To 443 or not to 443?
With Highway 443, the road that runs between Jerusalem and Modi’in through the West Bank, all over the news lately, I was reminded of the events that led to 443 being closed to Palestinian traffic nearly ten years ago.
We had been invited to a barbeque at the house of friends in Modi’in. On the day of the party, the news reported that Highway 1, the main road out of Jerusalem, was jammed and there were hour-long back-ups. The solution seemed easy enough: we’d just take the alternative highway – Highway 443.
Except that nothing is that simple in Israel.
Since the second intifada broke out in 2000, we had avoided traveling on certain roads, specifically those that pass by areas where there had been terror attacks. 443 had been the site of many such tragic incidents, from ambush killings, drive by shootings, to frequent firebombs.
443 was closed to Palestinian traffic in 2002 – the controversial act that led to this month’s Supreme Court decision ordering the army to re-open back the road within six months. Even with the traffic ban, we weren’t comfortable with the drive. But we were already running late for the barbeque. Sitting in traffic would have meant we’d miss all the fun. And definitely the chicken wings.
With no small amount of trepidation, we opted to take the fast track. We were immediately struck by its stark, barren beauty. The rolling hills with their jagged rock formations, the long stone terraces that always look to me to be thousands of years old.
My wife Jody rolled down her window. The road was open, traffic was flowing, the mountain air smelled crisp with just a hint of the salt from the Mediterranean Sea, already visible in the distance.
Then, out of the blue, we came to a stop. I quickly noticed that no cars were coming in the other direction either. Something had happened.
People turned off their car engines, got out and stretched their legs. A man opened his back door and out sprang a scraggly black dog who instantly jumped the fence to go for a run on the empty other side of the road. The sounds of the muezzin from a nearby village echoed through the valley.
We turned on the radio. Galgalatz was reporting that a hefetz hashud – a suspicious object – had blocked the road.
In the midst of our waiting, a totally chutzpadik taxi driver decided he couldn’t wait and started to push his way to the front. Honking ferociously, he yelled to the other cars to start up their engines and move to the right so he could squeeze by on the almost non-existent left-side shoulder.
It was not like he was going to get past the roadblock. What was he looking for? A half a minute’s lead-time over all the rest of us freiers?
And then, after about 40 minutes of frustration, BOOM. Not deafening, but still loud enough to rattle us. The police robot used to zap suspicious objects had apparently taken a bite, and something on the menu had a kick to it.
The traffic started up again. Slowly we snaked down the road, anxiously craning our necks to see what the cause of all the commotion was. I imagined something minor, maybe a small package, a garbage bag or even a suitcase forgotten the side of the road.
It was a car. An old Subaru, left abandoned, and now a smoldering wreck. That was big…had it been blown apart by the robot or was there a bomb inside? I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: what if it had gone off just as we were passing? On the very day – no, the only day – in the many years that we chose to go this way?
Since that incident, the intifada has faded and so have our fears. We travel 443 regularly. But what will happen when the road is reopened to traffic from Ramallah and other points in the PA, we wonder? Will we – and other nervous Israelis – pack back onto Highway 1? Was that, perhaps, the reason a new exit was recently opened entering Modi’in from the south?
Summer is still far away, but the annual barbeque is already calling. I suppose our decision will be made based on if we’re on time or not.
And whether they’re running out of chicken wings.
Not just any third birthday
Filed under: A New Reality, General, Israeliness, Life, Religion, War
One of the most quickly forgotten aspects following any terror attack is the survivors. We all mourn the victims, obsess about the perpetrators, and move on, as those left behind attempt to pick up the pieces of their lives.
Three-year-old Moishe Holzberg has proven to be the exception. A year ago, Moishe’s parents, Rabbi Gavriel Holzberg, 29, and his wife Rivka, 28, were killed along with 170 other victims when Pakistani Islamic terrorists carried out a series of attacks in Mumbai in India. The Holzbergs, who had lived in Mumbai for six years as official emissaries of the Chabad movement were killed with seven other people at Chabad House.
The two-year-old life of Moishe was saved when he was spirited away from the attack by his Indian nanny Sandra Samuel. He’s been raised at Kfar Chabad near Tel Aviv by his grandparents for the last year. And on Wednesday, the community hosted a memorial ceremony for the couple, which was attended by 2,000 people. During the event, Moishe celebrated his first haircut, a coming-of-age event for three-year-old boys, known as an “upshirin” in Yiddish or “chalaka” in Hebrew.
“Moshe may be without biological parents, but the entire Chabad family has adopted him,” the head of the Chabad Youth Organization in Israel, Rabbi Yosef Aharonov, told The Jerusalem Post which attended the event.
Across a blue-grey curtain on the wall of the womens’ section of the tent, dozens of blue and white balloons spelled out “Moishe, three years old.” Moishe himself was carried in by Sandra shortly before the beginning of the event, and stood before a gaggle of reporters and cameras, calmly, even lazily, taking in the spectacle.
Rabbi Holzberg’s father, Rabbi Nachman Holzberg, said that the outpouring of support for his family has been tremendous over the past year, and that Moishe was doing very well. Holzberg also expressed his hope that the tragedy “will only bring the entire world closer to redemption.”
Samuel, surrounded by a sea of reporters and swarmed by well-wishers from the moment she entered with Moishe, said that she was feeling a mix of emotions at the event, both great happiness that Moishe was doing well and sadness at the fact that his parents could not be with him.
Samuel said that “the baby is fine, he’s a normal kid, he plays, he jumps.”
With a mixture of sadness and joy, which, after all, is a regular recipe in Israel, the shortened lives of the Holzbergs and the hopefully long life of their son Moishe was celebrated in the only way Israeli know how – with all their hearts.
Nostalgia Sunday – 9-11
Filed under: General, Life, Nostalgia Sunday, Politics, Travel, War
In five days, it will have been eight years since September 11, 2001 and it looks like this year’s 9/11 anniversary is going to pass without much media fanfare. (Unless something happens, of course, and you know what I mean by “something”). So I thought I would finally share the story of what happened to me that day and how I ended up in a refugee camp in Amsterdam.
Yes, the International Red Cross runs — or ran, at least — four refugee camps in Amsterdam but for the life of me, I cannot tell you where exactly I was sent to stay from Schiphol Airport. That is because 9/11 was, as we Israelis say, a big “balagan”. I can tell you that when I landed there at about 1:30 on a stopover en route back to Israel, the airport was functioning normally. I can tell you that at about 2:15pm, I saw a bunch of people over at the airport lounge staring, transfixed, at the bank of TV screens. I traipsed over in my high-heeled boots to see all the screens, save one, tuned to CNN’s coverage as the first tower was hit. That last screen was broadcasting a bike race. This was Holland, after all.
My initial reaction was, “I’d better buy a pair of comfortable shoes because I think I’m going to be here awhile.” So I trundled off to the Timberland store and purchased a pair of slides, during which time the second tower was hit. I went back to the lounge and watched as news of the Pentagon attack came in. That damn bike race kept on going. Then Schiphol, in the first of a number of panicked moves, announced that it was shutting down the televisions — ostensibly to keep people from panicking.
News began circulating among passengers that airspace around the world was shutting down, and people began rushing towards the various airline counters, trying to find out what was happening to their flights. “You’ve got to get organized,” I said to the KLM counter attendant who was busily shooing the Israelis away from her space. She looked at me and said something completely un-Israeli. “I don’t have to get organized,” she said. It was my first encounter with the concept known as the Dutch Uncle.
On a grander scale, Schiphol decided to do the exact same thing. They decided they didn’t have to get organized. The airport announced that it was shutting down, that all passengers had to vacate the premises, and take their luggage with them. And then, Schiphol proceeded to unload all the suitcases, all at once, from all of the planes. 18 baggage carousels began disgorging bags, one after another, without any rhyme or reason. People were crawling all around through a maze of suitcases. Six hours later, I found my stuff.
For me it was an eye-opener as to how quickly systems can break down. Imagine if Schiphol had been an attack target, as management apparently feared. Someone, however, was astute enough to call in the Red Cross — and that is when things did, indeed, get organized. Red Cross staffers came in with bottled water, soft drinks and potato chips. Also, as the hotels in town were now completely full, they had arranged for transport to take us to a place where, they promised, KLM would be able to see to our flights and where there was a place to sleep. And so, with suitcases in tow, my new, comfortable shoes, and visions of Anne Frank in my head, I boarded a bus full of strangers and rode out into the cold, wet, dark night.
And ended up in an enormous refugee camp on the outskirts of Amsterdam where I handed over my passport, was registered, and in return issued a tan fleece blanket, a KLM washkit and some supplies produced for the Red Cross by a company called De Ridder B.V. These included a toothbrush pre-embedded with toothpaste…shampoo packets… and paper underwear, pairs of which the KLM staffers — sensitive as always — had jokingly put on their heads.
The name “de Ridder”, is Middle Dutch for ‘knight’, ‘rider’, ‘horseman’. The Crusader aspect of the name was lost neither on the company, whose logo at the time was a knight in armor on a horse, brandishing a sword and shield with a red cross on it, nor on myself. (The logo has since been downsized to a knight with a sword and shield but no horse). I stood there in the communal washroom, looking down at the shampoo packet, and realized that the Crusades were still going on. I knew the attackers knew they were fighting a holy war, and I also knew that the attacked didn’t know this.
I couldn’t find any Israelis till I ran into Mira from Rehovot who told me she’d heard that all the Israelis had banded together immediately and gone en masse to another camp. “I don’t feel comfortable here,” she said. “There aren’t any other Israelis. I’m going back to the airport. I heard they’ll put you on a plane if you go there.” And there went my only homeland connection.
I spent the first two days and nights in my refugee camp, as I’ve come to call think of it, in a haze of jet-lagged confusion, wrapped in a blanket, watching the endless hours of wreckage, feeling like the end of the world had come, eating junk food (the Red Cross kept us well-supplied with kuchen and krispen), and watching a group of Sudanese boys playing on the two foosball tables. I asked one of them what the letters on his sweatshirt stood for and he spelled out the name of an international relief agency, explaining that he and his friends were on their way to be resettled in the US. Oh, it suddenly hit me. These were real refugees.
So I snapped out of my funk. Chatted with people who kept on coming in and heard their stories: one couple’s flight had been turned back an hour out of Chicago, another rerouted to the Nova Scotia airport in only their summer clothes. Stuck to the KLM staffers like the proverbial white on rice and on the third day they called my name over the camp loudspeaker and told me El Al had arranged a flight back to Israel. KLM were pretty complimentary about El Al’s functioning — apparently there were other airlines that didn’t get organized.
At the airport I ran into my pal Mira who — despite her best efforts — had made no more progress than I. “They’re all Antisemites here,” she said. “We’ve been sleeping on the floor. They didn’t even give us a blanket.” She stomped off to try her luck at the El Al counter while I was hustled onto an ISSTA charter flight to Ben Gurion Airport. Granted, it was my worst travel nightmare come true: flying with a planeful of unwashed, guitar-playing post-IDF grads after their year in the Far East but at least I was on my way home.
So here’s how I would rate the whole experience:
The gloves are on for Israeli boxers
Filed under: History and Culture, Israeliness, Profiles, Sports, War, coexistence
The Philadephia Daily News recently ran a compelling profile of international Israeli boxers Ran Nakash (pictured) and Elad Shmouel.
The main thrust of the piece is that being raised in the Middle East makes one a particularly hard brand of badass, making Israel an emerging source for fighting talent:
“Israel is becoming what Russia was 10 years ago when the Klitschkos [current heavyweight titlists Vitali and Wladimir] were starting out,” said [matchmaker Don] Elbaum, who believes Nakash will fight for some version of a world championship before too long. “In the next couple of years, I think you’ll see an exodus of incredible boxing talent coming out of Israel.”
Some of the piece’s hyped-out tone is grounded in hyperbole (calling Israel “an area where to end any day alive qualifies as a small triumph” might be a bit of a stretch), but overall, these two guys do come off as seriously dangerous. Shmouel speaks about how his experiences witnessing a suicide bomb attack in a shopping mall when he was in his teens have made him tough. Nakash maintains a successful career as a Krav Maga instructor for the IDF.
And they discuss their impressions of the recent Gaza war and assess the prospects for real regional peace. But politics and punching prowess aside, what’s life in Israel really like?
Shmouel, who recently concluded his mandatory 3-year military service obligation as a first sergeant, said many Americans can’t begin to fathom the reality of the Middle East situation from what they see on television.
“You have to experience it to understand,” Shmouel said. “You have to be there. It would change people’s perspective, that’s for sure.”
IFCJ’s TV ad campaign
The Zionist community might be a little queasy about its relationship with The International Fellowship of Christians and Jews. After all, can supporters of Jerry Falwell and the Gush Katif crowd really share a bed comfortably? But the fact is, Chicago and Jerusalem native Rabbi Yechiel Eckstein’s organization has done amazing work when it comes to fostering support for Israel.
Last month, Eckstein was interviewed on the decidedly Jewish-flavored Shalom TV, where he defended his work with characteristic eloquence, speaking about how terror groups’ publicity campaigns in South America, for example, must be offset by his own.
Eckstein is no stranger to TV. His very own Journey To Zion program, which has been airing for about a year and a half on Christian television networks in the US, provides a pulpit for Eckstein’s introductory Jewish teachings.
And for the past several months, the IFCJ has been running TV ads on Fox News – something which no other pro-Israel informational organization has had the nerve or means to do. The spots (example here) may be sensationalistic, and they may stray from the latest trends of pushing an image of Israel as a nation of high-tech and supermodels, but they’re poignant, and they have yielded results.
This past March, back in the early days of the ad campaign, the IFCJ reported having raised enough funds to make a difference:
IFCJ funded the renovation of 32 public bomb shelters in Sderot at a cost of $1.5 million. In addition, the organization has recently pledged to upgrade 400 bomb shelters in privately-owned residences in Ashkelon at an expected cost of $2 million.
Even Haaretz is taking note, running a story last week on the campaign under the headline “Jewish charity brings U.S. viewers Israel’s version of the war in Gaza.”
Fred Teng Gets It
Filed under: A New Reality, General, Life, Politics, Profiles, War, coexistence
Given the avalanche of hate against Israel on the internet, at anti-Israel protests around the world, and in the media (of course!), it’s easy to believe that “nobody” likes us. By “nobody,” I mean, of course, folks from the wide world. And even if they are willing to overlook our “crimes” in Gaza (no, of course I don’t mean that), they still don’t “get it” – they just can’t understand what we’re up against. 
So I wanted to share with you a message I got from a friend who’s in New York right now. There was a big pro-Israel rally this past Sunday, featuring speakers from the Jewish and general community. According to the message I got,
“The most powerful speaker at Sunday’s massive rally for Israel was Fred Teng, president of the Chinese Community Relations Council of NY. His words would have been exceptional even coming from an Israeli — and how much more striking for having come from the heart of a New Yorker and a member of the Chinese community.”
Suffice to say Mr. Teng “gets it.” He’s got Hamas’ number – comparing them to the gangs of big American cities who get their jollies running drive by shootings against innocent people. In the words of Mr. Teng,
“Enough is enough”
“These Qassam Rockets and the people behind them are like Drive-by Shootings. We have to put every gang member away for good, not just the ones that did the shooting. These Qassam Rockets and the people behind them are like a Fire in the Forest, You can’t STOP only half of the fire in the forest, and thinking you will be safe. If your house is next to the fire, you won’t think so. It is not the Qassam Rockets; it is the people behind the Qassam Rockets that we need to go after. This is an epidemic threat to the entire world.
“In the last 60 years, every gesture of peace by Israel only met with escalated violence. Every peace proposal, whether it is multi-lateral, bi-lateral, or uni-lateral was never honored by the terrorists. However, in this time of extreme difficulties, we shall not lose hope. We shall say yes to Peace. We shall say yes to Life. And we shall forever say yes to an eternal Israel Am Yisrael Chai.
Maybe someone should tell this guy we have an election coming up? Sounds like he’d make a good prime minister!
Reserved revelry of the times
Filed under: Crime, General, History and Culture, Israeliness, Life, Travel, War, coexistence
With a population of around 67,100 and proximity to both Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, Modiin is one of the larger suburbs of Israel. The city is located very close to the Green Line, though, making for some awkward situations for Israeli-Arab relations in the neighborhood – especially along the 443 highway, a major commuter thoroughfare. This isn’t a band of fringe settlers butting heads with nationalist Arab elements. Like the Kfar Saba-Qalqilya juxtaposition, it’s mainstream Israel in close quarters with villages.
Terror-resembling hate crimes have taken place in the area many times over the years (including these four incidents from 2000, 2001, 2002 and 2003, during the Second Intifada). This past March, long before the wave of violence that kicked off last month, the high court defended arrangements which basically ban Palestinians from using the 443 in order to minimize its exposure to terror. And since the war in the south has escalated, there have been stoning incidents, Molotov cocktails and even a stabbing.
Anyone reading this blog knows that in times like these, life goes on. In general, incidents like the aforementioned don’t keep Israelis from going about their business, much like the way that regular shootings and muggings in American inner cities don’t keep Americans from going about theirs. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t take precautions. We do.
A friend of mine who lives close to me in Modiin attended a party last night in Jerusalem, and while he didn’t drink, so as to maximize safety on the journey home, his sister did. Quite inebriated, her head was spinning from the drive, which, as we all know, has the potential to cause vomiting. Cruising along the 443, my friend found himself in a bind. He did not want his car to get all vomited out, and he wanted to comply with his sister’s wishes for a break in the motion, but on the other hand, it was the middle of the night and he was within rock-throwing range of more than one Arab village.
So yes, in times like these, we keep working, living and even sometimes partying as if there were no conflict. But that doesn’t mean the conflict doesn’t color our judgment and impact our actions. And in case you were wondering, the way he tells it, my friend’s solution was to pull over for his sister to vomit out the car door for two minutes at a time, and only when she really really needed him to. She used a plastic bag the rest of the time.
Photo of the 443 highway courtesy Michaeli via Wiki Commons.
Renewal
Filed under: A New Reality, History and Culture, Israeliness, Life, Profiles, War
It’s been said that everyone in Israel knows at least one family touched by terror, that is. The truth is, things are far better than they used to be on that front, certainly better than during they were six and seven years ago, when there seemed to be a bus bombing or shooting attack every week – and sometimes more often.
Terrorism aims to destroy lives – and often it does. But it’s not just lives: Families are never the same, even if the intended victim survives. Communities change, kids relate to their surroundings differently. We hear about the attacks, which make news for a few days, and move on; they often can’t. So when we see individuals and families who do manage to rebuild their lives, we can only stand back and gape in awe at their superhuman strength.
I had an “awesome” moment last night, when the son of a friend of mine got married. I won’t reveal their names, but I can tell you the story: While driving home from buying school supplies for the upcoming term, Jacob and Rachel (not their real names) were shot at by Arab terrorists. With them in the car were three of their five children. The shooter got their car point blank – killing Rachel, and leaving Jacob and their oldest daughter, Dina, in a wheelchair. Rachel was several months pregnant at the time. Also in the car were two boys – Shimon, 8, and Levi, 3. Not in the van were their oldest son Reuven, 13 (he had just had his bar-mitzvah two months earlier), and Sarah, 10.
Suffice to say that the family was shattered; the oldest boy became rebellious, the second son took after him, and the youngest boy, in the car when it happened, was basically shellshocked. Jacob tried as well as he could, but it was difficult juggling his family and work obligations. The community helped – a lot – but it just wasn’t the same. Rachel was one of those “super-moms” – always there for the kids, working to help others (she was a nurse), with a golden personality, always smiling. This was a family that had lost so much – and things looked bleak.
But the family experienced a rebirth – in large part thanks to Leah, whom Jacob married three years after losing Rachel. The kids were wary at first – she was a widow herself, and had three older kids of her own – and things were rocky at first. But with love and patience, things worked themselves out. The community helped a lot, too. Plus, the determination of Jacob – and the kids – not to give the terrorists the victory they so sorely sought.
And now see Reuven at his wedding! He grew up to be a fine, sensitive, scholarly young man, a veteran of the elite Duvdevan unit. The joy on his face, and on the faces of family and friends, was unique. This wasn’t just a wedding; it was a vindication, a confirmation of life, a message to the forces of darkness – Israel, and Israelis, are here to stay.
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