' activities and the like. Across Israel there are synagogues and kindergartens located in bomb shelters. When peace breaks out we'll just be left with loads of soundproofed reinforced concrete dance halls. I'm surprised that no Israeli songwriter has penned a peace song like that yet.
We took the bus, bullet proofed as all buses on this route are. Our friends had advised against taking our car. The road from northern Jerusalem, bypassing the outskirts of Ramallah, and winding its way up into the Samarian mountains has been the scene of several fatal shootings over the past 18 months, though thank God it's pretty quiet lately.
We passed the spot where, exactly a year ago, a friend's husband was murdered one morning by Palestinian terrorists while on his way to work. Further on we passed the old police post where last March a Palestinian sniper killed nine Israelis.
Inside the bus, though, most of us weren't concentrating on the dangers of the route. Many commute this way every day.
For those of us en route to our friend's surprise birthday party it felt a bit like a school outing, or perhaps a reunion. Already at the Jerusalem Central Bus Station we were looking out for old pals, greeting one another as we boarded the bus, waving as we caught sight of friends.
The seats inside the bulletproof bus are more cramped than on regular buses, the armour adding extra thickness to the walls and windows, making the window seat especially cramped. Good thing I was sitting next to my husband. It was still cramped but at least those were my husband's elbows poking me in the ribs.
Getting into the bus station itself was a hassle. DH hadn't been there in a while, and was surprised by the x-ray machines checking every bag brought into the building. Imagine going through airport style security every time you want to get a bus.
Above the x-ray machines and the escalators a verse from Psalm 122 is inscribed: "Seek peace, Jerusalem; your lovers will find serenity. Let there be peace in your precincts, serenity in your palaces. For the sake of my brothers and friends let me wish you peace. For the sake of the House of our God I will seek good for you."
Perhaps since my visit to the States I note the craziness of all this even more, the juxtaposition of our everyday, ordinary routines with the trappings of a state under siege.
It seems even crazier to me that such a beautiful bus journey should be marred by concerns about snipers. The scenery is so rustic and biblical. Rugged mountains, their stony slopes still green from the winter rains, dotted with bright patches of yellow wild mustard, white wild carrot, red poppies and the bright pink flashes of wild hollyhocks and snapdragons.
In between we passed fields, vineyards, olive groves, shepherds with their goats and sheep, a family harvesting their barley crop with scythes, a donkey tethered in a roadside meadow.
Every so often we passed a village. The Israeli villages are mostly on hilltops, the compact red roofed houses neatly arranged in tight rows. Some have vineyards, date palms, olive trees or orchards. Most have tidy shrubs or pleasantly disorganised flowerbeds. A few have goat pens or pet donkeys in the yards.
The Palestinian villages sprawl, usually in the valleys. In some there are large ornate homes haphazardly scattered between large lots, some with beautiful gardens, others with yards full of old cars and building junk. Other villages are more modest, simple concrete box shaped houses nestling in the valley, or perched on stilts with storage space underneath.
In some of the Palestinian villages they have copied the tiled red roofs popular amongst Israelis. In some of the Israeli villages the houses have the concrete balustrades and ornamentation popular amongst the Palestinians.
The scene is so pastoral, it's hard to imagine that there could be a war going on. I've taken this road so many times before, the landscape is an old friend. It feels ridiculous to have to think of it as a potential danger.
Arriving at our destination, we passed through another checkpoint and then the bus wended its way up a narrow road to the village. We hurriedly made our way to the bomb shelter/function hall, where more friends awaited.
Assorted children chased each other round the room, munching on pizza and playing under the tables. The grownups caught up on each other's news, talked politics and kept an eye on the kids. Tables were piled high with salads, falafel, pizza and soft drinks. The otherwise stark room felt warm and cosy, with the odd balloon taped to the ceiling. You could almost forget it was a bomb shelter.
The night time return route felt a little spooky. The moon hadn't yet risen and the nightly mountain mists were closing in, swirling around us. Much of the route was lit only by the twinkling lights of the villages, neat rows of orange lights for Israeli ones, random white lights for Arab ones.
By the time our bus pulled back into the Jerusalem bus station it was nearly 11pm. We reached our car just in time for the news. Will Arafat leave his Ramallah compound? British and American guards escort the murderers of the late Israeli minister of tourism out of Ramallah to a jail in Jericho. Palestinian attacks continue on Israeli villages and roads in and around Gaza. Diplomatic manoeuvring proceeds at the United Nations. Back to the real world. During our quiet evening in the West Bank, it seemed a world away.
Thursday, May 02, 2002
Monday, April 29, 2002
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes...On Lag Ba'Omer
Monday, April 29, 2002
I realise I've been writing a lot lately. I'm sorry if I've been overloading you all. If I'm overdoing it let me know.
Today I was in Jerusalem to meet a friend for coffee and take care of some errands.
We went to a little out of the way cafי off Jaffa Road. Its glass walls bring back memories of Cafי Moment, blasted to smithereens last month by a suicide bomber. The cosy atmosphere made us feel as though the place existed in a time warp, the staff welcoming customers as they would guests to the family home, appearing oblivious to the everpresent danger all around.
The Jerusalem municipality is doing its best to cheer up terrorised Jerusalemites, sticking huge bright cardboard cutout bouquets along the main roads, and garishly painted lions in squares and on street corners. The festive colours lend a bizarre carnival atmosphere to an otherwise tense city.
Despite the tight security, despite the guards checking bags at most shops and cafes, despite the many stores which have closed down, somehow there was a feeling of renewed hope in the air.
The streets were more crowded than I've seen them in weeks. Many pedestrians seemed to have a new bounce in their step. Israelis are buoyed by the fact that we're finally striking back at the terrorists who've struck in this city's heart so many times. They know that even with the current military successes, terrorism is still a very real threat, but at least the Israeli army has finally done serious damage to the terror network.
We feel that we are no longer helpless in the face of the bombers' onslaught. The whole world may condemn us for defending ourselves, they may threaten us with all manner of sanctions and investigations, but on a day to day basis what Israelis notice is that terrorism is down.
It is a relief to wake up each day, turn on the radio, and to hear of "only" one or two attempted attacks instead of daily suicide bombings. It is incredible to hear each day how many terrorists have been caught, planned attacks foiled due to Israeli military and intelligence operations.
It is heartening to hear other mundane news stories, about the economy, about a bank employee embezzling funds - anything that sounds like the normal news of any other western country.
Following Saturday's carnage in the Israeli village of Adora, the Israeli army finally went into Hebron today to track down the terrorists there. In the fighting one of the gunmen responsible for the Adora murders was shot, and several others arrested. As elsewhere in the Palestinian Authority, large quantities of weapons and explosives were discovered, including another car bomb ready for dispatch to central Israel.
For tonight, though, the news and international politics are far from most Israelis minds. Stick your head outside and you'll get a pall of smoke and the wintry scent of burning wood. The air is so heavy with the smell of burning that my clothes reek of it, even though I've hardly been outdoors tonight. It's Lag Ba'Omer, Israel's national bonfire holiday, and it feels as though the entire country is out tonight, camping out by giant fires.
Kids have been planning the festivities for weeks, piling up huge pyres of wood, from tiny twigs to old cabinets. You'd hardly notice that the moon is almost full tonight; the skyline glows red from the fires set up on nearly every patch of open ground.
Lag Ba'Omer is one of the more esoteric Jewish festivals. There are several traditions regarding the holiday's origins.
The date is the anniversary of the death, roughly 2000 years ago, of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai, traditionally held to be the author of the Zohar, the key text of Jewish mysticism. The bonfires may symbolise memorial candles, or the light of the insights into creation found in the Zohar, or the sacred glow of the highest levels of holiness. Scores of thousands make a pilgrimage to Bar Yohai's tomb in northern Israel, holding huge festivities in the rabbi's honour.
Still another tradition maintains that the holiday commemorates the Jewish uprising against Roman oppression during the period of Roman occupation of Israel, roughly 2000 years ago. According to this, the bonfires hark back to the signalling fires lit on the hilltops to carry news of the revolt.
According to another tradition this is the date on which the students of another great sage, Rabbi Akiva, stopped dying of a terrible plague. Many attribute the traditional period of mourning observed at this time of year to the death of Rabbi Akiva's students. For many Lag Ba'Omer marks the end of this period of mourning.
Those who aren't out with the bonfires tonight are probably at weddings, which were prohibited for a month during the period of mourning.
We were also at a wedding tonight, albeit a movie, not the real thing. We aren't big bonfire fans and we figured the cinemas would be empty tonight, so we went to see "Monsoon Wedding".
With all the cultural differences, it's amazing how at home most Israelis felt watching this film about an Indian wedding. The big family with many members flung halfway across the world. The henna ceremony, common amongst many Jewish communities as well. The dusty streets and alleys of Delhi, the concrete, hole-in-the-wall shops, reminiscent of any number of Israeli towns, say Ramle or parts of south Tel Aviv. The invigorating, pounding, drenching rain at the start of the rainy season. The mix of Western modernity and ancient tradition.
On TV tonight the usual live Israeli music show was broadcast from an army base near Bethlehem. Like Vera Lynn entertaining the troops in World War II or Geri Halliwell performing for the anti-terror coalition in the recent Afghan campaign, Israel's songsters were out there singing for our boys and girls in khaki. Here, though, you don't need to fly thousands, or even hundreds, of miles to the front. It's less than an hour away from nearly every major Israeli town and city.
The repertoire included a few "golden oldies" from the early Seventies, in many ways a similar period of attrition, a grinding struggle for survival. The same songs continue to inspire and offer comfort.
I realise I've been writing a lot lately. I'm sorry if I've been overloading you all. If I'm overdoing it let me know.
Today I was in Jerusalem to meet a friend for coffee and take care of some errands.
We went to a little out of the way cafי off Jaffa Road. Its glass walls bring back memories of Cafי Moment, blasted to smithereens last month by a suicide bomber. The cosy atmosphere made us feel as though the place existed in a time warp, the staff welcoming customers as they would guests to the family home, appearing oblivious to the everpresent danger all around.
The Jerusalem municipality is doing its best to cheer up terrorised Jerusalemites, sticking huge bright cardboard cutout bouquets along the main roads, and garishly painted lions in squares and on street corners. The festive colours lend a bizarre carnival atmosphere to an otherwise tense city.
Despite the tight security, despite the guards checking bags at most shops and cafes, despite the many stores which have closed down, somehow there was a feeling of renewed hope in the air.
The streets were more crowded than I've seen them in weeks. Many pedestrians seemed to have a new bounce in their step. Israelis are buoyed by the fact that we're finally striking back at the terrorists who've struck in this city's heart so many times. They know that even with the current military successes, terrorism is still a very real threat, but at least the Israeli army has finally done serious damage to the terror network.
We feel that we are no longer helpless in the face of the bombers' onslaught. The whole world may condemn us for defending ourselves, they may threaten us with all manner of sanctions and investigations, but on a day to day basis what Israelis notice is that terrorism is down.
It is a relief to wake up each day, turn on the radio, and to hear of "only" one or two attempted attacks instead of daily suicide bombings. It is incredible to hear each day how many terrorists have been caught, planned attacks foiled due to Israeli military and intelligence operations.
It is heartening to hear other mundane news stories, about the economy, about a bank employee embezzling funds - anything that sounds like the normal news of any other western country.
Following Saturday's carnage in the Israeli village of Adora, the Israeli army finally went into Hebron today to track down the terrorists there. In the fighting one of the gunmen responsible for the Adora murders was shot, and several others arrested. As elsewhere in the Palestinian Authority, large quantities of weapons and explosives were discovered, including another car bomb ready for dispatch to central Israel.
For tonight, though, the news and international politics are far from most Israelis minds. Stick your head outside and you'll get a pall of smoke and the wintry scent of burning wood. The air is so heavy with the smell of burning that my clothes reek of it, even though I've hardly been outdoors tonight. It's Lag Ba'Omer, Israel's national bonfire holiday, and it feels as though the entire country is out tonight, camping out by giant fires.
Kids have been planning the festivities for weeks, piling up huge pyres of wood, from tiny twigs to old cabinets. You'd hardly notice that the moon is almost full tonight; the skyline glows red from the fires set up on nearly every patch of open ground.
Lag Ba'Omer is one of the more esoteric Jewish festivals. There are several traditions regarding the holiday's origins.
The date is the anniversary of the death, roughly 2000 years ago, of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai, traditionally held to be the author of the Zohar, the key text of Jewish mysticism. The bonfires may symbolise memorial candles, or the light of the insights into creation found in the Zohar, or the sacred glow of the highest levels of holiness. Scores of thousands make a pilgrimage to Bar Yohai's tomb in northern Israel, holding huge festivities in the rabbi's honour.
Still another tradition maintains that the holiday commemorates the Jewish uprising against Roman oppression during the period of Roman occupation of Israel, roughly 2000 years ago. According to this, the bonfires hark back to the signalling fires lit on the hilltops to carry news of the revolt.
According to another tradition this is the date on which the students of another great sage, Rabbi Akiva, stopped dying of a terrible plague. Many attribute the traditional period of mourning observed at this time of year to the death of Rabbi Akiva's students. For many Lag Ba'Omer marks the end of this period of mourning.
Those who aren't out with the bonfires tonight are probably at weddings, which were prohibited for a month during the period of mourning.
We were also at a wedding tonight, albeit a movie, not the real thing. We aren't big bonfire fans and we figured the cinemas would be empty tonight, so we went to see "Monsoon Wedding".
With all the cultural differences, it's amazing how at home most Israelis felt watching this film about an Indian wedding. The big family with many members flung halfway across the world. The henna ceremony, common amongst many Jewish communities as well. The dusty streets and alleys of Delhi, the concrete, hole-in-the-wall shops, reminiscent of any number of Israeli towns, say Ramle or parts of south Tel Aviv. The invigorating, pounding, drenching rain at the start of the rainy season. The mix of Western modernity and ancient tradition.
On TV tonight the usual live Israeli music show was broadcast from an army base near Bethlehem. Like Vera Lynn entertaining the troops in World War II or Geri Halliwell performing for the anti-terror coalition in the recent Afghan campaign, Israel's songsters were out there singing for our boys and girls in khaki. Here, though, you don't need to fly thousands, or even hundreds, of miles to the front. It's less than an hour away from nearly every major Israeli town and city.
The repertoire included a few "golden oldies" from the early Seventies, in many ways a similar period of attrition, a grinding struggle for survival. The same songs continue to inspire and offer comfort.
Sunday, April 28, 2002
Army doctor in Bethlehem
Sunday, April 28, 2002
At the end of a peaceful and relaxing Shabbat in Modi'in, we turned on the TV last night just in time to catch the end of the news headlines. The newscaster was talking about a "pigu'a", a terror attack. My heart froze. I should be used to it, but perhaps it's just as well that one never quite does.
Terrorists had infiltrated Adora, an Israeli village near Hebron, Saturday morning.
After cutting through the chain-link perimeter fence, they split up to go house to house and then room to room, in an attempt to kill as many Israelis as possible. They shot people as they slept in their beds, and hunted down others who heard the shots and hid. Four people were killed and seven wounded before the gunmen fled.
What is it like to walk into a bedroom and shoot a husband and wife sleeping side by side? How must it feel to stand over the bed of a sleeping five-year-old and shoot her in the forehead at point blank range? What kind of man can move methodically from room to room, checking each bed and pulling the trigger? Even with all the terrorist atrocities of the last 18 months, my mind still refuses to grasp how people can do these things.
Today's newspapers greeted us with the black-bordered photo of a smiling little girl. The caption underneath read, "Danielle Shefi, of blessed memory." This afternoon we watched her parents solemnly bury her, the mourners mostly quiet, a few weeping softly. Her mother and little brother, both wounded in the attack, left their hospital beds to attend. There are no words of comfort on such an occasion, only tears and silence and mumbled farewells.
Today Palestinian organisations are vying with one another as to who deserves the credit for the bloody attack.
This isn't the first attempted infiltration of an Israeli village by Palestinian gunmen, nor is it the first "successful" one. Recent months have seen many such assaults in border areas, though most have fortunately been foiled by Israeli security: in and around Gaza, near Beit Shemesh, in the Jordan Valley. Last month, four members of one family in Eilon Moreh were murdered by a terrorist who broke into their home. Earlier in March, five yeshiva students in Atzmona were killed in the school's study hall by a terrorist with an automatic weapon and grenades.
The terrorists of yesterday's attack came from a village near Hebron, the only major West Bank city not included in Israel's recent anti-terror operation, Defensive Shield. In Hebron, the terror network remains undamaged - gunmen, explosives experts, bombmakers, along with their bombs, guns, grenades, and stolen Israeli vehicles. This is the second major terror attack to come out of Hebron in recent weeks; only two weeks ago, a suicide bomber from the Hebron area blew herself up in Jerusalem's Mahane Yehuda market, killing six shoppers.
The Israeli army successfully thwarted a major bombing in central Israel last night. Terrorists in Kalkilya had planned to blow up one of Tel Aviv's tallest skyscrapers. Under American pressure Israeli forces withdrew from Kalkilya a few weeks ago before completing their anti-terror mission. Last night they were forced to go in and finish the job.
Meanwhile, the Israeli army remains in Bethlehem, hoping to apprehend the dozens of wanted Palestinian terrorists holed up in the Church of the Nativity, along with the clergymen and civilians they've taken hostage. Just last night, Israeli police managed to track down and defuse two car bombs near Manger Square, which were destined to wreak more carnage in downtown Jerusalem. One shudders to think what might have happened had Israeli forces already withdrawn from the city.
A close friend of ours was called up for reserve army duty in the Bethlehem area during the recent anti-terrorist mission. As a physician, he served as an army doctor with a combat unit. He described some of his experiences in a recent e-mail:
"In my battalion (about 500 men) there was one death from a sniper, who killed a soldier standing a mere 50 meters from me. It was a bullet through the heart so we had no chance of saving him, even though we tried. There were also numerous minor injuries.
"While I was on leave for two days, the replacement doctor was called by the Palestinians to tend toa pregnant woman. In the end the woman gave birth to her son inside our army ambulance in the Palestinian town of Bet Jalla (from where terrorists fire on the Jerusalem suburb of Gilo). We then sent her to Jerusalem's Hadassah Hospital. It turned out that the woman was first cousin to the suicide bomber in the recent Mahane Yehuda market bombing.
"During the campaign I was 'lent' to the Etzion Regional Brigade (in the Bethlehem area). During this time I was mainly tending to the 60 Palestinian terrorists who were our prisoners. Every time one of them complained of anything, even as trivial as a headache, a full medical team including a doctor was sent up to see them. I can add that they got the same food as the Israeli soldiers.
"There was also a case of a Palestinian woman who had had an appendectomy in a Palestinian hospital in Area A (under full Palestinian jurisdiction), and she had to return home to her house in Area B (shared Israeli/Palestinian jurisdiction). Under the circumstances, the Israeli army regional medical officer taxied her home in his jeep."
He is just one of several friends and family suddenly called away from their ordinary lives, putting everything on hold, going off to defend our homes. May they all return safely.
At the end of a peaceful and relaxing Shabbat in Modi'in, we turned on the TV last night just in time to catch the end of the news headlines. The newscaster was talking about a "pigu'a", a terror attack. My heart froze. I should be used to it, but perhaps it's just as well that one never quite does.
Terrorists had infiltrated Adora, an Israeli village near Hebron, Saturday morning.
After cutting through the chain-link perimeter fence, they split up to go house to house and then room to room, in an attempt to kill as many Israelis as possible. They shot people as they slept in their beds, and hunted down others who heard the shots and hid. Four people were killed and seven wounded before the gunmen fled.
What is it like to walk into a bedroom and shoot a husband and wife sleeping side by side? How must it feel to stand over the bed of a sleeping five-year-old and shoot her in the forehead at point blank range? What kind of man can move methodically from room to room, checking each bed and pulling the trigger? Even with all the terrorist atrocities of the last 18 months, my mind still refuses to grasp how people can do these things.
Today's newspapers greeted us with the black-bordered photo of a smiling little girl. The caption underneath read, "Danielle Shefi, of blessed memory." This afternoon we watched her parents solemnly bury her, the mourners mostly quiet, a few weeping softly. Her mother and little brother, both wounded in the attack, left their hospital beds to attend. There are no words of comfort on such an occasion, only tears and silence and mumbled farewells.
Today Palestinian organisations are vying with one another as to who deserves the credit for the bloody attack.
This isn't the first attempted infiltration of an Israeli village by Palestinian gunmen, nor is it the first "successful" one. Recent months have seen many such assaults in border areas, though most have fortunately been foiled by Israeli security: in and around Gaza, near Beit Shemesh, in the Jordan Valley. Last month, four members of one family in Eilon Moreh were murdered by a terrorist who broke into their home. Earlier in March, five yeshiva students in Atzmona were killed in the school's study hall by a terrorist with an automatic weapon and grenades.
The terrorists of yesterday's attack came from a village near Hebron, the only major West Bank city not included in Israel's recent anti-terror operation, Defensive Shield. In Hebron, the terror network remains undamaged - gunmen, explosives experts, bombmakers, along with their bombs, guns, grenades, and stolen Israeli vehicles. This is the second major terror attack to come out of Hebron in recent weeks; only two weeks ago, a suicide bomber from the Hebron area blew herself up in Jerusalem's Mahane Yehuda market, killing six shoppers.
The Israeli army successfully thwarted a major bombing in central Israel last night. Terrorists in Kalkilya had planned to blow up one of Tel Aviv's tallest skyscrapers. Under American pressure Israeli forces withdrew from Kalkilya a few weeks ago before completing their anti-terror mission. Last night they were forced to go in and finish the job.
Meanwhile, the Israeli army remains in Bethlehem, hoping to apprehend the dozens of wanted Palestinian terrorists holed up in the Church of the Nativity, along with the clergymen and civilians they've taken hostage. Just last night, Israeli police managed to track down and defuse two car bombs near Manger Square, which were destined to wreak more carnage in downtown Jerusalem. One shudders to think what might have happened had Israeli forces already withdrawn from the city.
A close friend of ours was called up for reserve army duty in the Bethlehem area during the recent anti-terrorist mission. As a physician, he served as an army doctor with a combat unit. He described some of his experiences in a recent e-mail:
"In my battalion (about 500 men) there was one death from a sniper, who killed a soldier standing a mere 50 meters from me. It was a bullet through the heart so we had no chance of saving him, even though we tried. There were also numerous minor injuries.
"While I was on leave for two days, the replacement doctor was called by the Palestinians to tend toa pregnant woman. In the end the woman gave birth to her son inside our army ambulance in the Palestinian town of Bet Jalla (from where terrorists fire on the Jerusalem suburb of Gilo). We then sent her to Jerusalem's Hadassah Hospital. It turned out that the woman was first cousin to the suicide bomber in the recent Mahane Yehuda market bombing.
"During the campaign I was 'lent' to the Etzion Regional Brigade (in the Bethlehem area). During this time I was mainly tending to the 60 Palestinian terrorists who were our prisoners. Every time one of them complained of anything, even as trivial as a headache, a full medical team including a doctor was sent up to see them. I can add that they got the same food as the Israeli soldiers.
"There was also a case of a Palestinian woman who had had an appendectomy in a Palestinian hospital in Area A (under full Palestinian jurisdiction), and she had to return home to her house in Area B (shared Israeli/Palestinian jurisdiction). Under the circumstances, the Israeli army regional medical officer taxied her home in his jeep."
He is just one of several friends and family suddenly called away from their ordinary lives, putting everything on hold, going off to defend our homes. May they all return safely.
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
Jenin eye-witness
Tuesday, April 23, 2002
A lot of you have been asking me what really happened in the Jenin refugee camp, the scene recently of the fiercest battle yet in Israel's ongoing war against Palestinian terrorism.
By chance last week we heard an insider's perspective at perhaps the unlikeliest of places.
Friday night, at a small local synagogue in the remote desert town of Mitzpe Ramon, when we were expecting the rabbi's sermon, a softspoken young man stood up instead. He had returned from three weeks of fighting in Jenin, he said, and he wanted to tell the story.
With quiet calm he told of how his army reserve unit was called up shortly after the Passover seder massacre in Netanya's Park Hotel, a suicide bombing which killed 28 civilians. Of the soldiers who received callup notices, 120 percent reported for duty. That is, on top of those drafted, many who had been exempted from duty volunteered for service. In fact, once word got out that their unit had been called, comrades urgently phoned the draft office asking why they hadn't been notified yet.
One reservist cut short a trek to Thailand, flying home to do his part for his country. Another interrupted a visit to Canada for his sister's wedding, leaving immediately after the ceremony. Soldiers came from all walks of life, and morale was high, with reservists motivated by the conviction that they were fighting in defence of their homes and families from the terrorists who had turned every Israeli town into the front line.
Some were sceptical at first - what would rusty reservists be asked to do? Clean equipment? No, they were told, they were "going in," into the lair of the suicide bombers, to engage the enemy in the Jenin refugee camp.
At the pre-combat briefing, uppermost on the minds of many soldiers were the moral questions. They were to be fighting in a densely-populated urban area. How were they to act upon encountering terrorists sheltering behind women and children? What if they were fired upon from inhabited buildings, or from mosques?
The speaker emphasized this point especially. In preparation to fight against hardened terrorists, his colleagues were primarily concerned about avoiding harm to civilians. No other army would go to such lengths - not America, with its high altitude bombing raids over Afghanistan; not NATO with its indiscriminate bombing in Serbia. How many of his comrades might have survived the fighting had Israel resorted to similar tactics? Despite the heavy losses, though, he was proud that for Israelis, fighting morally was a priority.
One could argue, he noted, as to whether women and children sheltering terrorists merited such protection. In many cases, they took an active part in the combat, helping to prepare - or even detonate - booby traps and bombs. In others, terrorists holed up in a house would have a woman or child open the door to the approaching Israeli soldiers, forcing them to hesitate just long enough for the terrorists to shoot first. This reluctance to harm enemy civilians cost the lives of several Israeli soldiers. But the prevailing attitude was that this is the proper way for the army of a Jewish state to fight.
In one incident, Israeli troops were threatened by a Palestinian sniper holed up in the minaret of a mosque. The easy solution would have been to destroy the minaret from the air. This was rejected for fear of harming a holy site. Instead a riskier tactic was used: an Israeli sniper was positioned to take out the enemy alone. On another occasion, terrorists were holed up in a facility of UNRWA, the United Nations humanitarian agency responsible for the refugee camps, using it as cover to fire on Israeli forces.
Fighting in Jenin was like none they had experienced. The streets were death traps. Every alley was booby trapped; every exposed space was surrounded by enemy snipers. The enemy wore no uniform, blending in with the civilian population. Suicide bombers roamed the streets; every civilian encountered was a potential human bomb. Israeli forces avoided exposure, moving from building to building through the walls where possible - though the buildings were often booby trapped too.
One night Israeli soldiers were stationed in a building flanked by two others. The adjacent buildings were full of people, a mix of civilians and combatants. Suddenly, people began streaming out of one of the buildings, mostly women and children. They were shivering from the cold and the children were whimpering. An Israeli soldier took pity on them, but going out into the street was too risky. Instead, he opened a window and threw them army-issue blankets. The blankets were quickly snapped up, though not by the women and children - rather, by the few men in the crowd, who huddled in the blankets while the women and children continued to shiver and whimper.
The young reservist, no older than my husband, spoke with obvious pride at having done his duty for his people. But he seemed most proud of the high moral standards and compassion demanded of Israeli soldiers, which they stuck to so eagerly, even at times at the cost of their own lives. He thanked God for the privilege to serve his country in its time of crisis, and for bringing him home safely. Then we proceeded with evening prayers.
Knowing what we know, it hurts all the more to hear the Palestinians bandying about lies about a "massacre" in Jenin, while the United Nations and foreign press corps parrot these fabrications without a shred of evidence. Contrary to claims that Jenin was "destroyed" or "levelled" and thousands made homeless, only a small area of the refugee camp was damaged, where the heaviest fighting took place, as can be seen from aerial photographs at: http://www.mfa.gov.il/mfa/go.asp?MFAH0ll60 .
Much of the damage was perpetrated by the terrorists themselves, who booby trapped buildings in the hope of destroying them on the heads of Israeli forces. In one incident, this tactic succeeded in killing thirteen soldiers at once. One of the terrorists from Jenin described these tactics at some length, including the use of civilians as human shields, in an interview in Egypt's Al Ahram daily newspaper at: http://www.ahram.org.eg/weekly/2002/582/6inv2.htm . It makes chilling reading.
Before the UN starts accusing Israel of "creating a humanitarian crisis", perhaps it is time they investigated how UN-run refugee camps have turned into havens for terrorists and bombmakers?
Good night.
A lot of you have been asking me what really happened in the Jenin refugee camp, the scene recently of the fiercest battle yet in Israel's ongoing war against Palestinian terrorism.
By chance last week we heard an insider's perspective at perhaps the unlikeliest of places.
Friday night, at a small local synagogue in the remote desert town of Mitzpe Ramon, when we were expecting the rabbi's sermon, a softspoken young man stood up instead. He had returned from three weeks of fighting in Jenin, he said, and he wanted to tell the story.
With quiet calm he told of how his army reserve unit was called up shortly after the Passover seder massacre in Netanya's Park Hotel, a suicide bombing which killed 28 civilians. Of the soldiers who received callup notices, 120 percent reported for duty. That is, on top of those drafted, many who had been exempted from duty volunteered for service. In fact, once word got out that their unit had been called, comrades urgently phoned the draft office asking why they hadn't been notified yet.
One reservist cut short a trek to Thailand, flying home to do his part for his country. Another interrupted a visit to Canada for his sister's wedding, leaving immediately after the ceremony. Soldiers came from all walks of life, and morale was high, with reservists motivated by the conviction that they were fighting in defence of their homes and families from the terrorists who had turned every Israeli town into the front line.
Some were sceptical at first - what would rusty reservists be asked to do? Clean equipment? No, they were told, they were "going in," into the lair of the suicide bombers, to engage the enemy in the Jenin refugee camp.
At the pre-combat briefing, uppermost on the minds of many soldiers were the moral questions. They were to be fighting in a densely-populated urban area. How were they to act upon encountering terrorists sheltering behind women and children? What if they were fired upon from inhabited buildings, or from mosques?
The speaker emphasized this point especially. In preparation to fight against hardened terrorists, his colleagues were primarily concerned about avoiding harm to civilians. No other army would go to such lengths - not America, with its high altitude bombing raids over Afghanistan; not NATO with its indiscriminate bombing in Serbia. How many of his comrades might have survived the fighting had Israel resorted to similar tactics? Despite the heavy losses, though, he was proud that for Israelis, fighting morally was a priority.
One could argue, he noted, as to whether women and children sheltering terrorists merited such protection. In many cases, they took an active part in the combat, helping to prepare - or even detonate - booby traps and bombs. In others, terrorists holed up in a house would have a woman or child open the door to the approaching Israeli soldiers, forcing them to hesitate just long enough for the terrorists to shoot first. This reluctance to harm enemy civilians cost the lives of several Israeli soldiers. But the prevailing attitude was that this is the proper way for the army of a Jewish state to fight.
In one incident, Israeli troops were threatened by a Palestinian sniper holed up in the minaret of a mosque. The easy solution would have been to destroy the minaret from the air. This was rejected for fear of harming a holy site. Instead a riskier tactic was used: an Israeli sniper was positioned to take out the enemy alone. On another occasion, terrorists were holed up in a facility of UNRWA, the United Nations humanitarian agency responsible for the refugee camps, using it as cover to fire on Israeli forces.
Fighting in Jenin was like none they had experienced. The streets were death traps. Every alley was booby trapped; every exposed space was surrounded by enemy snipers. The enemy wore no uniform, blending in with the civilian population. Suicide bombers roamed the streets; every civilian encountered was a potential human bomb. Israeli forces avoided exposure, moving from building to building through the walls where possible - though the buildings were often booby trapped too.
One night Israeli soldiers were stationed in a building flanked by two others. The adjacent buildings were full of people, a mix of civilians and combatants. Suddenly, people began streaming out of one of the buildings, mostly women and children. They were shivering from the cold and the children were whimpering. An Israeli soldier took pity on them, but going out into the street was too risky. Instead, he opened a window and threw them army-issue blankets. The blankets were quickly snapped up, though not by the women and children - rather, by the few men in the crowd, who huddled in the blankets while the women and children continued to shiver and whimper.
The young reservist, no older than my husband, spoke with obvious pride at having done his duty for his people. But he seemed most proud of the high moral standards and compassion demanded of Israeli soldiers, which they stuck to so eagerly, even at times at the cost of their own lives. He thanked God for the privilege to serve his country in its time of crisis, and for bringing him home safely. Then we proceeded with evening prayers.
Knowing what we know, it hurts all the more to hear the Palestinians bandying about lies about a "massacre" in Jenin, while the United Nations and foreign press corps parrot these fabrications without a shred of evidence. Contrary to claims that Jenin was "destroyed" or "levelled" and thousands made homeless, only a small area of the refugee camp was damaged, where the heaviest fighting took place, as can be seen from aerial photographs at: http://www.mfa.gov.il/mfa/go.asp?MFAH0ll60 .
Much of the damage was perpetrated by the terrorists themselves, who booby trapped buildings in the hope of destroying them on the heads of Israeli forces. In one incident, this tactic succeeded in killing thirteen soldiers at once. One of the terrorists from Jenin described these tactics at some length, including the use of civilians as human shields, in an interview in Egypt's Al Ahram daily newspaper at: http://www.ahram.org.eg/weekly/2002/582/6inv2.htm . It makes chilling reading.
Before the UN starts accusing Israel of "creating a humanitarian crisis", perhaps it is time they investigated how UN-run refugee camps have turned into havens for terrorists and bombmakers?
Good night.
Sunday, April 21, 2002
Desert Escapism
Sunday, April 21, 2002
Right now I still feel refreshed from spending a few days in the desert, a few days without news in places where fiddling with the radio often brings more static than news, where the war and the terror feel a world away. Call it escapism if you want, but we all need a dose now and then.
This weekend we had a relative visiting from overseas (yes, we do still get one or two of those!) so we decided to take her down south to spend the weekend in the desert town of Mitzpe Ramon. Located in the Negev Highlands, one of the highest regions of Israel, this little town is perched dramatically on a cliff about 1000 feet above the Ramon Crater, the largest geological crater in the world.
We drove down Thursday night. The journey was smooth, save for a massive traffic jam at the entrance to Be'er Sheva, the last big city we passed, where a police checkpoint had slowed traffic to a snail's pace while each vehicle was inspected. After Be'er Sheva there were few vehicles on the road, and we could enjoy the eerie desert landscape illuminated in the car's headlights.
We last visited Mitzpe Ramon in December and fell in love with the place. We'd visited the area several times before, but only as a waystation on our drive south, never staying more than half a day there. Spending a Shabbat in Mitzpe Ramon we came to appreciate its small town charm.
At first glance it may look like a drab collection of concrete structures in the middle of pristine desert, but in the town itself you see that the buildings have character to them, the streets are nicely lined with ornamental fig and olive trees and many of the buildings have well cared for gardens, the balconies bright with overflowing flower boxes and gaily flapping laundry. The crater edge setting almost feels unreal, like an over the top Hollywood backdrop.
On Friday we drove around the region, visiting the highland national park just north of the town, as well as exploring the crater floor itself, past ancient ruins, weird geological phenomena and several springs.
If your image of desert is monotonous yellow sand, think again. All around us the rocks ranged from palest lemon to an almost black dark red. Here and there mineral deposits created patches of sherbet yellows and pinks, or coppery green. In one spot we saw a hill covered in angular brown stones, rather like wood chips.
Last time we visited, in December, the winter had just set in. The desert in winter bears a hint of the miraculous: the inconsistency of thunderheads over the arid landscape, the contradiction of a greening desert. Flash floods leave behind unexpected lakes in every valley, lasting just long enough to support clusters of trees. The little rainfall that reaches this normally parched earth is enough to bring the first shoots of a green revolution that will transform large stretches of bleak lowlands and sheltered hillsides into pastures by mid-winter.
The desert is a key image in Jewish tradition, symbolising the bleakness of exile, or the ascetic purifying experience transforming us from downtrodden slaves to a free people. The desert in winter promises Israel's redemption, illustrating the otherwise fantastical words of the prophet Isaiah: "I will make the wilderness into a lake and an arid land into a source of water. In the desert I will place cedars, acacias, myrtle and olive trees; in the barren plains I will place cypress, elms and box tree."
Now in April, the transformation is at its peak. Green bushes and little flowers line the sides of the road and the valley beds. Here and there an incongruously green tree grows in the middle of barren desert. In many places the desert flowers form carpets of purples, pinks, whites and yellows. I guess daisies and deserts don't usually go together, but we saw plenty. In highland areas we came across meadows of wild grasses, including wheat, growing in the middle of nowhere, vast patches of green and softness in the otherwise harsh yellow landscape.
Throughout the region the local wildlife was making the most of the brief period of abundance. This time I remembered my binoculars and had a field day, spotting several species I'd never seen before, save in books.
Every tree, bush and meadow was full of songbirds, shy but noisy little warblers, drab but beautifully voiced larks and exotic looking bee-eaters, with their eye catching green and blue plumage. Some of the most striking desert birds, the dazzling black and white wheatears, were everywhere, perched prominently on rocks and road signs in even the bleakest areas.
Agile, arrow shaped swifts and martins skimmed low over the ground, occasionally "buzzing" our car, before pulling up at the last moment. Overhead soared the ravens, and the occasional larger bird of prey, a few buzzards and once an eagle.
Aside from lots of ibex, a common local wild mountain goat, we also saw a couple of onagers, a small, donkey like wild horse, reintroduced to the Negev by Israeli conservationists, half a century after it was driven to extinction throughout the Middle East. Now a sizeable herd roams the Mitzpe Ramon area.
Much of what we learnt about Mitzpe Ramon was thanks to a local rabbi and his wife whom we met by chance on our December visit. He is the principal of the local yeshiva high school, well known for its special environmental studies track, attracting students from across the country to learn in this remote location.
They insisted on giving us a little tour of the town, saying that we must go and look at the crater by moonlight. Eventually we reached a boat-shaped viewing platform jutting out over the crater. All around the rugged scenery was bathed in a silvery light, and the moon was so bright that we could make out details on the crater floor, nearly one thousand feet below us.
This visit, the moon was a thick crescent, the stars magnificent in the dark desert sky as we made our way back from the town's little Ashkenazi synagogue Friday night. The simple concrete and stone structure looks quite plain from the outside. The sanctuary itself has a lovely high vaulted ceiling, and at the front, the aron kodesh, the ark in which the Torah scrolls are kept, is of a most unusual design made from beaten copper. Despite the modern building, it has the feeling of a cosy old synagogue in Jerusalem or Safed.
Shabbat afternoon we went for a walk along the promenade which skims the crater rim. It is one of the most stunning Shabbat walks I've been on. A promenade along the cliff's edge gives the false impression of a seaside atmosphere - you half expect to hear the crashing of waves.
Reaching a camel shaped lookout point we joined a family of Bedouin and a group of local teenagers enjoying the view. The tranquillity was intoxicating, each of us mesmerised by the scale of the crater, in awe of the grandeur of creation, the serenity almost as tangible as the rocks themselves.
Right now I still feel refreshed from spending a few days in the desert, a few days without news in places where fiddling with the radio often brings more static than news, where the war and the terror feel a world away. Call it escapism if you want, but we all need a dose now and then.
This weekend we had a relative visiting from overseas (yes, we do still get one or two of those!) so we decided to take her down south to spend the weekend in the desert town of Mitzpe Ramon. Located in the Negev Highlands, one of the highest regions of Israel, this little town is perched dramatically on a cliff about 1000 feet above the Ramon Crater, the largest geological crater in the world.
We drove down Thursday night. The journey was smooth, save for a massive traffic jam at the entrance to Be'er Sheva, the last big city we passed, where a police checkpoint had slowed traffic to a snail's pace while each vehicle was inspected. After Be'er Sheva there were few vehicles on the road, and we could enjoy the eerie desert landscape illuminated in the car's headlights.
We last visited Mitzpe Ramon in December and fell in love with the place. We'd visited the area several times before, but only as a waystation on our drive south, never staying more than half a day there. Spending a Shabbat in Mitzpe Ramon we came to appreciate its small town charm.
At first glance it may look like a drab collection of concrete structures in the middle of pristine desert, but in the town itself you see that the buildings have character to them, the streets are nicely lined with ornamental fig and olive trees and many of the buildings have well cared for gardens, the balconies bright with overflowing flower boxes and gaily flapping laundry. The crater edge setting almost feels unreal, like an over the top Hollywood backdrop.
On Friday we drove around the region, visiting the highland national park just north of the town, as well as exploring the crater floor itself, past ancient ruins, weird geological phenomena and several springs.
If your image of desert is monotonous yellow sand, think again. All around us the rocks ranged from palest lemon to an almost black dark red. Here and there mineral deposits created patches of sherbet yellows and pinks, or coppery green. In one spot we saw a hill covered in angular brown stones, rather like wood chips.
Last time we visited, in December, the winter had just set in. The desert in winter bears a hint of the miraculous: the inconsistency of thunderheads over the arid landscape, the contradiction of a greening desert. Flash floods leave behind unexpected lakes in every valley, lasting just long enough to support clusters of trees. The little rainfall that reaches this normally parched earth is enough to bring the first shoots of a green revolution that will transform large stretches of bleak lowlands and sheltered hillsides into pastures by mid-winter.
The desert is a key image in Jewish tradition, symbolising the bleakness of exile, or the ascetic purifying experience transforming us from downtrodden slaves to a free people. The desert in winter promises Israel's redemption, illustrating the otherwise fantastical words of the prophet Isaiah: "I will make the wilderness into a lake and an arid land into a source of water. In the desert I will place cedars, acacias, myrtle and olive trees; in the barren plains I will place cypress, elms and box tree."
Now in April, the transformation is at its peak. Green bushes and little flowers line the sides of the road and the valley beds. Here and there an incongruously green tree grows in the middle of barren desert. In many places the desert flowers form carpets of purples, pinks, whites and yellows. I guess daisies and deserts don't usually go together, but we saw plenty. In highland areas we came across meadows of wild grasses, including wheat, growing in the middle of nowhere, vast patches of green and softness in the otherwise harsh yellow landscape.
Throughout the region the local wildlife was making the most of the brief period of abundance. This time I remembered my binoculars and had a field day, spotting several species I'd never seen before, save in books.
Every tree, bush and meadow was full of songbirds, shy but noisy little warblers, drab but beautifully voiced larks and exotic looking bee-eaters, with their eye catching green and blue plumage. Some of the most striking desert birds, the dazzling black and white wheatears, were everywhere, perched prominently on rocks and road signs in even the bleakest areas.
Agile, arrow shaped swifts and martins skimmed low over the ground, occasionally "buzzing" our car, before pulling up at the last moment. Overhead soared the ravens, and the occasional larger bird of prey, a few buzzards and once an eagle.
Aside from lots of ibex, a common local wild mountain goat, we also saw a couple of onagers, a small, donkey like wild horse, reintroduced to the Negev by Israeli conservationists, half a century after it was driven to extinction throughout the Middle East. Now a sizeable herd roams the Mitzpe Ramon area.
Much of what we learnt about Mitzpe Ramon was thanks to a local rabbi and his wife whom we met by chance on our December visit. He is the principal of the local yeshiva high school, well known for its special environmental studies track, attracting students from across the country to learn in this remote location.
They insisted on giving us a little tour of the town, saying that we must go and look at the crater by moonlight. Eventually we reached a boat-shaped viewing platform jutting out over the crater. All around the rugged scenery was bathed in a silvery light, and the moon was so bright that we could make out details on the crater floor, nearly one thousand feet below us.
This visit, the moon was a thick crescent, the stars magnificent in the dark desert sky as we made our way back from the town's little Ashkenazi synagogue Friday night. The simple concrete and stone structure looks quite plain from the outside. The sanctuary itself has a lovely high vaulted ceiling, and at the front, the aron kodesh, the ark in which the Torah scrolls are kept, is of a most unusual design made from beaten copper. Despite the modern building, it has the feeling of a cosy old synagogue in Jerusalem or Safed.
Shabbat afternoon we went for a walk along the promenade which skims the crater rim. It is one of the most stunning Shabbat walks I've been on. A promenade along the cliff's edge gives the false impression of a seaside atmosphere - you half expect to hear the crashing of waves.
Reaching a camel shaped lookout point we joined a family of Bedouin and a group of local teenagers enjoying the view. The tranquillity was intoxicating, each of us mesmerised by the scale of the crater, in awe of the grandeur of creation, the serenity almost as tangible as the rocks themselves.
Thursday, April 18, 2002
Israel Independence Day
Wednesday, April 17, 2002Independence Day
Last night, as the sun set, Israelis managed the switchover from mourning to joy, from Memorial Day to Independence Day. The songs on the radio gradually eased us from sadness to quiet patriotism to celebration.
Modi'in celebrated with the usual raucous, lavish free pop concert in the town centre. Police cordoned off the area with strictly enforced checkpoints. Thousands of residents flocked to the event. The kids ran wild, spraying each other with foam and silly string. Parents stretched out in the park, somehow enjoying the performances despite the teenage chaos around them. Little children paraded around with balloons and lightsticks, begging their parents for overpriced snacks and blue and white marshmallows. All in all a typical Modi'in Independence Day celebration.
It is perhaps a sign of the times that the radio announced that the sound of explosions over Jerusalem this evening will just be fireworks. I confess to flinching slightly at the sound of the first fireworks over Modi'in. We were enjoying dinner, watching the official festivities in Jerusalem on television, when we heard the first loud bangs and saw the flashes over the valley. Excited, we and our neighbours rushed outdoors, from where we have a great view of the fireworks in a park down the street. Who needs to face the crowds in the centre of town when we can pretty much see and hear it all from home?
It was 3 am by the time we returned from a kumzitz - a fireside singalong - in a park at the edge of the neighbouring town of Makkabim. The day's fierce heatwave had broken, leaving a pleasantly mild evening with a light breeze. Several hundred people packed into the makeshift Bedouin-style tent for an evening of song and storytelling. The hours passed so quickly, song after song, memory after memory.
Israeli songwriter Dan Almagor regaled us with tales from his youth, the stories behind some of his most popular songs and anecdotes from his days in the army entertainment troupes. He recalled how as a twelve-year-old boy he eagerly followed the events leading to Israel's 1948 declaration of independence. In those days Israel had no airforce, no antiaircraft batteries, nothing to stop enemy aircraft from bombing his native town of Rehovot south of Tel Aviv. Egyptian aircraft leisurely circled the small town from low altitudes, wreaking death and destruction on the Israeli heartland. There wasn't much to do but sound the air raid sirens and head for the shelters.
Through 54 years of Israeli folk songs we remembered our history, how the State of Israel was born, how we struggled to survive. It was both frightening and comforting to realise how many times before we've faced such wars of survival, each different in character, but representing the same threat to our existence.
Rather than dwell on what others have done to us, our songs focus on how we can change things, how we can do our bit to make our world better - tikkun olam. We do not sing about martyrs and the glory of death, but of a determined resolve to be strong and of good courage to face any challenge.
We have an amazing repertoire of songs of fortitude, songs of national unity and a stubborn will to survive. Time and again, the last verse expresses future hopes for peace. Maybe we're naive, or we just have strong faith, but we've now been writing and singing such songs for over fifty years, however remote peace has seemed. As the national anthem goes, "We have not yet lost hope."
Perhaps that is part of what draws me to these old songs. The slang may change, but fundamentally they are still just as relevant today as they were in the 40s, 50s and 60s.
Somehow we managed to get up this morning ready to do the Israeli Independence Day thing - a barbecue in the park, Israel's national pastime.
A friend celebrating his birthday today made a barbecue party at a nearby recreation area, arriving early to stake out a nice shady spot near the forest's edge before the crowds arrived.
Police had cordoned off the park, inspecting each vehicle. Soldiers in combat gear patrolled the area, wandering between the barbecues and picnics, doing their best to refuse the huge amounts of food offered to them by grateful civilians.
Imagine happy, festive families, the kids playing hide and seek, dads busy at the grill, mums minding the babies, young couples dancing to mideast-style Israeli music blaring from boomboxes - and in the middle of all this heavily armed soldiers in full battledress carefully inspecting the bushes and keeping a wary eye out for terrorists.
The clearings between the trees were covered in yellow wild mustard, the white umbrellas of wild carrot flowers and red poppies. The purple thistles by the roadside are already growing tall, and we picked our way through them with care on our way to the picnic site.
Throughout the morning huge flocks of migrating spring birds kept passing overhead: storks, swifts and assorted birds of prey. Later on Israel Air Force flypasts took their place - helicopters, transports and fighters in tight formations of three or four aircraft. I could hardly tear my eyes away from the sky. I'm fascinated by anything that flies, bird or machine. A shame I forgot my binoculars.
At around one o'clock we left to go on to another barbecue at a neighbour's home in Modi'in. By then the traffic at the entrance to the park was backed up for a couple of kilometres, about halfway to Modi'in. Latecomers wanted to barbecue too. Good thing we got there early.
Back in Modi'in things were quieter and less crowded, with plenty of garden barbecue parties in progress. Our neighbour had decked out her balcony in blue and white balloons, table cloths and plastic cutlery, with little Israeli flag table arrangements completing the patriotic theme. Half the guests, like us, were wearing the national colours too. Charcoal smoke and song wafted up from a nearby garden. We spent a relaxing afternoon together on the porch, roasting blue and white marshmallows over the grill and enjoying the pleasantly warm spring weather.
Back home this evening we were startled by loud bangs. Someone even sent a note to the Modi'in e-mail list asking if there was shooting. Not to worry, it was only the neighbouring town of Re'ut getting in a last minute firework display, and very beautiful it was too, just visible from my balcony.
All in all a very pleasant and traditional Yom Ha'atzmaut, save for the added security. Who would have thought it possible in the circumstances?
May we know many more calm, pleasant days.
Last night, as the sun set, Israelis managed the switchover from mourning to joy, from Memorial Day to Independence Day. The songs on the radio gradually eased us from sadness to quiet patriotism to celebration.
Modi'in celebrated with the usual raucous, lavish free pop concert in the town centre. Police cordoned off the area with strictly enforced checkpoints. Thousands of residents flocked to the event. The kids ran wild, spraying each other with foam and silly string. Parents stretched out in the park, somehow enjoying the performances despite the teenage chaos around them. Little children paraded around with balloons and lightsticks, begging their parents for overpriced snacks and blue and white marshmallows. All in all a typical Modi'in Independence Day celebration.
It is perhaps a sign of the times that the radio announced that the sound of explosions over Jerusalem this evening will just be fireworks. I confess to flinching slightly at the sound of the first fireworks over Modi'in. We were enjoying dinner, watching the official festivities in Jerusalem on television, when we heard the first loud bangs and saw the flashes over the valley. Excited, we and our neighbours rushed outdoors, from where we have a great view of the fireworks in a park down the street. Who needs to face the crowds in the centre of town when we can pretty much see and hear it all from home?
It was 3 am by the time we returned from a kumzitz - a fireside singalong - in a park at the edge of the neighbouring town of Makkabim. The day's fierce heatwave had broken, leaving a pleasantly mild evening with a light breeze. Several hundred people packed into the makeshift Bedouin-style tent for an evening of song and storytelling. The hours passed so quickly, song after song, memory after memory.
Israeli songwriter Dan Almagor regaled us with tales from his youth, the stories behind some of his most popular songs and anecdotes from his days in the army entertainment troupes. He recalled how as a twelve-year-old boy he eagerly followed the events leading to Israel's 1948 declaration of independence. In those days Israel had no airforce, no antiaircraft batteries, nothing to stop enemy aircraft from bombing his native town of Rehovot south of Tel Aviv. Egyptian aircraft leisurely circled the small town from low altitudes, wreaking death and destruction on the Israeli heartland. There wasn't much to do but sound the air raid sirens and head for the shelters.
Through 54 years of Israeli folk songs we remembered our history, how the State of Israel was born, how we struggled to survive. It was both frightening and comforting to realise how many times before we've faced such wars of survival, each different in character, but representing the same threat to our existence.
Rather than dwell on what others have done to us, our songs focus on how we can change things, how we can do our bit to make our world better - tikkun olam. We do not sing about martyrs and the glory of death, but of a determined resolve to be strong and of good courage to face any challenge.
We have an amazing repertoire of songs of fortitude, songs of national unity and a stubborn will to survive. Time and again, the last verse expresses future hopes for peace. Maybe we're naive, or we just have strong faith, but we've now been writing and singing such songs for over fifty years, however remote peace has seemed. As the national anthem goes, "We have not yet lost hope."
Perhaps that is part of what draws me to these old songs. The slang may change, but fundamentally they are still just as relevant today as they were in the 40s, 50s and 60s.
Somehow we managed to get up this morning ready to do the Israeli Independence Day thing - a barbecue in the park, Israel's national pastime.
A friend celebrating his birthday today made a barbecue party at a nearby recreation area, arriving early to stake out a nice shady spot near the forest's edge before the crowds arrived.
Police had cordoned off the park, inspecting each vehicle. Soldiers in combat gear patrolled the area, wandering between the barbecues and picnics, doing their best to refuse the huge amounts of food offered to them by grateful civilians.
Imagine happy, festive families, the kids playing hide and seek, dads busy at the grill, mums minding the babies, young couples dancing to mideast-style Israeli music blaring from boomboxes - and in the middle of all this heavily armed soldiers in full battledress carefully inspecting the bushes and keeping a wary eye out for terrorists.
The clearings between the trees were covered in yellow wild mustard, the white umbrellas of wild carrot flowers and red poppies. The purple thistles by the roadside are already growing tall, and we picked our way through them with care on our way to the picnic site.
Throughout the morning huge flocks of migrating spring birds kept passing overhead: storks, swifts and assorted birds of prey. Later on Israel Air Force flypasts took their place - helicopters, transports and fighters in tight formations of three or four aircraft. I could hardly tear my eyes away from the sky. I'm fascinated by anything that flies, bird or machine. A shame I forgot my binoculars.
At around one o'clock we left to go on to another barbecue at a neighbour's home in Modi'in. By then the traffic at the entrance to the park was backed up for a couple of kilometres, about halfway to Modi'in. Latecomers wanted to barbecue too. Good thing we got there early.
Back in Modi'in things were quieter and less crowded, with plenty of garden barbecue parties in progress. Our neighbour had decked out her balcony in blue and white balloons, table cloths and plastic cutlery, with little Israeli flag table arrangements completing the patriotic theme. Half the guests, like us, were wearing the national colours too. Charcoal smoke and song wafted up from a nearby garden. We spent a relaxing afternoon together on the porch, roasting blue and white marshmallows over the grill and enjoying the pleasantly warm spring weather.
Back home this evening we were startled by loud bangs. Someone even sent a note to the Modi'in e-mail list asking if there was shooting. Not to worry, it was only the neighbouring town of Re'ut getting in a last minute firework display, and very beautiful it was too, just visible from my balcony.
All in all a very pleasant and traditional Yom Ha'atzmaut, save for the added security. Who would have thought it possible in the circumstances?
May we know many more calm, pleasant days.
Tuesday, April 16, 2002
Memorial Day Eve
Monday, April 15, 2002 Memorial Day Eve
Even in these difficult times you can feel that Yom Hazikaron, Memorial Day, is upon us once more. Not that in some ways this whole year hasn't felt like one long memorial day, but the atmosphere is still different.
As every year the streets are decked out with Israeli flags and festive bunting, and those same public buildings, and many private ones too, are also marked with a symbolic paper flame or memorial candle.
If on a normal year though the advertising billboards are covered with festive ads from various Israeli companies wishing us a happy holiday, this year the tone has been more inspirational than festive. While some companies have chosen the traditional "happy holidays" greeting, many others have put up posters with more patriotic messages. The mood is hopeful, cautious optimism, the quintessential Israeli philosophy of "yehiye tov" (things will get better).
Everywhere you go it seems there is the Cellcom billboard with the message: "Together all the way". Only when you get up close do you realise that this is an ad by a mobile phone company and not some political party or Zionist organisation's banner. The Israeli rail company and the Egged bus company have opted for a similar message: "Together we continue to move onward".
Another theme is support for Israel's security forces in these difficult times. A huge poster in Tel Aviv bears the legend "To Israel's security forces, rescue services and support services - our hearts say thank you." The banner is signed with a huge Microsoft Israel logo. Similar posters are sponsored by other companies.
As darkness fell Monday night the radio went over to Memorial Day mode.
Nearly 24 hours of melancholy songs, of which Israel produces a great many.
There is almost a set liturgy of songs for the day.
Israeli war songs are for the most part sombre or sentimental, songs of loss, of the price of heroism. The horror and pain of war are far more dominant themes than glory. Titles such as "The Last Battle", "The Last War" are common, the hope that this will truly be the last time we have to fight. Other songs bear the names of fallen soldiers: Yudke, Giora, Yehuda, Dudu.
At exactly 8pm on Memorial Day evening the memorial sirens began to wail.
Across Israel people stopped whatever they were doing and stood silently, in solemn remembrance of the fallen.
Well over 200 more since last Memorial Day.
At the first sound of the mournful howl the entire country stood still. I snapped to attention, dropping the laundry basket I was holding. My neighbour across the yard froze in the action of hanging her washing.
Amazing how long a minute can seem.
This morning, as every Memorial Day, I was at the Kfar Sava military cemetery at the graveside of a classmate killed five years ago during the Lebanon War.
As the morning memorial siren blared all was still and silent. Then in the distance we heard the rising wail of an ambulance siren followed by the flashing lights of another emergency vehicle whizzing past.
Even when the memorial siren ended, the hysterical clanging of ambulance and police sirens remained. Through the mourning prayers people looked anxiously at one another, fearing that there had been an attack. I noticed a few people nervously checking the news on their cellphones. Thank God it was OK, apparently a false alarm.
It was as usual a brief ceremony, a ritual of remembrance combining Jewish tradition and Western military custom. The Kaddish memorial prayer alongside the European Last Post bugle call. Kel Maleh Rahamim followed by the laying of wreaths and a riflefire honour salute.
Many people come more to meet than for the ceremony itself. By my classmate's grave the regular group of friends, army buddies and family gathered to exchange memories and stories.
All around we are growing up, marrying, starting families, taking on mortgages, building careers and finding our first grey hairs. More than anything these mundane facts of life bring home the reality that our friend will remain twenty-two forever.
Even five years later it is still hard to grasp that he is really gone.
Sometimes he is in my dreams. I'm a guest at his wedding or we meet at a school reunion, or other similar scenarios. I wake up, momentarily happy, and then I realise that it was a dream, and the pain of the loss hits me again, almost as strong as on that terrible night itself.
The cemetery seemed even more crowded than usual, though I'm not sure if it was. As we stood waiting to leave a family brushed by me in the crowd. The son, a boy of about 13, wore the ripped shirt of a fresh mourner, as did a teenage girl, presumably his sister, and a couple of adults. Their eyes were glazed over, seeing but not seeing, the fresh hurt clearly apparent. So many new families added to the list of the bereaved.
Even in these difficult times you can feel that Yom Hazikaron, Memorial Day, is upon us once more. Not that in some ways this whole year hasn't felt like one long memorial day, but the atmosphere is still different.
As every year the streets are decked out with Israeli flags and festive bunting, and those same public buildings, and many private ones too, are also marked with a symbolic paper flame or memorial candle.
If on a normal year though the advertising billboards are covered with festive ads from various Israeli companies wishing us a happy holiday, this year the tone has been more inspirational than festive. While some companies have chosen the traditional "happy holidays" greeting, many others have put up posters with more patriotic messages. The mood is hopeful, cautious optimism, the quintessential Israeli philosophy of "yehiye tov" (things will get better).
Everywhere you go it seems there is the Cellcom billboard with the message: "Together all the way". Only when you get up close do you realise that this is an ad by a mobile phone company and not some political party or Zionist organisation's banner. The Israeli rail company and the Egged bus company have opted for a similar message: "Together we continue to move onward".
Another theme is support for Israel's security forces in these difficult times. A huge poster in Tel Aviv bears the legend "To Israel's security forces, rescue services and support services - our hearts say thank you." The banner is signed with a huge Microsoft Israel logo. Similar posters are sponsored by other companies.
As darkness fell Monday night the radio went over to Memorial Day mode.
Nearly 24 hours of melancholy songs, of which Israel produces a great many.
There is almost a set liturgy of songs for the day.
Israeli war songs are for the most part sombre or sentimental, songs of loss, of the price of heroism. The horror and pain of war are far more dominant themes than glory. Titles such as "The Last Battle", "The Last War" are common, the hope that this will truly be the last time we have to fight. Other songs bear the names of fallen soldiers: Yudke, Giora, Yehuda, Dudu.
At exactly 8pm on Memorial Day evening the memorial sirens began to wail.
Across Israel people stopped whatever they were doing and stood silently, in solemn remembrance of the fallen.
Well over 200 more since last Memorial Day.
At the first sound of the mournful howl the entire country stood still. I snapped to attention, dropping the laundry basket I was holding. My neighbour across the yard froze in the action of hanging her washing.
Amazing how long a minute can seem.
This morning, as every Memorial Day, I was at the Kfar Sava military cemetery at the graveside of a classmate killed five years ago during the Lebanon War.
As the morning memorial siren blared all was still and silent. Then in the distance we heard the rising wail of an ambulance siren followed by the flashing lights of another emergency vehicle whizzing past.
Even when the memorial siren ended, the hysterical clanging of ambulance and police sirens remained. Through the mourning prayers people looked anxiously at one another, fearing that there had been an attack. I noticed a few people nervously checking the news on their cellphones. Thank God it was OK, apparently a false alarm.
It was as usual a brief ceremony, a ritual of remembrance combining Jewish tradition and Western military custom. The Kaddish memorial prayer alongside the European Last Post bugle call. Kel Maleh Rahamim followed by the laying of wreaths and a riflefire honour salute.
Many people come more to meet than for the ceremony itself. By my classmate's grave the regular group of friends, army buddies and family gathered to exchange memories and stories.
All around we are growing up, marrying, starting families, taking on mortgages, building careers and finding our first grey hairs. More than anything these mundane facts of life bring home the reality that our friend will remain twenty-two forever.
Even five years later it is still hard to grasp that he is really gone.
Sometimes he is in my dreams. I'm a guest at his wedding or we meet at a school reunion, or other similar scenarios. I wake up, momentarily happy, and then I realise that it was a dream, and the pain of the loss hits me again, almost as strong as on that terrible night itself.
The cemetery seemed even more crowded than usual, though I'm not sure if it was. As we stood waiting to leave a family brushed by me in the crowd. The son, a boy of about 13, wore the ripped shirt of a fresh mourner, as did a teenage girl, presumably his sister, and a couple of adults. Their eyes were glazed over, seeing but not seeing, the fresh hurt clearly apparent. So many new families added to the list of the bereaved.
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