I Want You To Meet Someone

Maayan's big dream when she was a girl was to be a bride. She wasn't too keen on being a wife, but she wasn't one to let a little detail like marriage keep her from having a wedding. Her wedding would be fancy; a white wedding dress, flowers, adoring family and envious girlfriends. The groom was an unattractive but essential accessory, like a telephone pole by the Taj Mahal.

I fixed her lunch one day after school. She was in first or second grade and sat there by the kitchen table waiting for me. I told her there was someone I wanted her to meet. She didn't show any interest or objection.

"Who?"
"You know how Savta Sophie and Saba Yaakov (my wife's parents) were matched." (60 or so years ago arranged marriages were the rule in Jewish Bombay, love matches were the exception.) She knew, but didn't get the connection.

Well, a friend of mine has a son your age, I told her. I went on spinning the yarn. Now I had Maayan's attention. "My friend and I have decided that you (Maayan and the boy) are right for each other, so we (my imaginary friend and I) have arranged for you to get married when you're old enough. We think it would nice if you get to know each other."

"I don't want to marry him."
"You don't even know him."
She didn't care. "You can't make me marry him."

She had a point there. The trick in successfully fooling someone is to never deny the truth, but to twist it.

"I can't make you marry him, but only I can decide if you will have a wedding. If you won't marry him, then I won't let you get married."

I had her over a barrel. It was the prospect of missing her day more than a lifetime of loneliness that troubled her. She paused. Then her face hardened and her forehead furled.

"Okay, I'll marry him, but he'll wish he were dead."

The drop of anger in the corner of her eye told me I had gone too far, so I came clean before she started crying.

"Abba, that wasn't kidding – that was lying!" That was when we made the rule that pulling someone's leg longer than 5 minutes is lying.

In spite of being deceived regularly by her parents, Maayan grew up to be a well adjusted young woman with a healthy distrust of authority. With the exception of her first beau in high school, she's never made the mistake of bringing her boyfriends home.

Now there's a man she wants me to meet.

I don't know much about him.

The time has come, and Maayan is bringing a man into my life. I don't have much of a choice in the matter, and I will have to live with it and hope for the best, like a bride in an arranged marriage.

Maayan is the matchmaker for herself. For me. For him.

I hope it's a good match between the men in Maayan's life. Because if it isn't, one of us will wish he were dead.

Abraham's Children

Warning: I wrote a lot of stuff in this post about religious doctrine that’s real cynical, and it's more than likely to piss you off, so you're better off just reading one of my blogs about flowers and poetry.

The Apostle Paul once made an offhand comment in one of his epistles that since Abraham (the world's first convert to Judaism.) became a Jew by faith, so it figures that Christians are also Jews because they're believers. Paul didn't know it, but his friends let people read his mail and he probably never dreamed the fuss he would stir up when his remarks about who's a Jew (and who ain't) got canonized and became Church doctrine. The doctrine depends on which church you go to.

Catholic Church Doctrine:

The Jews aren't the Jews, the Christians are the Jews, but the Jews don't know that they aren't the Jews.

Protestant Church Doctrine:

The Jews are the Jews, the Christians are the Jews, but the Jews don't know that the Christians are Jews.

There is also 'Replacement Theory' Protestants that have this doctrine:

The Christians are the Jews, the Jews aren't the Jews but the Catholics aren't Jews either.

Naturally the Jews have a religion and they have a doctrine too;

Jewish Doctrine

The Jews are the Jews, the Christians are the Gentiles, but the Gentiles can think what they like.

I'm not sure why everybody wants to be a Jew, but it must be because they all reckon that since Abraham lived a long time ago, sooner or later his heirs (the Jews) will be coming into a lot of money. (That's what I thought when I converted to Judaism, but sadly I was mistaken.)

It's nice that everybody wants to be part of Abraham's family, but you can tell who is family and who's not when the going gets rough, and I don't recall very many Catholics and Protestants lining up with the Jews when they were being carted off to concentration camps by the Nazis. (The Nazis' doctrine was that the Jews are the Jews, the Germans are the Aryans and Aryans think they can get away with murder.) You can't blame Christians for not wanting to join Abraham's children when they're getting slaughtered, but on the other hand it seems to me that you can't turn around and claim to be a part of the family only when its fun and you can get an inheritance.

I've been told I'm a cynic and I'm probably a bit cynical when it comes to religion because religions tend to be pretentious and claim to be things they're not. But unless someone is a religious butthead, I try not to be cynical about people because there is nothing more hurtful than telling someone he's not what he says he is, what he believes he is.

Once someone remarked about me (being a convert and all):
"You're not a Jew. What's so Jewish about you?"
The question was cynical and not inquisitive, and didn't even deserve to be honored with an answer. And such is the nature of religions, especially when they question others.

A few years ago we stayed with my sister-in-law for one of the holidays, and my niece (Or I should say, my wife's niece since I'm only an in-law and only think I'm part of the family.) brought Tuviel and Talia, a brother and sister, with her. Seeing that they are black, at first I assumed they were Ethiopian, and then hearing their American accent, that they were African Americans and therefore not Jewish. It turns out that I thought wrong.

Of course I realized that certainly there are blacks that converted to Judaism; after all I did. But I had never heard of 'Black Jews'. Tuviel and Talia explained that centuries ago Jews had migrated to Africa or had been taken there in captivity by the Romans after they destroyed the Second Temple. Their ancestors had lived there for centuries until at some point they had been stolen into slavery in the United States. They even knew what tribe of Israel they belong to – Levi.

In spite of being white and only a convert to Judaism, I felt an immediate connection with Tuviel and Talia. Within minutes, in spite of not knowing their father, I knew the man that had raised them. Their dignity and bearing reflected values and knowledge as plainly as their faces, and while obviously there could be no blood relation, I felt a kinship I don't get from other Jews, not even from the family I'm married into.

And I think its because we have the same father. The Father. We inherited similar traits of faith and the desire to find and serve Him. I sensed that we share the same spiritual DNA.

Tuviel has since moved back to the US and over the Pesach holiday Talia visited us. She told me that sometimes Israeli Jews question her Jewishness. Not out of curiosity, but cynically, hypocritically. Their questions aren't questions, but a thin mask for bigotry, the intention being to derogate and the way asked insulting her intelligence.

Talia describes it as an inheritance dispute. That European Jews in particular don't want to share Abraham's birthright with Black Jews, who are all the more incensed because they suspect that many of their detractors in fact have non-Jewish pedigrees (Their reasoning behind this accusation is yet another doctrine.).

I'm only a guest, an in-law, at Abraham's table, so I probably should just be quiet and just listen to family discussions. But I don't like to hear Abraham's children fighting and bickering over his inheritance. I would like to sit with a family that wonders who inherited Abraham's big heart. Who has his eyes that saw strangers from afar and who got his legs that jumped up to fix them something to eat? Who has Abraham's hands that dropped everything when he heard Lot was in trouble and helped him out? Who inherited a mind that judges a man not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character? Who has Abraham's faith? Who received his courage to stand up alone against the idol worshipers of his day?

I guess that sounds naïve. Maybe I'm not so cynical.

I think Paul's remarks about Abraham's children were metaphorical, not doctrine. That Abraham's children are faithful and righteous, that the spiteful and narrow-minded aren't really his children and they only think they are.

But then, what do I know. As someone once told me, I'm not really a Jew.

Alaska

A bit of trivia, but not a bit trivial, is the fact that I was born in the state of Alaska. It's a wild country, but my parents weren't thrill seekers. The most adventurous thing they've ever done was to marry each other; a close second was having me. Anyway, I wasn't in Alaska very long. My parents and I left when I was a year and a day old.

I have always been a bit intrigued by the land of my birth. I grew up in Oregon, which is a beautiful place, but to be brutally honest – it's kinda boring. I heard the call of the wild at an early age. I daydreamed about adventure, imagined setting out on my own and dancing with danger.

Sean Penn's film 'Into The Wild' was a natural choice for me when I saw it on the shelf at the movie rental place. It is the true story about Christopher McCandless. Raised by well-to-do, upper middle class peppermint Americans, his story is not remarkable until he graduated from college, donated his savings to charity and set out west in a beat up Datsun. Severing his ties with his family, he chooses a new name, 'Alexander Supertramp'; and cutting society's safety net he burns the last of his spare cash.

The new self made 'Supertramp' lives on the edge. He hobos freight trains, starves with the homeless in urban America and survives dehydration in the desert. He has this amazing adventure where he paddles a kayak down the Colorado River to the Gulf of Mexico, and then with no documents and a winning personality, fast talks himself back over the border. Every time he's reached the end his rope, dumb luck and the kindness of strangers snatch him from the jaws of calamity.

But its not enough for McCandless/Supertramp. His dream is to walk into the wild back country of Alaska and live off the land like his hero Jack London.

So I'm watching Into The Wild and thinking to myself, "If I were young, if I could do it all over again, this is exactly what I'd do." And then it occurred to me that that is exactly what I did. I left everything and everyone behind for a life I invented in an exotic and dangerous place close to the edge. I even did the name change thing.

Christopher hitched his way north to the Stampede Trail in central Alaska in April of 1992. He headed into the bush with a 22 caliber rifle and 10 pounds of rice and set up a base camp in an abandoned bus. At first he holds his own, but when he realizes that he isn't hunting and gathering enough to sustain himself he decides to hike out – only to discover that he's trapped by white water currents of a river that had been frozen over when he hiked in. Trapped in the wild by his own folly, Christopher McCandless starved to death.

Unprepared by spoilers, it hit me hard. Like McCandless, lust for adventure consumed me in my youth. I set out into the wild, and in a way I'm trapped there.

It's not something uncommon. Young men and women (probably more men than women) hear the call of the wild, singing like Sirens luring sailors to peril. You want life to mean something, to experience it in the extreme. You want to taste it raw and bleeding, not boiled and seasoned like it was served at home.

Many have answered the call of the wild. Most of us live to tell about it. My journey took me to the other side of the planet. I thought I could make up a name, invent a life of my own. I lived on a kibbutz and enlisted in the Israeli army. And by the time I realized what I had done, it was too late. An ocean of reality separated me from where I had come from.

McCandless and I aren't uncommon. Many young men hear the call. I have a cousin who 'disappeared' years ago. He was just a kid when I left America, a bit rowdy but likeable enough. He got in trouble here and there, but nothing too serious. And then he took off and nobody's heard from him since save for cryptic messages every now and then. Here in Israel, trekking into the wild is almost a rite of passage for young men and women after they finish their army service. Most of them find their way back, although I've heard more than one parent comment that even though they are back here, they're still over there.

If you walk into the wild and can't find your way back, you're lost. You live a life to the Nth degree and discover yourself, but the only ones that care are back where you started from.

I'm one of those that returned. I still live in Israel, but I'm a member of my American family. It involves long distance telephone conversations and flying for hours between continents, but the bottom line is that I came back. Home is where the heart is, and so is the wild. You can be on the other side of the globe or just around the corner, but when finding yourself means cutting yourself off from the ones that love you, you're lost in a wilderness.

I hope my cousin will find his way home someday. I think that if McCandless could have made it out of Alaska, he would have returned to his family. Weak and helpless, he wrote this on a page torn from a novel in hopes that someone would find it in time.

"S.O.S. I need your help. I am injured, near death, and too weak to hike out
of here. I am all alone, this is no joke. In the name of God, please remain to
save me."

It was signed, "Christopher McCandless". Not Alexander Supertramp. He was ready to come home, but it was too late.

The state of Alaska is where my life began; its where Christopher McCandless's ended. The wild isn't a place as much as a state of mind. Some of the less fortunate get trapped there; most of us adventurous souls are lucky enough to find our way home.

Good News, No News

Probably only readers that have visited Israel really understand yesterday's "Inside Joke". So to clear this up, I copied a map of the latest conflict and marked how it fits into the context of 'My People".

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For now..

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The bad news is that the Hamas are shooting missiles at Maayan.

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The good news is that they are really bad shots.

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The good news is that Maayan will be home for a few days.

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The bad news is that it is because her classes have been cancelled because of the war with Hamas.

Inside Joke

Abba: Maayan, they're saying on the news that some Grad missles hit Beer Sheva about an hour ago!

Maayan: Yeah, I know. I was walking to a friend when they hit.

Abba: Did you see it?

Maayan: No, but I heard them.

Abba: Was it close?

Maayan: No. Somewhere in the neighborhood.

Abba: In the neighborhood? That isn't very smart.

Maayan: What?

Abba: You know, somebody could get hurt.

Maayan: Oh yeah, I know. They should shoot them at open places where it's safe.

Abba: I'm going to make a compaint.

Maayan: Good idea.

Abba: Well, are you okay?

Maayan: I was shook up a bit at first, but I'm okay now.

Abba: You know, it's all for the best.

Maayan: Thank God.

A Cross between Oregon and Israel

Until last week, I had only ventured beyond Israel's borders to visit my family in Oregon. Last week we took a trip to Croatia.

Croatia is like a cross between Israel and Oregon. Mountains plunge into the Adriatic Sea on rocky cliffs under evergreen forests like Oregon's highway 101 on the coast, but the olive groves and whitewashed houses with red tile roofs stacked around small fishing harbors are Mediterranean.

Inland the deciduous trees were in autumn colors, but the paths and streams underneath were still sunless and damp like Oregon's rainforests. My photos of the countryside could have been taken from an album of the farm country where I was raised.

But unlike secularized Oregon, Croatia is more like Israel. Religion is everywhere. Croatians are devout Roman Catholics and certainly not ashamed of it. They adorn their streets and women with crucifixes; no village is without its church and it seems like every corner, whether uninhabited islands in the sea or isolated mountaintop, is the site of an ancient monastery.

The Croatians we encountered were rather reserved, like Oregonians. In fact, in general, they were kind of grouchy. Of course, we did meet some nice ones, but most of them work in the tourist industry, and as Yael pointed out, it's their business to be friendly. But if Croatians aren't gregarious, we were impressed by their order and honesty (Not qualities Israelis are known for.)

Croatians and Israelis have one thing in common: they are not strangers to war. We met a man in Dubrovnik that immediately took to us once he discovered we are Israelis. It turns out that he is the descendant of Jews that were forced to convert to Christianity in Spain. Somehow his ancestors had made their way to Dalmatia. We asked him about his family. He smiled and said that, like us, he had two girls and a son. Then his eyes saddened and he added that the boy had been killed in the bombardment of the city during the civil war in former Yugoslavia during the 90's.

Croatians like tourists. The nice thing about tourists is that they always go back where they came from and they always leave behind money. Apparently, Croatians have issues with people that aren't tourists and aren't Croatian. During the Holocaust, even the Nazis were shocked by the brutality which their Croatian collaborators carried out the elimination of Jews, Gypsies and Serbs. (Although they no doubt agreed with the objective.) A Jew had better odds of survival in Nazi Germany than in Croatia.

While Israel receives a lot of attention for its treatment of Palestinians, the western world seems to have overlooked what has and is going on in its backyard. In the 1990's ethnic Serbs in Croatia were 'persuaded' to become tourists. On the road to Plitzvice National Park you pass by one abandoned farmstead after another, each one mute evidence of ethnic cleansing. The irony of it is that Croatians are too xenophobic to let the Serbian owners return home, but too stuck on law and order to let squatters take their property. Being as clannish as Jews and as straight-laced as Oregonians can be a weird combination. (In contrast, while much of the criticism of Israel for discrimination is justified, the fact remains that Arabs make up 20% of her citizens, an active and vocal minority in Israel society.)

Until now, we had never gone abroad as a family except to visit my family in Oregon. I rented a camper and we traveled from place to place in Dalmatia, never knowing where we would end up at the end of the day. Being observant, we brought and prepared our own food in a country famous for its cuisine. The idea wasn't to just to get away and relax. We had fun, but the idea was to present ourselves with a challenge far from home in order to bring us closer together as a family. With Maayan being an adult and Netanel only two years away from his army service, this was perhaps the last opportunity to do that.

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My family is like Croatia in a way. We are a cross between Israel and Oregon, a little bit of both. Oregonians are known to be an easy going and orderly people, but I have more than once noted that they are capable of saying and doing the meanest things in the nicest way. Israelis are outgoing and they mean well, but they are often abrasive and rough around the edges.

We have a little of Israel and Oregon in us, but that can mean any number of things. Its up to us to decide what we want to take from each.

I know its wrong to make generalizations about entire nations, but its only natural. I met a woman at Plitzvice that is from Wisconsin but has lived in Croatia for a few years. I remarked that the Croatians seem very honest, but they aren't very friendly, and that Israelis are outgoing, but they aren't always straight.

"Don't you prefer the first over the last; you know, being honest more than being nice?" she asked me.

I thought about it.
"Actually, I prefer both."

Taking the Reins

When Maayan was in 5th or 6th grade, she took riding lessons. It was, I thought at the time, the prudent thing to do. We live in one of the few rural areas in Israel where there is still open range. Its cattle country, and our kids will sooner or later end up on the back of a horse. If you live by a river, you teach your kids to swim; if you live here you make sure they can ride.

With Maayan, more so than with Netanel and Odelia, I tried to take control. Not because I like to dominate so much, but out of worry, fear. She was our only child for 9 years, she was everything, 100% of all we had. I was aware of the risks at every step, reining her back whenever I perceived danger lay ahead.

The summer between 9th and 10th grades, she took the Moshav Youth movement's leadership course. That's where she met Chen.


After that summer, she was always taking off to visit Chen, who comes from a moshav in the foothills half way between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I see now that it wasn't just the friendship taking her away on weekends, but also the need to free herself from me.








I had mixed feeling about Chen and Maayan's new friends. It wasn't anything personal, but they seemed to be more inclined to take chances. I didn't know what kind of people they were and was afraid that Maayan would prefer their values over mine. Maybe I worry too much about the ones I love, but there was something to it. Chen is fearless. My guess is that she had a lot to do with Maayan's decision to travel India and Nepal.







We want to shield and protect our children, but in the end the idea is to give them the reins and let them go. There are so many choices they have to make - dating, education, work, travel. All those things involve risk, but the only thing more dangerous than taking a chance in love and life, is being too careful to try. And if we have done our job, they will find the right path for themselves – and if they don't, they will know what to do about it.

I think Maayan will find a path that neither I nor Chen would have guessed. I have a stake in her future, but now I am only an observer.

Its a little scary knowing that now Maayan has control of 100% of all I have, because no matter how many kids you have, each and every one is everything to you. Its scary on one hand because I no longer hold the reins, but on the other hand I am proud of her. She has more than proved that she knows what she's doing.

A Night in the Wadi

I don't recall exactly when I started taking Netanel with me out into the bush. We tried to figure it out last night, and he says we've been doing this for as long as he can remember himself. Sometimes Odelia joins us, and Maayan or a cousin has come along, but Netanel and I are the charter members, president, secretary, and sergeant at arms.

It's not a venture not for the faint of heart. Wolves, jackals, wild boar and beduins roam the hill country; over the years we have encountered them all. Far from civilization it's wise to be armed; caution is essential. Food never enters our tent. Nothing rustles in the darkness unattended. Uninvited guests to our fire (like the viper that came calling last time) are dispatched. Meetings in abandoned places are wary. Boundaries are respected.

Our favorite spot is in a wadi bed, with a window to the west over the Sea of Galilee and if you look carefully you can see Mount Tabor. We set up camp and make a fire at sundown when the smoke won't give us away and in a knoll where it won't be seen in the dark. The smell is enough to ward off intruders on four.

Making dinner isn't hurried and talk wanders between those subjects that concern all men; guns and girls. What's the difference between snipers and marksmen? Alot, actually. I mean, the methods are similar, but weapons, tactics and mission are two different things. I wish I was in the army already. No, you don't. I bet you're glad I won't be a real teacher next year. Were you a real one this year? Sorta. When I think about it, the only girls I'm interested in are the ones that notice me. Yeah, that's how it was with me too. It's guy ego. But they want it to be the guy's idea. Girl ego.

When he was young I would sleep with one eye open 'cause I was afraid he would step out of the tent and down a cliff or on a snake, but I he's on the ball enough now for me to let my guard down. I'm always up at the crack of dawn and rustle up some food and Netanel sleeps until the sun hits the nylon tent and wakes sweating in hothouse heat.

Hypothetically, after breaking camp it's a good time for target practice. Hypothetically, because everyone knows that if firing your gun is prohibited if unsupervised by arms instructors at 200 shekel a pop, then letting a boy use a gun is doubly taboo. So hitting a bamboo reed at ten paces is a pretty good shot, hypothetically speaking.

Netanel is at home in the wild. He isn't afraid of the dark. Our roles are changing and one day soon Netanel won't need me in the wadi. But I hope we keep on going there anyway.

OMS

A lesson in giving your kids more credit for common sense:

A pagan lives on my moshav. Nira moved here about 12 years ago. She's a real live, honest to goodness, sun worshiping pagan. I picked up on her religious persuasion immediately. My neighbors were incredulous. Here in the cradle of the world's three monotheistic religions, the very idea of worshiping the sun is absurd.

But I was worried. Nira was very active with the school and the preschoolers. She organized a winter's solstice for my then 4 year old Netanel's preschool Hanukkah party. The other parents thought it was quaint, or eccentric, but harmless. I almost fainted.

I am very open minded about these things. Over the years I have explained to my kids that there are things we believe, and things that Nira believes, and the difference is that the things that we believe are true. But I was never really sure if I was getting through.

Until tonight.

Observant Jews traditionally write the Aramaic or Hebrew initials for "Lord Willing" at the top of every thing they write on. (I don't. What do you do if you want to toss the paper later on?)

So tonight Netanel and I were sitting outside and he comes up with this one:

"I wonder what Nira writes at the top of her pages. 'SW'?

At first I didn't know where he was going with this.

"What?"

"You know, like how we write 'LW' for 'Lord Willing', does she write 'SW' for 'Sun Willing'?"

"I don't know. I never realy thought about it." Sometimes I'm amazed at the way his mind works.

"And lets say she backslides and goes secular. Does she go around saying the sun doesn't exist?"

"I guess so."

"So then how does she explain that big light in the sky?"

I'd never really given it much thought, but what happens if a pagan goes atheist? Good question.

Now I'm not sure if I worried too much about Nira, or if making sure my kids know a pagan when they see one paid off.

But I have another question. Now days they have all these initials on Messenger, like 'LOL' and 'TMI', and that 'OMG' is swearing. (sorry)

So what does a pagan write; 'OMS'?

to die a little

Almost exactly 2 years ago, Maayan returned from India and Nepal. It ended one of the most anxious 8 months of my life, more than even her army service when she rode the bus every day from platoon to platoon everywhere from Ramallah to Gaza and suicide bombers were the evenement de jour.

Before and during Maayan's travels to India, her friends were happy for her. They cheered her on, encouraged her – and I grumbled.

I didn't get in her way, I even facilitated, but never once pretended that I liked the idea.
I respected her enough to let her do what she decided to do without trying to stop her, but I loved her enough to die a little every time I thought of the danger. While she was there, I couldn't bear to even talk to her when she called, to hear her voice. The anxiety was too much for me.

When she came back, we found out things that wisely she had kept from us while away. In Nepal she had been inches from death. (See the story on Avital) Maayan sees the adventure as a great life experience; I see it as a near brush with tragedy.

Who were Maayan's friends? I mean, her real friends? Were they the ones that told her what she wanted to hear, encouraged her to take chances and were happy for her? Did any of them care enough about her to warn her? To be worried?

And if Maayan hadn't survived Nepal; what would her friends be worth then?

Who is a friend?

My best friend is Barry, who happens to also be my brother. Barry injured an eye when he was six years old doing the only stupid thing he's ever done in his life, but he sees me. I'm about as good as a wet T-shirt at concealing anything from him. Barry is my critic. He says the things that people think but are too polite (but really just too cowardly) to say. I listen to Barry because even though he doesn't like everything I do and almost nothing that I say, I know the bottom line is that he loves me nevertheless.

Real friends are honest. They say what they think. They aren't yes-men and they aren't cheerleaders. They aren't "almost always nice". They assume that you know that no matter what they say about what you do, their opinion of you is unconditional. Real friends will do or say what they believe you need, even if it isn't something you like. To be a real friend you have to have guts. Or nerve.

Who were Maayan's friends? Avital certainly was. But I wonder how many of the others cheered her on because they really believed it was good for her, and how many because it was an easy way to win her smile.

I wonder if any of them loved her enough to die a little inside.

A Big Fat Jewish Wedding

Before Yael and I got married, her brother Yehudah asked me to come with him on an errand. It seemed innocent enough and I agreed. He drove me out into the marshes in Haifa's harbor district where poisoned streams of industrial waste flowed in canals by factories and the electrical power plant. The perfect place to dump a body.

He started talking about Yael, and told me what a stand up girl she was, and that he would hate for her to get hurt. Coming from a hairy, muscled Mediterranean guy like Yehudah, the message was clear.

Obviously, I did the right thing without further persuasion. I discovered later that while Yehudah is a little wild, he's not violent and the ride in the marshes was a practical joke.

Yael's family is a big one. When they are together there's noise and confusion and lots of good Indian food (Her parents came to Israel from Bombay). And do the math. Yael is one of six brothers and sisters which all have at least three kids each and if you take in account cousins and nieces and nephews, that adds up to a lot of weddings and brises and Bar Mitzvahs.

Yael and I saw "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", a comedy about a girl of Greek-American extraction that falls in love with a regular WASP kind of guy. The story hinges on the contrast between her colorful and spicy family and the groom to be that is as bland as "toast" according to the girl's mother. All through the movie Yael and I laughed and our eyes would meet; the movie was about us!

Weddings Greek, Jewish, Israeli, or Indian – they are all variations of the same genre of loud and crowded chaos.

And to be honest, I am toast. I like quiet, I like tranquil, I like boring. I hate big, fat Jewish weddings. Once I told my brother Barry about an up coming (Yael) family event. I was all pushed out of shape because they were putting a lot of pressure on me to go.

Barry was taken aback by my stick in the mud attitude.
"You're lucky enough to have people who go out of their way to invite you to share their celebration, to spend time with you - and you're angry about it?!!"
As usual, Barry has a point. Yael's family pays me the highest compliment; they want me to be part of their family. And I'm not in the mood to party with them.

Being toast is chutzpah.

There's this parable about how God is like this guy throwing a big, fat Jewish wedding. He sends out invitations, but everyone in town are toast. They have better things to do, they're busy, they have excuses. They blow the guy off.

The guy doesn't cancel the wedding. He invites the poor and the beggars, and they all have a great wedding. It turns out that this guy is a pretty serious dude, kinda like the goon Yehudah pretended to be. He punishes all the people that didn't bother to come to his wedding.

The moral of the story is that God pays us the greatest of compliments. He offers to let us be part of His family, and if the invitation is the greatest of favors, then blowing it off is the greatest of insults.

What I'm wondering is this. What about toast? What about a guy like me that doesn't like big, fat Jewish weddings, but shows up anyway? What about someone that goes to the wedding, but can't wait for it to be over already?

What does God do about toast?

Out with Irene

Barry gave us the movie Blackhawk Down on CD a few months back and since then Netanel has played it dozens of times, sometimes even as background noise while he's on the computer or studying for a test. .
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As war movies go, Blackhawk Down is just about as realistic as it gets without getting shot at. It's all there – a senseless mission, the snafus, the command detached from reality or humanity - soldiers getting screwed more by their thickheaded officers than the enemy, commanders in the field (generally NCOs) that save their men from above mentioned officers and enemy alike.


In the autumn of 1993 US Rangers and Delta Force had been dropped into the middle of a civil war between Somali warlords with the naïve idealistic objective of restoring order. On October 3, Operations issued orders for a questionable daring mission codenamed "Irene" to apprehend hostiles in the heart of Mogadishu, but a series of mishaps on the ground and breakdowns in communications end up with the Rangers under siege with critically wounded casualties and isolated units scattered in a city stirred and swarming.

At this point, I want to clarify that my qualifications as a military analyst are from the ground up. In my 26 years in Israeli army uniform, I have never been more than a crewman of an M-109 self propelled howitzer. My crew has never fired a live round at a live person, not even during the 2006 war in Lebanon (Because our battalion's new crop of crew commanders fresh from regular enlisted service were unable to make heads or tails of the outdated equipment we have in reserve battalions and the 670th was declared "unfit for combat" that summer.)

The Israeli Army is ever short of infantry for duty on the borders and on the West Bank, so a good 80 to 90 percent of my service over the years has been as a foot soldier far from my beloved howitzer. I've been out with "Irene" a few times.

"Irene" was your garden variety abduction operation in enemy territory (called "an arrest" by the military). I've participated in a few "arrests" over the years, if on a much smaller scale. In an operation like this you have 3 units:

1. The attack team. This unit makes the arrest and is as small as possible with the best soldiers available. Few so they don't get in each others way, best so that they don't shoot each other or the arrestee by mistake.

2. The isolating unit; to prevent anyone from coming to the aid of the arrestee.

3. The extraction force, by far the largest of the three, remains out of the picture but ready to come to the aid of the first two units should something go south during the operation.

Delta was the obvious choice to enter and apprehend, and Rangers lowered from Blackhawks were assigned to isolating the site. The extraction force was a convoy of (Rangers?) on Hummers.

What went wrong?

Surprise is essential. Going in at high noon, "Irene" depended on the speed of its helicopters to compensate; but since evacuation was on wheels, dealing with an armed response was inevitable.


Using the Blackhawks to achieve fire superiority over the city made them more or less static elements of the isolation force. Since their main advantage is fire in motion, they became sitting ducks.

Ideally, the attack and isolating units leave the scene independently. Assigning the extraction force with evacuating detainees with their captors meant that there was nothing left in reserve in case something went wrong. When the convoy got lost in the city, evacuation was delayed, compounding the fiasco.

Another thing about the movie is how you see the Rangers more or less ignoring the Somalis shooting at them. This is pretty accurate. You have "suppressive fire", which isn't really meant to kill anyone but just to get the other guy to take cover; and "effective fire" when you shoot through sights in hopes of actually hitting someone. The Somalis were using a third kind of fire which is called "making a lot of noise, but not hitting much of anything except innocent Somalis". The difference between "effective fire" and shooting off your gun is the big difference between Hizbullah fighters and gun toting Palestinians.

Netanel and I watch the same movie, but we're not looking at the same thing. Our points of view are from different places in life. "Irene" for me is just one more screw up, only on a much grander scale than any I have participated in. Here in Israel, more often than not the guy you're after isn't home and nobody is eager to risk dear life to get him.

For Netanel it's different. It's starting to sink in; before you know it he will be in uniform and on his way to "Irene". He's started asking questions, technical questions; picking the brain of that old soldier, Abba.

But for me, if anything is harder that going out with "Irene", it will be those three long years when Netanel will be out there with an "Irene" of his own.

Grease is the Word

I was secretly pleased when my 13 year old Odelia asked me to rent out the movie "Grease". To the best of my memory, it was a wholesome light hearted 50's style musical, much better fare than the shallow sexually explicit Hip Hop ghetto fare shes been into lately.

Either my memory or my better judgement failed me this time. Grease is the story of how Sandy, an intelligent poised young lady from Australia, hooks up with a handsome dark stranger (Danny) over the summer, and much to her delight it turns out that he is an old hand at her new high school. The only thing is that her beau is a shallow bully who's interest in the "land down under" has nothing to do with Geography.

Sandy is at first disappointed, but Danny sincerely wishes to clean up his act and even cuts down to two packs a day and signs up for the track team. But Danny's heart isn't really set on scoring on the field and Sandy has to make a choice, and she does. In the end, she shows up and much to the delight of Danny and his loser cronies, she's every bit a slut as her arch rival Rizzo.

The moral of the story: Girls, if you have a mind and some character, you'll miss the dream-boat. He's only interested in tying up to a dingy. But if you lower your standards to the lowest common denominator and pretend that you don't have anything of value above the waist, well, by golly your ship will come in and everybody will love you.

Sometimes I'm glad that English isn't Odelia's mother tongue. While she's smart enough to pick up on the plot, most of the crude inuendo and not-inuendo went right over her head.

What was I thinking!?!!!!!

And what more, how did "Grease" pass my parent's strict Fundamentalist G-rated-only censurship? And I hear there is a Grease revival bringing in new converts daily; how is it that feminists world wide aren't up in arms?

"Grease" runs just about 180 degrees against everything I want for Odelia. It is a dramatization of the dilemma she faces these days; to make the most of the brilliant mind and gifted imagination God gave her, or to submit to the dictates of the bimbo brainless babes that rule Junior High.

Thank you, Hollywood. Now I have another mess to clean up.

Odelia asked me what "Grease" means.

"Oh, it's something goopy and slimy that's hard to wash off."

Checklist

Maayan wanted to come home for Shabbat, but she has a big test on Sunday. She has to stay in Jerusalem and study. I understand. I know she wants to succeed, to get good marks.

Xiu says that if you don't succeed now, when you're young, you'll get left behind. She says the four words that make the blood of every student freeze, I can almost hear the panic in her voice….

"I am not ready."

What do we parents do to our kids? Does this pressure come from us? Do we have a list of things we demand of our children and simply want to check it off?

□ Career
□ Success
□ Money
□ Marriage
□ Grandchildren

Maybe we screwed up somewhere. Maybe we should have given them another list. Maybe it should be:

□ Love
□ Decency
□ Happiness
□ Contentment
□ Confidence

Maayan, Megan-Xiu, I have this to say to you. It's important to do your best, but your best is good enough. You won't get left behind if you choose the right boat.

Solomon in all his glory was never clothed like the wild flowers in spring; the sparrow doesn't plan its life or even its day, but every one is in the Father's eye. Seek Him first, and all the other things will be added unto you. He will send you the boat you need.

So here's your new checklist:

□ God

So good luck and give it all you got, but just keep in mind that you will never have these years again, no matter how high you climb.

Love, Abba

Being a Boot

When my children were young, I tried to create a shell of love and safety around them, because they were fragile. I wanted to protect them. That was my job.

They grew and developed in the shell I built around them, but one by one the time came when they out grew the shell and started to peck their way out. They had to do that.
That was their job.

Everyone knows that if you prevent a chick from hatching out, you end up killing the chick. And you can't help them crack the shell either. If you do it before it's time, the chick is exposed to the world outside before it's ready and dies. They say that you shouldn't even help the chick when it's time. The very process of hatching is important to the chick.

Some parents make the mistake of trying to keep their kids in a shell to long and smother them. Others think that being a chicken is so great that they crack the shell before its time. But the most common mistake we parents make is when our chicks are breaking out. We try to help them and forget that cracking the shell is an experience that is painful, but very important. Out of the best of intentions, we rob them of one of the most valuable experiences in life.

I recall a story; I think it was about Byron, my sister-in-law's dad and my mentor that taught me everthing I've ever learned worth remembering about being a farmer. I think it was Byron, but I can't swear to it. The farmer shucked his boots by the door every day when the day was done. His kids found an egg that was about to hatch and put it by their dad's boots. When it hatched, it was a duck.

Apparently ducks think that the first thing they see when they bust out of their egg is their mother, and so this duck using duck logic decided that the farmers boots were his mother (mothers?). For the longest time, whenever the farmer put on his boots and crossed the yard or went to work, the duck would run after him. Every duck knows that well behaved ducks follow their mother.

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."Mama?"

When our kids are hatching out, they are looking around them and will end up following what ever they see; what they see first, what they see the most. I don't think our kids need us to help them hatch out. That's something natural and even if painful, it's good for them. Perhaps the best thing to do is just to be there for them, and to be the kind of people that we want them to be and to hope they will follow.

When our kids are hatching out, maybe it's our job to just be a good boot.

A Shabbat With Maayan

Maayan was home for Shabbat. She lives in Jerusalem, so every time she comes is like a gift, a surprise.

I love all three of my kids, and each one is special to me in his or her own way. Maayan is my oldest. The firstborn. Our firstborn are special children because we make most of our mistakes with them and the kids that come along later on benefit from our experience. Maayan was my teacher. She was the child that taught me how to be a father.

She was an only child for the first 9 years of her life and she was our unequal partner during those first hard years when we came here and scratched a farm out of virgin wasteland. When there wasn't enough money and not enough time. When Yael and I had to hitch to work before dawn and Maayan would wake herself up, get ready and get herself out on time to catch the bus to first grade.

I don't know when she had a childhood, but I know it was short and I wish I would have been there to share it with her. When Netanel and Odelia came along Maayan became their third parent. She never got to be a sister like other girls; she never had to compete or share or fight for her place at the table, but she was the one that changed diapers and fixed their lunch when they came home from preschool. In a way, with Maayan I feel like a thief. I didn't steal her childhood from her, but nevertheless she didn't really have one. I don't feel like a thief because I took something from her as much as I stole it from myself.

So now that I'm older and wiser, I treasure a Shabbat with Maayan. Before long she will move along with her life, and I want her to. But for now, for a little while longer, I am still the man in her life. I'm smart enough now to realize what a treat that is, what a privilege, is a Shabbat with Maayan.

A Day on the Reservation

I think they founded the city of Tel Aviv for much the same reason that the Americans set up Indian Reservations. They needed to provide a place where strange and colorful people could live their lives according to their own traditions without interfering with other, normal, people.

Out here in the country we see them often; raiding parties of wild savages from Tel Aviv in convoys of shiny 4x4 all-terrain vehicles with polished hubcaps and dust free rentals adorned with hi-tech logos plunder the countryside whooping wildly and boom-boom-booming trance music, dismount to search for cell phone reception and espresso, and flee back to the city with a trail of litter and destruction in their wake.

Normally I try to steer clear of Tel Aviv, but my niece Brittany that is serving in the US Navy sent word that she would be there taking part in joint exercises with the Israeli Navy in a five star hotel, and Odelia and Netanel wanted to blow their birthday money, so we decided to make a day of it on the Reservation.

We started off in old Jaffa and wandered thru the narrow alleys, but the kids had money burning a hole in their pocket and we moved on to the flea market near by. I keep Yael on a short leash in places like this, holding tightly on to the purse strings until we spot a victim and then let her loose on the unsuspecting shop keeper. No one is Yael's equal when bargaining and we always leave the shop with more than we deserve and the vender with less cash than he hoped for.









































Tel Avivians are a primitive people, but it can't be said that they don't make a contribution to society. I serve with some of them in the Army. Almost every patrol has one or two, and they are usually designated to take point along with the Bedouin trackers because… well, there's no nice way to say it… they're expendable. I ran into one of my army buddies, Lior. Israel truly is a small country. He told me two things of note.

One, that he is one of the Israelis that visits my blog regularly. Two, bad news for Maayan. Lior says that Amir, the guy that only a year and a half ago solemnly swore off women (so much so that I decided on the spot that he is not son-in-law material), has decided to tie the knot. Maayan has seen snapshots of Amir and thinks he's a hunk. Sorry Maayan, another prime piece of man flesh is off the market. (In the photo, Amir, to the right, and Lior, in the middle, are setting off for a night patrol.)

Only the locals can find their way around in Tel Aviv, but Brittany has been trained by the Navy to navigate, so she gave us directions. We dropped her off at her Hotel and made it home with our treasures. Tel Aviv is interesting, but there's nothing like getting back to civilization.

I wish to express my sincere apologies to Native Americans for comparing them to the savages in Tel Aviv.