Social (media) Control

Living in Israel fear quite literally comes with the territory. I was afraid when sitting eating hummus in a restaurant when I heard the sirens go off, followed by a rather loud explosion moments later. I was afraid when I was wearing green a couple of days later and waiting to be sent into Gaza. But this is the usual fear. It’s one that you either hurts you or it doesn't,  one that as an immigrant you either get used to and stay or can’t handle and return to your country of origin. In that sense I have stopped looking at it as a genuine fear and simply regard it as the price I pay for living in the country I love.

This is why when an altogether different kind of fear grips me that I feel it so deeply. Yesterday Ha’aretz reported that an Israeli was placed under arrest for a Facebook status. Omri Hayun, who lives in Tel Aviv criticized the state on Facebook and was therefore contacted by Police. It’s this that really makes me afraid. It’s this that really makes me doubt my government and country. We Israelis are so proud of what we have built here, of what we have accomplished that we find it very difficult not to brag since “we’re the only flourishing democracy in the Middle East” don’t you know?

But are we?

I’m not quite sure what the police thing they are going to achieve by monitoring the Facebook statuses of various Israelis. For sure there is an intelligence element to Facebook, though the detectives who tried to arrest Hayun have no connection with the intelligence services. 

This is about social (media) control and it makes me feel very uncomfortable indeed. 

Saving Syria For Freedom | Marc Goldberg | Ops & Blogs | The Times of Israel

Saving Syria For Freedom | Marc Goldberg | Ops & Blogs | The Times of Israel:

'via Blog this'

Persian Princess

It's 4 O'clock in the morning and I just can't find sleep anywhere. I keep looking for it but it is steadfast in its refusal to allow me to find and capture it so here I am writing.

I read a message from a girl I know, I received it 8 months ago and found myself thinking of her earlier. I call her my Persian Princess but never to her face nor ever to anyone else's. We met 10 years ago and have met only once since and even that was about 8 years ago now and I haven't seen her since.

She came to visit London and I found myself showing her around and falling for her a little more with every moment I spent with her. I showed her the sites and took her to the Houses of Parliament and even managed to get her onto the floor of the House of Commons. 

But I felt a sadness in her. 

I felt the same sadness in her that I feel in myself.

One night we were out in a bar and I was nervous to be with her so I drank, but I drank too much. Jack Daniels and coke, a double shot in each glass and I can't remember how many glasses I drank. I found myself alone with her in this dark bar full of people. It was my friend's birthday and it was my other friend's engagement party and it was December. 

I felt confident in this dark bar, surrounded by people I knew. I had her in my arms and I leaned in to kiss her and she kissed me back. Then I stopped and pulled back and she looked up at me through these big brown eyes and asked me 

"What was that?"

And I was embarrassed and unsure of myself now despite the alcohol running through my system but when I leaned in to kiss her again she kissed me back. And then we were sitting down on a couch in this dark bar in Camden and I was kissing her with my eyes closed thinking to myself that finally I have in my arms a woman I truly care about. And then my hand was up her shirt, I found her small breasts in this dark place and I was touching one of them in this dark place while the alcohol ran through my system and then the night was over. 

The lights were on and the dark bar was exposed in all its glory and she was leaving me and I would never see her again. 

I followed her out to her cab but she wouldn't look at me. I really wanted her to look at me and finally she did but there was something missing from her beautiful brown eyes when she did, something that had been there before that was now gone. And I blamed myself and knew that I would never see her again.

I think about her often, my Persian Princess.

Masterson

The room was dark when he opened his eyes, he tried to move but  a wave of nausea washed over him at first attempt so he lay still. Experience of these situations had taught him to wait both for his eyes to adjust to the darkness enough to make out the familiar shapes and shadows of his apartment and for his stomach to settle. As the shapes emerged from the murky depths of shadow he understood that this was not his apartment at all, which sent a bolt of anxiety through his naked, alcohol ridden body that ended up breaking upon his brain in a wave of fear.

It was time to try moving once again, ever so slowly he allowed gravity to pull his head to the side, hoping that there was enough light filtering into the room to provide some clue as to his whereabouts. He couldn't blame his memory for refusing to kick in quite yet, it hurt both to move and to think though the memory worm had already begun wriggling within his brain.

He didn't put the worm there nor could he stop it. Slowly and relentlessly that worm was going to insinuate itself into the memories of the night before and illuminate the brain as to just how he had ended up in this state. It was already attempting to work it's way back to the beginning of the evening, the moment he left his apartment sober and would carry on wriggling through the various stages of his intoxication until he knew more. It was usually a drawn out process that never ended with a decent recollection of events and even days later that worm would reveal previously forgotten facts about his escapades that he dearly wished would have remained that way.

He succeeded in turning his head fully to the side, some light was filtering into the room through what must have been blinds judging from the shadows. He saw a coffee table close to the couch he was lying on. It was slightly lower than his head and held an almost empty bottle of something that looked suspiciously like whiskey. Alongside the bottle sat a few glasses, an ornamental ashtray with cigarette butts sticking out of it, a razor blade and a little Perspex bag of something that he was pretty sure had once held cocaine.

Looking past the table he could make out a kitchenette complete with one of those huge fridge freezers that provided both water and ice and crushed ice on demand. There was a solid work surface next to a sink and then a corridor at the end of which he could barely make out a heavy door which he assumed was the front door. He also assumed that there was another door somewhere that led to a bathroom and another leading to a bedroom though he couldn't see them.

It was time to move. He struggled to swing his legs down off the couch onto the floor and pull his overweight body up into a sitting position. No sooner had he lifted his arm to the back of the sofa to leverage himself up he knew he was going to be sick, in the same moment he also understood that he wasn't going to make it off of the couch much less to the sink in the kitchen. He released his hand from the back of the couch and once lying down again, positioned his head towards the floor so that whatever came up would hit what he noticed was an expensive, light coloured carpet.

He vomited and vomited and just when he thought he was done he felt more vile tasting filth pushing it's way up his burning throat. He leaned back down and allowed the contents of his stomach to pile up on the floor beneath him. Once it was all out and his stomach had stopped contracting he rolled over feeling instantly better and thinking of a glass of water. For the first time he asked himself what the hell he was doing in this place and where his clothes were.

Carefully avoiding the once digested food lying on the floor he rose and made his way over to the kitchenette in search of something to quench the thirst that had engulfed him. He was well on his way there when he tripped over the dead body on the floor.

The thing was already cold and there wasn't a trace of blood anywhere. She was as naked as he was and though he couldn't make her face out clearly he knew he wouldn't recognise her. The memory worm was wriggling harder and faster now seeming to feel the need to keep up with his heartbeat which, seemed to be determined to go fast enough to pulsate its way out of his ribcage and onto the body resting on the ground.

There was no need to check her pulse, her skin was cold to the touch, she had been gone for a long while.

He could already smell the play.

Soon there would be a knock on the door and he would be taken down for the murder of a girl he didn't know...or did he? His DNA was all over the room already and there was no chance of getting it cleaned up in time.

He needed to get out of there but he needed information even more and he needed a drink of water even more than that! Stumbling off of the white carpet and the dead body lying prone on it he lurched forward towards the small kitchenette in search of a glass. The surface top next to the sink had a hypodermic needle lying on it that was filled with blood and all the paraphernalia a heroin addict would need to keep them happy for a month was sitting next to it.

It was just getting better and better.

Above the sink there were cupboards fitted to the wall and he stumbled through them looking for a glass which he quickly found. Thank heaven for small mercies, he filled the glass and drank, then filled it again and again and again until he was sated. He found his brain falling into focus allowing him to think. The worm had revealed the start of his evening now, he had been wearing a tan, double breasted suit and a silk shirt, the only silk shirt he owned, it was time to search through the apartment and find it and then get the hell away somewhere.

Before he could move to accomplish this task there was a knock on the door,

"C'mon Masterson open up, we know you're in there!"

Masterson prided himself on being a smart man, an educated man with several degrees as well as a strong philosophical streak which is why it struck him as bizarre that the only word to escape from his lips was

"Shit"

TBC

The Other World

For a long time now I've had the feeling of merely treading water, waking up and then going to sleep. No importance to what happens in between those two inevitable events in my daily cycle. In many ways it has been a liberating feeling though I have never felt liberated by it, merely frustrated.

And here I am, awake still with no thought of going to sleep, I know that I have work tomorrow and I know that I'll go but I find it difficult to feel a corolation between the work that I do and the life that I live. I have always found it dificult to leave the confines of my own mind for things that happen everyday. School, work, holiday, whatever it always felt so... irrelevant somehow even though I know, intellectually that I need to concentrate on the here and now, I simply feel my mind slipping away from these things and off into a wider world or a smaller one.

Whether it's bigger or smaller it's the place I find myself in when I know I should be somewhere else.

It's funny really 

Where am I? Just More Self Indulgent Nonsense

I know where I am but what I can't and have never been able to understand is why I'm here.

I don't mean in some deep philosophical sense, I mean literally right here and right now I don't understand what I'm doing here.

'here' consists of a desk and a chair that in a room with three other desks and chairs.

The walls are bright white as are the desks. The whiteness of the desks and the walls is emphasised by the three flourescent lights that are hanging suspended from the ceiling in what is no doubt someone's idea of making the lighting less severe. It has worked, in a way. The light shining on my desk is more yellow than white and creates a shadow on my keyboard that is vaguely visible as I type these words.

I'm in here with three other people, they are all busily typing away. What are they typing? What are they doing? Why am I here with them?

I am here because I chose to be here.
But why did I choose to do that?
I chose to do that because I want to get paid.
But why do I want to get paid?
I want to get paid so that I can live in a flat and go out and get drunk as often as possible.
Why do I want to go out and get drunk as often as possible?
Because I am so unhappy at the fact that I feel that I occupy my life with meaningless trivialities.
Why do I occupy my life with meaningless trivialities? Because life consists of meaningless tirivialities Because I don't have the balls to go out into the big wide world and do what I really want to do.
What do I really want to do?
I want to be a writer, but without having to go through the pain of writing.

Writing is pain?

Hemingway described it as sitting in front of a typewriter and bleeding. But what if you sit in front of your typewriter and cut your veins open ready to bleed yourself onto the page and no blood comes out?

Surely that's even worse. Hemingway was a man who could really bleed.

I am listening to Velvet Underground on my iphone. Venus in Furs is the song playing right now. Two of my co-workers are going to the cafeteria to eat. I sit here pondering my own failings as a human being and the uselessness of doing the 'work' that they pay me to do. I am not doing the work that they pay me to do right now and I should be. The pressure of not doing this work weighs on my mind yet I know that were I not writing this I would be staring into the full/empty vastness of the internet and still wouldn't be working.

My mind cannot grasp the tasks to which I have been assigned. I am supposed to write somethign for them, I am supposed to write something for them to be translated into another language that will persuade people far away to give my company money so that they will pay me and the shareholders will get richer.

I am not writing their words. I don't think I know what their words are. I think I am wasting my time and I think I am wasting theirs.

I am not sure where this leaves me though, it leaves me feeling like a coward.
Why am I writing this nonsense? Who am I? Why am I here?

Most importantly of all, why is this all so hard for me?

There are only two of us in the room now, myself and a female co-worker. She was working here in this office under the flourescent lights until 10:27 at night last night. What was she doing here until then? I can't fathom what it is to be someone who 

The Smell of Napalm in the Morning

I can feel it now.

Naturally I have been following the story in Syria, when I was on miluim in the North several months ago I could even hear gunfire coming from our neighbour to the East but it didn't feel like it did today.

Today I felt it as if a giant pair of hands shook my shoulders.

Phones have been ringing and the word miluim is being whispered over and over again everywhere I go, an emergency call up here and an airstrike there and alarms going off in Majdal Shams, the Israeli Druse village sitting right on the border with Syria. 

Put it all together and you still don't have a war but I'm talking about the feeling, the change of atmosphere, the static on my skin that's making my hair stand on end. The feeling that maybe worrying about another intifada wasn't such a big worry after all and can I please go back to worrying about that potential nightmare because it suddenly seems a lot better than the potential reality facing us all right now.

Syria's a mess, Hezbollah are heavily engaged there and seem to be reaping some technological rewards for their commitment to the Assad regime in the form of the missiles we keep attacking...we did get them all...right?

I guess it was inevitable that we would be involved in all this at some point. 

The war over there is far from clean and the mess is starting to spill over and I don't know where it's all going to lead.

At times like this I am glad to be here, well more proud than glad. 

These are the times at which the country needs her citizens more than ever. It isn't easy to be a citizen here, it comes with a lot of responsibilities and few benefits. The main one is that you feel you have a true stake in the well being of the place, a true part to play in the survival of the Jewish state. This is otherwise known as bragging rights for when I visit my richer friends 'back home'.

Here I truly do have first class tickets to the end of the Middle East, the unravelling of the dictatorships who maintained the status quo for so long. Here I am a part of the unfolding saga, a witness to the effects of a world in flux and a region on the edge. 

I won't be watching from afar, I may even be an active participant for my sins.

Woody Allen: Living Your Life Backwards

Woody Allen:

“In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people’s home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day.  You work for 40 years until you’re young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm!”

The Protege

He didn't like being outdoors at night, you never knew what might come out of the dark. So when he found himself sitting in his car with the doors locked and the windows most certainly rolled up as far as they would go you can understand the frame of mind that he was in. The car was an old Citroen with over 100,000 miles on the clock but it suited him perfectly. Although he could afford a brand new car with all of the trimmings he refused to release the relevant funds on something as self indulgent as a brand new vehicle when the one he drove every day was perfectly capable. But that wasn't the real reason he didn't drive around in a nice, shiny new car.

The adage that no good deed goes unpunished ran through his mind while he sat there in the dark night with the engine most certainly not running and the heater most certainly not on. This man hadn't made it to the ripe old age of 76 by being in the only illuminated vehicle on the street, nor had he survived so long by allowing himself to become warm and comfortable in what he presumed was a dangerous situation. Of course he presumed that every situation was dangerous but then anyone who had lived the kind of life he had lived would.

Most people who had lived the kind of life he had never made it to 76. It made him smile to dwell on that fact. It made him feel strong rather than weak as he sat there in the dark, trembling but not shivering. A man who wasn't afraid from time to time wasn't human was another cliché that ran through his head while he sat there refusing to dwell on any one thought for too long.

It was a strange series of events that had convinced him to abandon his usual routine of doing absolutely nothing to take a rare excursion into the night that descended outside of his abode. No doubt what brought him to this place at this time would make an interesting story for him to tell one day, if he lived long enough. But these were thoughts not to be dwelt upon as he sat there in the car waiting and trembling.

One thing he hated about getting old had been losing his sense of time. Waking up at all hours of the night either to urinate or because of a noise, real or imagined served to ensure he was tired all the time. He had a tendency to nod off any time he sat down during the day, this may or may not have contributed to the expiration of the batteries that powered his once perfectly accurate body clock. He knew for certain that however long he had been waiting it was too long. He did not look at his watch.

He jumped when someone tried the door handle. Looking over the passenger seat, through the glass of the window he saw the man he had been waiting for. He leaned over and pulled up the lock of the door. The man climbed in.

His clothes were battered, his 40 something year old face look jaundiced with only the light of a lamp post to illuminate it. It was a face covered in several days worth of stubble. He stank of body odour, his forehead shone with sweat, his green eyes beamed with fear. His teeth were chattering though he was not trembling.

"Drive" he said, but the car was already pulling away.

The younger man looked over at his former mentor, he took it all in, the deep set lines in the skin, the eyes with eyeballs that never ceased to move from side to side, the once powerful arms that gripped the steering wheel, the light grey raincoat he was wearing that seemed to be the uniform of old age. The car pulled smoothly away from the curve the old man's hands gripped the wheel tightly, the skin around the knuckles was white from the the strength of his grip.

The old man asked him no questions, they hadn't seen each other for years but neither of them spoke, this was not the time to swap stories and anyway the protege couldn't reveal anything of his adventures and the old man hadn't had any so there was very little to say.

The protege had been waiting in the dark for a long time, he had waited in his perch, enduring wind and rain, hunger and thirst in his vigil of the road before him to make sure that his old instructor hadn't been followed. It reminded him of another road years before, of another perch he had sat in waiting for the same man to pick him up in a very different car. When he had jumped in the old man had asked him if anyone had seen them and the protege had answered with a confident "no".

The old man hadn't exactly smiled, he had simply exhaled loudly and allowed the very fringes of his lips to rise before saying; "if you haven't spotted him, perhaps it merely means that the other side have done their job well."

The protege had dwelt on that a long time before answering but he finally asked the question he feared was so simplistic that the master might decide to get rid of him altogether;

"So how do you ever know whether or not you are caught in the opponent's trap?" He finally blurted out.

This time the old man had allowed his lips to curl at the sides almost enough to show his teeth. "Now you're getting it" was all he had said as he watched the road before them while driving away at a speed that was neither legal nor unusual.

It felt like that lesson had been learned a long time ago.

The setup had been perfect, nothing had gone wrong, the protege hoped it would remain that way and after looking at the once wise old man next to him he was as sure as one could reasonably be in this situation that it would remain so.

"Pull over here" the words came out almost like a grunt. He hadn't meant it to be that way but there you are.

The old man obediently pulled over to the side of the road without indicating.

The protege pulled the 9mm pistol out of his jacket pocket and placed it to the temple of the old man's head.

"I could still teach you a thing or two" the old man whispered.

"I know" said the protege as he squeezed the trigger.

5 Broken Cameras Promoted over Gatekeepers by Amazon UK

I get the feeling that Amazon UK prefer the documentary 5 Broken Cameras to Gatekeepers.

Today the Oscar nominated documentary Gatekeepers went on general release in the UK so I thought I would find out how much Amazon charge for it.

When I searched for it I was offered a selection of other films starting with the Palestinian documentary
5 Broken Cameras

The two were rivals for the Best Documentary Oscar but I find it quite bizarre that this happened.

I can't quite understand why this was the top search result when I looked for a film with an entirely different name.

Can you?

White Phosphorous is off the Menu

The BBC has reported that white phosphorous munitions are being replaced by the Israel Defense Force.

"The Israeli military says it is to stop using artillery shells with white phosphorus to create smokescreens on the battlefield.

It says shells will be replaced with types based completely on gas, which will create the same effect.

Rights groups condemned Israel's use of white phosphorus during the Gaza conflict because of its severely harmful effects on civilians.

International law restricts the use of white phosphorus during war.

The Israeli military said the existing shells contained "minimal amounts" of white phosphorus, and would be "removed from active duty soon"."

These shells caused a lot of controversy during operation Defensive Shield in 2006/7 owing to the affect that the phosphorous has on human skin, it burns right through to the bone.

Personally I thought that the amount of controversy over these particular weapons was kind of bizarre, all weapons are made to kill, in 95% of cases weapons are designed other to kill or maim in the worst possible way.

I think maybe that these caused particular controversy because the shells that use them exist in order to provide smoke to cover troop movements etc and yet the phos kills people anyway.

Whatever the reason for the controversy around them they're being phased out of the inventory. I have no doubt that in any future conflagration another weapon in the order of battle of the IDF will come in for a whole load of international criticism. 

Beyond the Green Line: Navigation Training

The better you are at navigating the more sleep you get was the most important lesson I learned from IDF navigation training. It's a lesson that I learned time and again after stumbling back to base camp after a night of wandering around in the dark looking for a random place on a map. The wake up call was at the same time for everyone regardless of when they completed their navigation missions. Those who finished quickly slept longest, those who finished last slept least. Those who slept least found it harder to learn their new routes the next day and were most likely to get lost again the next night thus locking themselves in a cycle of frustrated, sleepless wanderings through wind and rain, forest and desert.

In navigation training soldiers are given points on a map that they have to find. Once they are at their assigned point there is something there waiting for them, usually a weird symbol painted on a rock. When you find that symbol you write down what it is so that when you get back to basecamp and are debriefed the next day you can prove that you had actually found your specified point. Since we navigated in pairs one would be given two points on a map to navigate to before then having to navigate to the half way point which was usually a member of staff waiting in a jeep. He was there to make sure that you weren't dehydrated and could provide some degree of coordination over everyone during the night. Once at the halfway point the other soldier would begin navigating to their own given objectives and finally back to basecamp.

Although we were allowed to leave on our nightly trek with our maps in our pockets it was actually forbidden to look at them along the way. Which invariably meant that about 100 meters after I had started I was map in hand trying to figure out how I had already gotten myself lost. We were expected to have memorised the entire route during the preceding day but somehow I never actually seemed to manage it. In order to make sure that we knew where we were going Green or Mark would sit with each of us individually and ask us to describe the route that we were going to take. They would trace with their finger on our map the directions we were giving them and ask questions about what we passed along the way.

In order to memorise a navigation route you use specific landmarks that tell you where you are as well as azimuth points on the compass. A typical sentence during the final interview would be "I walk 1500 metres at compass reading 75, I pass by three dry river beds along the way and at the fourth one I take a new compass reading to 197 and walk for another 600 meters..."

This was the way you had to think when looking at a map and for a boy used to the streets of London and utterly intimidated by the wide, open spaces of the country it was nothing more than a mind fuck. Each one of these little conversations saw me arriving at the table to face my Sergeant or my officer with sweat clearly visible on my forehead regardless of the weather outside. I gave my directions point by point and waited for the inevitable moment when that finger would stop tracing a line I couldn't see on my map and the head would raise with a frown creasing the face of the commander before me.

"No that's not right" would be the softly spoken words coming from commanders who never shouted at me but exuded disappointment with every syllable they spoke and every furrow in a very furrowed brow and that was before the navigation had even started! Sometimes I managed to pass the test at the last minute sometimes they sent me out despite the fact that I failed to learn the route and for that at least I was grateful. The only thing worse than failing the test was not being sent out into the night along with everyone else. If they refused to send me out I would know that I was on my way out of the team.

I would return past dawn, sleep a little and then have to learn a brand new route. This was all the more frustrating as I got to watch my comrades effortlessly pass their own tests and going off to doze until it was time to set off once again while I remained in a state of panic up until the final moments of being despatched into the world beyond.

Dry riverbeds are the highways of cross country navigation and were the bane of my navigation career. They show up very clearly on ordnance survey maps and guide a soldier to the vast majority of the points he has been tasked with finding. Of course the only problem with them is that I couldn't ever spot them! You see the only difference between a dry river bed and say, the regular ground, was the smallest impression in the earth, nothing more than a groove in the desert floor or another pile of mud in the forest. These so called landmarks looked fine on the map but once actually our in the field I consistently wandered straight past them.

Those first few weeks of navigation training were cold and wet. Even moving a few kilometres took an amount of time and effort out of all proportion to the distance covered. What in the summer would have been dry river beds had become flowing streams that required either wading through or going hours out of my way to cross.

My partner in crime most nights was Aviv, the fat reject from Sayeret Matkal. I would do the first half of the route and he would navigate us back to base camp or vice versa. We walked together through the dust and rock of the Negev Desert in the South and trampled up and down hills that bordered on mountains in the lush green of the Galilee to the North. One night the two of us clambered over a high, sheet metal fence that had no earthly reason to be there. Once we had climbed over the side we could clearly see another fence of exactly the same size about 20 metres in front of us. It was only when I heard a snort somewhere off to my right that I understood what had happened. My pace quickened and so did Aviv's, I couldn't stop my eyes from drifting over to look at the black silhouette of the bull whose turf we had just invaded. "Aviv" I blurted out of my mouth as we crossed through to the other side, "I know, I know" came the muttered response as I heard the sound of a hoof sweep dirt behind it.

It didn't occur to me for a moment that I had an assault rifle and enough bullets to kill a hundred bulls until after we had climbed the fence on the other side and jumped down.

For a moment we just sat their on the cold, dirt, before I heard "Aviv" in the same petrified tone that I had used moments before. I looked at him and saw his bespectacled eyes looking back at me before we both lost control and laughed and laughed while sitting next to the metal home of the most dangerous enemy I had encountered in my eight months of army service so far.

Every week Aviv and I navigated through a different part of the country, through different terrain with different challenges. After a few months I even found that those dreaded interviews were becoming passable and the frowns grew fewer and further between. I also realised that Aviv had been trying to learn not just his own route but the whole map in the hope of being able to help me out when I got lost. That was when I started doing things for him, he helped me get through navigation and I got him his meals and anything else he might have needed. I figured that if I couldn't magic myself into a better navigator I could at least try and make myself useful in other ways.

In the South we encountered Bedouin villages and Bedouin dogs along with them. It was the dogs who would let us know that the village was nearby with their constant barking, sometimes they would run out of the shelter of their villages to come close, barking and foaming at the mouth at the thought of fresh meat. At first I was scared but Aviv simply picked up a stone and threw it at one of them and they all went running off. My fear of the 'Zombie dogs' dissipated after that.

On our travels I saw black tents of Arab shepherds with huge satellite dishes right next to them and the biggest cables I had ever seen sneaking their way out from under the folds of the 21st century nomad's tent. I saw a house at the top of a steep desert hill made entirely of corrugated tin with a brand new Toyota Corrolla parked outside and no rational explanation for how it had gotten there. We trudged on past the house, past the tents, past the dogs, through the dry river beds and over barbed wire fences that didn't seem to be separating anything that I could see from anything else. The desert was the coldest I have ever been towards the beginning of my training and tortuously hot towards the end.

Looking up into the night sky during those desert nights was like looking directly into the universe, as if the veil that had been covering the globe had been pulled away to offer a view reserved only for those few fortunate to be offered a glimpse of the heavens. Shooting stars and galaxies and planets all sat there humblingly visible and breathtakingly beautiful. I had learned to identify the North star and derived nothing but pleasure from checking my direction by looking at the night sky rather than my compass.

Sometimes when we had navigated our way to the end of the night and were back at base camp we would arrive ready to lie down and die for a few hours only to find that base camp wasn't there any more, just Green trying to suppress a grin. The first time it happened Aviv walked right up to him and said "so is there a surprise for us?"

He already knew what was happening but my exhaustion fogged mind still hadn't grasped what was going on until I heard Green utter the words "In two hours you have made it to this point on the map here." He was pointing at the map laid out on the hood of a jeep and then Aviv had his own map out as I stared on in disbelief thinking to myself "but we've finished for the night..." Only we hadn't finished for the night, the point we were told was the end was in point of fact merely another step of our journey. Once we arrived there we were given our instructions as to where base camp really was. Just when we thought we had finished it turned out that I was going to have to keep on going.

The two of them stopped talking and looked up at me, instinctively understanding my discomfort. Aviv had already been through it all in his former unit and Green had gone through the same thing already during his own training, they knew exactly how it feels to spend the whole night thinking of the end only to reach it and realise that it had all been a trick.

I reluctantly took my own map out of my pocket and joined the conversation though I wasn't listening. I was too busy silently moaning to myself about the injustice of it all while relying on Aviv to do all the navigating for both of us, which as per usual he did.

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Beyond the Green Line: The Boys From Rehovot

Once we had our red berets Green began his cull. Only 6 months and a lifetime beforehand 20 recruits had begun their training to become Ravens. At this half way stage a comprehensive questionnaire was distributed and everyone filled it out anonymously. The army wanted to know what we thought of each other; who in the team was the most respected and who the least, who could perform the best under stress and who couldn't perform at all. Supposedly this test formed the basis of Green's decision on who would go and who would stay.

But, of course, that wasn't the way it went down.

The truth was that two of our number never even made it past boot camp, one hadn't been seen since the first week of advanced training and another two hadn't managed to make it to the end of the marches, making it obvious who was going to get dropped and who wasn't. The questionnaire was handed out while I was with my family and I never even saw it, which annoyed the hell out of me. I vented this grievance to Green who sat me down and asked me the same questions that were on the test only he asked me where I thought I had been ranked on them by the others.

As soon as he asked me I understood why it hadn't been necessary for me to fill out the questionnaire. In every respect I was right on the money when I answered him and he had known I would be. The truth is that you don't spend six months eating, sleeping and bleeding with people only to remain blind about how they feel about you. I could have answered for each and every one of the guys where they came, other than the five he kicked out we were a tight group of people who had come to love one another, even the guys I didn't like I loved. A hand on your back pushing you forward, a drink of water from someone's canteen when you're on the verge of dehydration and being pulled along over kilometers by someone who is aching every big as much as you are but still finds the strength to put their own problems aside and help you, these are things that build relationships and we were all well and truly in this together.

Once the five were gone word came down that replacements were coming to us. Naturally long before we heard it from Green Yuval had let us all know, he in turn had heard it from a friend of his in the unit, who had heard it from the commander of the unit's radio man, who happened to overhear his boss chatting about it.

The first thing we heard was that someone was coming to us from Sayeret Matkal, the top unit in the IDF equivalent to the British army's SAS. Most people don't last more than a month even if they do pass the especially tough gibush and we considered it a very big deal indeed that we had someone coming from the peak of the army's special forces units. We didn't know anything about who the others were.

And so it was that the newest two members of our team turned up at the same time, lanky Asaf and stocky Aviv, childhood friends from Rehovot. It was Aviv who had come to us from Sayeret Matkal, to say that I was disappointed when I saw him would be an understatement. The bespectacled, nerdy looking character was hardly the superman I had imagined he would be. To call him stocky was a compliment, he was fat! How on earth this guy had spent even a minimal amount of time training to become a member of the unit that stormed Entebbe airport and countless other missions that belonged in the films rather than real life was beyond me. I made up my mind not to bother with him there and then, but appearances can be deceptive.

Asaf was a tall, dark skinned character who had joined the army four months before me and been accepted to the Orev, only he had proven unable to suffer his officer and the feeling had been mutual. The officer had tried to kick him out of the unit but had been overruled by his own commander, leading to Asaf being ejected from his original team but not the unit. He had been wasting time fulfilling various administrative duties until we reached more or less the point he had been at when he was taken out of his training at which point he was sent to join us.

My first memory of Asaf is of watching him working on the new equipment he had been issued. We were sitting on a stretch of grass waiting to be handed maps for navigation somewhere and he had seven magazines sitting in front of him. One by one he added parachute cord and taped a piece of foam to each mag. Watching him work was almost hypnotic. He taped each one up in a specific way and threaded the cord through a hole in the bottom, he was at work with a lighter and a knife and had a special way of dealing with each mag. It had taken me hours on boot camp to get my magazines the way I wanted them and he accomplished the task, more professionally than I had within minutes.

Somehow I found myself sitting next to him while he was filling up those mystical magazines of his and we were even chatting. He stood at over six feet tall, thin as a leaf and had a big nose. His roots were Moroccan and his Dad was a professor at the world renowned Weitzman Institute, which was where they all lived. "You're the one from England" he said "you're the one who couldn't get on with his officer" I replied, it was a beginning.

Jedi and Sith in the World of Israelis and Palestinians

I've was watching Star Wars last night and once again I was thinking about how much I wannabe a Jedi! 

I think that having a lightsabre and the ability to deflect lasers (or bullets) right back at an enemy would be the coolest part, then again there’s also the mind control aspect, fantasies about how that power could best be used go on forever. Of course the problem with being a Jedi is that you might as well take all of those powers and throw them in the garbage since as a Jedi you’re not allowed to use them for anything other than the good of the galaxy you're not even allowed to get laid...no wonder Anakin chose another path!

With the Sith on the other hand it’s a completely different story. With the Sith you get the superhuman powers AND you’re actively encouraged to use them in any way you see fit. Of course the problem with them is you’re always having to look over your shoulder for fear either that your master is going to kill you or that your apprentice will and although you’ll probably be able to deal quite easily with all of the enemies you make having fun along the way, there’s always the chance they’ll band together, form a rebel alliance and end your reign of terror.

So you’re faced with a choice, use your power responsibly and be rewarded with a safer world to live in or enjoy the delights of using your power as you wish and be faced with the turmoil of never feeling safe and secure, not to mention indirectly being responsible for the death of your wife.

I’m sure there was much racism (speciesism?) in the Galactic Empire and even in the Old Republic but it seems that the Force did not discriminate to whom it bestowed special powers. There were both Jedi and Sith who came from every part of the Galaxy who took on every shape, size, skin colour, number of arms, heads, noses etc, in short in the Jedi Temple a vast range of peoples were represented as Jedi Masters and one only needs to glance at Darth Maul to see that the Sith were hardly a ‘humans only’ cadre.

Some Sith used to be Jedi and some Jedi used to be Sith, as their outlook changed they made either the easy journey to the Dark Side or the tough one back to the light side of the Force. Those who became Sith faced a long but fun road ahead of treachery and evil, those who made it back to the light found redemption. As Yoda himself said

“Fear is the path to the dark side, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.”

So if being afraid of your enemies leads to the dark side then not fearing them and by extension being able to deal with them objectively ensures not only remaining in the light but also being able to effectively end the terror of your enemies without becoming like them.

This is a lesson Anakin Skywalker never learned, particularly when that fateful moment came during Attack of the Clones when he found his mother. She had been tortured for over a month and died in his arms. No one said being a Jedi was easy but Anakin crossed over to the dark side as he later admitted when he told Padme that:

"I killed them. I killed them all. They're all dead. Every single one of them.And not just the men, but the women, and the children too. They're like animals, and I slaughtered them like animals! I hate them!"

At this moment the hope of the Jedi had switched sides, allowing his rage to dictate his actions, destroy his objectivity and ultimately plunge the whole galaxy into darkness. No one could argue that he didn’t have a good reason, he had the very best reason of all, those animals had murdered his mother, but nevertheless the affect this had was to make him the instrument of evil through which untold millions were made to suffer and this is where we get closer to home.

Perhaps you think your side is the Jedi and the enemy side is the Sith but the likelihood is that if you view the world through that lens al all you ARE a Sith.

The Force bestows power on everyone and yet they make the choice as to whether or not to use their power for good or for evil. Simultaneously there are many powerful people amongst us who are unable to control the gifts they have. Power goes to their head, they allow their hatred to control their hearts and bring chaos to their own peoples as well as their enemies while invariably gaining personally in the form of status, wealth, power (the usual things) while doing so.

The truth is that there are Jewish Sith and there are Palestinian Sith, you’ll know which one you are if your hatred dominates your actions, if your need to cause pain to the ‘other’ overcomes yourdesire to bring peace and prosperity to your own and by extension to your enemy also, since peace benefits all of us. The Sith don't want peace, they want chaos, confusion and war. This is how they are able to manipulate those around them, how Palpatine managed to bend an entire galaxy to his will.

"So this is how democracy dies...to the sound of thunderous applause" (Senator Amidala Episode III)

The words of Obi Wan Kenobi to his former padawan ring as true now as they did when first spoken a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away;

“The most difficult trial a Jedi must face is to look inside oneself. Often we see things we don't like. But these aspects are not set in stone. It is our decisions that shape our destinies."

Each of us has the power to make this world better or worse regardless of upbringing, education, race or religion. We humans have the beautiful ability to make their own choices an ability that is wasted when we allow our hatred to dictate our actions. This is the surest way to bring tragedy down upon the very people that we love the most.

Too often have I heard people say “we should kill them all!” Too often have I heard words of hatred and seen motivation to kill come from fear to have any real belief that things will simply be okay. It was a famous Jedi Master who remarked that you should

“be the change you wish to see in the world” (Gandi) a lesson each of us must learn.

The fact is that there are both Israeli Jedi and Palestinian Sith as well as Israeli Sith and Palestinian Jedi.The Sith of each side have far more in common with each other than they would ever admit and they will continue to drag all of us into perpetual conflict that will enrich while destroying us all unless the Jedi amongst us stand up and take our very much shared destiny's back.

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Beyond the Green Line: From Paratrooper to Raven

Had I failed the second gibush I would have been assigned to one of the regular paratrooper battalions and would have been thrown straight into eight hour guard shifts in the West Bank while slowly groomed over a six month period to take part in operations in the territories. I had not failed the gibush however and now that my training to become a paratrooper or Tzanhan was complete my training to become an operator in the Orev or Raven unit could begin.

And so it was that after spending a week living it up in style with my family I was sitting in a base near the coastal city of Netanya waiting for my brethren to arrive. I had been ordered to report to my new home precisely a week after the beret ceremony since my unit was to be staying on base over Shabbat. This base we were now posted to was the official home base of the Paratroopers as well as a bunch of other brigades, it was a sprawling military installation different in almost every conceivable way both to Nebi Mussa and that pile of mud I had spent the previous three months leashed to. Even here the Paratrooper brigade had still managed to organise for us to sleep in tents rather than any kind of permanent structure.

I watched the bus come through the gate of our little area and saw my friends disembark, they all grabbed their equipment and traipsed down towards the tents where I was waiting. I had missed them, I wanted to hear about what they had been doing and how bad their first week of training for the Orev had been. It didn't quite work out that way. They filed past me one by one each of them ignoring me save for a word or a grunt of acknowledgement. I wasn't prepared for it, but while I had been relaxing in a swanky hotel they had been learning the rudiments of navigation training. While they had been out every night moving through the wooded terrain of the North of Israel I had been out moving through the luxury terrain of the North of Tel Aviv, while they had been busting their asses I had been on holiday, they knew it and I knew it. I hadn't spared so much as a thought as to what they were doing while I had been having fun, they on the other hand had been pissed about my preferential treatment and I couldn't blame them.

The downside of being together with people for such a long period of time and in such an intense environment as our training was that a week felt like a lifetime and missing even a week meant a week of shared experiences had gone on without me. With that in mind I decided to keep my head down for a bit, it didn't take long to be welcomed back into the fold, there was work to do for the weekly inspection and work bred conversation and conversation bred re-acceptance, to my immense relief.

Their attitude wasn't the only thing that had changed in the army, the whole atmosphere was different. The Orev itself was housed on this very base only a stone's throw away from our little encampment. Soldiers from the unit had been with the guys teaching them the tricks of navigation and different soldiers would keep showing up to train us in all the different aspects of our training from that moment on. They brought more than their skills with them they brought the stories of the combat operations that they were going out on in Nablus almost every day. It made the whole concept of going into combat a lot more real. Just a few days before my arrival at our new base two paratroopers had been killed and another two wounded while on operations leaving us were in no doubt as to the dangers of operating in the heart of enemy territory.

I knew that the next six months would test me but I didn't know how or what the difference was going to be between this new phase of my army training and what I had just been through. I would find out.

Beyond the Green Line: A Paratrooper is Born

We couldn't stop hugging each other, we couldn't stop smiling and laughing and loving the fact that we had made it. Ammunition Hill marked the Paratrooper victory in 1967 but now it was the place where Marc Goldberg serial number 5489872 earned his red beret and was inducted into the Paratrooper brotherhood. It wasn't just a battlefield any more it was the place where my dream came true.

We cried and we laughed and Green and Mark joined us in our happiness, they had gone through it all themselves barely more than 18 months previously. Green stood us all together to say something but I can't even remember the words only the elation that came from knowing that I had done it, that this moment belonged to me and that it belonged to all of us together as a team at the same time. I had tried and I had fought and I had won!

There was food laid out for us and we ate the cheese and yoghurt and drank the chocolate milk and everything else and when the excitement subsided we felt the sores that come from moving for so long in full kit and it wasn't long before none of us could move without feeling the pain in our bodies, but it didn't matter, we had done it!

The beret ceremony wasn't until later, the army didn't want our relatives seeing us like this, sweat soaked and stained with mud and the smell of real Paratroopers, they wanted to show off sweet smelling smiling new Paratroopers in crisp uniforms. To that end buses had been arranged to take us back to Nebi Mussa where we showered and found that our kitbags were already there with our crisp Class A uniforms. I had forgotten just how wonderful Nebi Mussa was, with the tents that allowed us room to stow our gear and lockers for everyone. Being there, in the place that I had left a mere three months before brought into focus just how much we had done together and how much we had achieved as a team during the hellish three months of advanced training. I couldn't wait to get to my family and enjoy the week off that was surely waiting and that was my biggest mistake.

I had assumed the army was giving us a week off in the wake of the beret march, it had made such sense that I hadn't even questioned it or asked myself why I had it in my head that it was going to be happening. I asked Haim what he was going to be doing on his week off when we got out of the shower and he looked at me quizzically, "Brity we're back in the army on Sunday man" he said.

The bottom dropped out of my world "but, but my family's here" I stammered at him, he just shrugged his shoulders and went off to the tent to which we had been assigned. For the six months of training I had been so focussed on the red beret that I had almost forgotten that I was training not just to be a paratrooper but to be in the Orev and that involved another 6 months of training. Of course I had always known that I was training for the Orev but somehow I had managed to make a massive differential between the pre and post red beret army but it seemed that I had been the only one to do so. While the guys in the regular Paratrooper battalions would now be joining their parent units in the field I had the exact same amount of time that I had already spent training to do all over again. It was a crushing realisation.

That was when Anat appeared in my life, the Goddess with flaming red hair who sought me out to tell me that from now on she was the one who had my back. She was responsible for the well being of soldiers like me, those of us who were in Israel without our families. I was stunned when this girl with freckly skin and luscious lips sought me out, I didn't think it was possible that a girl who looked so beautiful could have anything to say to me. But she said more than enough, she made it clear that I was 'her' lone soldier and that she would fight for me. I told her about my family and she promised me she would get me a week with them, it was easy to leave it with her and get ready for the big ceremony that was coming up, the red beret was not yet mine but no obstacles stood between us any longer!

Soon enough I had left all thoughts of the misery of going through the same training I had just endured and was back on board the bus to Ammunition Hill. The bus ploughed from desert to city and then over the very roads we had charged down a mere few hours earlier. Ammunition Hill had been prepared for the ceremony complete with a sound system from which orchestral music was played (classy stuff).

We rehearsed the ceremony a couple of times though there wasn't very much to practise, each one of us stepped forward to receive a beret and then stepping back again, very simple indeed. It was February and the rain fell in fits and starts, the families soon arrived and I found myself standing there underneath a canopy of clouds, side by side with the men who would define the rest of my army service and a lot more besides.

The music was played over the PA system and after being ordered to stand to attention and then to stand at ease several times our names were called. Green was standing next to a table complete with crimson berets laid out in neat lines on it. If I had looked closer I would have noticed that a watch was sitting there also, but I didn't, not least because I was standing in the back line of the three lines that we had been organised into and I was the shortest of every one of the others.

I'm easy to spot, I'm at the back and shorter than everyone else!

When it came my turn I stepped forward but instead of moving to the table to grab my beret and place it on my head Green stepped back grinning and Mark stepped forward. He took his own beret off his head and placed it on mine, Green presented me with the watch sitting on the table. "you were the best on the masa" he said. I felt my face go red, I had only ever tried to get through the training not be the best at anything. But there, in front of my comrades and my family I was being rewarded not with a flat, shapeless beret but with the battered beret of my commander, a sign of respect for my personal achievement, a sign of excellence.

When it was all done we threw our berets into the air and jumped up and down before running to find our families. Mine found me and I was suddenly being embraced by my parents and my brothers all at once. What a strange journey I had dragged them on, from going on holidays to Miami Florida and Spain when we were growing up to the site of a battle they had never heard of in a country they knew vaguely at best. They shared in my dream and took pride in my success, they hugged me on a cold, rainy day in February after having watched me win the beret of my commander and a watch from my officer. They were there because of me and I was there to achieve my dream. I knew that my dream was never theirs and yet there we all were on Ammunition Hill in the cold.

All the families there had brought food from home for their sons, my family had brought me takeaway sushi from the Tel Aviv Hilton!

In the distance I could see Anat talking to my Captain, watching this ginger haired vixen waving her finger in his face was more than surprising, it was the best thing I had yet seen during training. I wasn't quite sure how a girl in the army for no more than a few months could browbeat a Captain but apparently this wasn't a normal army and maybe she wasn't a normal girl either. She came up to me slightly flushed, she had won me my week with my family. I hadn't thought it would be possible but she did it and I would never forget it.

The day after the march I was with my brothers somewhere in the bowels of the Hilton hotel while my Mum was in the room. The maid entered to clean up, she saw my uniform thrown on the floor and she looked at my mother, in a heavy Russian accent she asked about the uniform. My mother explained that her oldest son was in Israel serving, "Your son in the army is the son of all of us" she said.

My mother cried.

BBQ on the Green Line

There was talk of going for a long trek over the course of the day but circumstances ensured that it became a picnic breakfast around 11:00 and a late lunch starting at around 16:00.

Chaim picked me up from my flat at some ungodly hour of the morning, I think it was around 09:00 but seriously who looks at the time so early in the morning? He parked while I took a bag to the launderette and then we were on our way over to Moshav Shilat the home of the one we call Baby. Of course he's not a baby any more, now happily married and with a lovely baby dog, he is at least a boy.

The plan was that we would drive straight to a place called..well I can't actually remember what it was called because it was a random Hebrew name, let us just say it's close to the Ben Shemen Forest. Anyway in true Israeli style, with knowledge of the plan in our minds and knowing precisely where we had agreed to meet we were well on our way to somewhere completely different, setting off half an hour later than planned.

I hadn't seen Baby's new place since he and his wife had only moved in the day before so I was curious. He was supposed to be coming with us which made me absolutely positive that he was not. He confirmed this on the phone on the way to his place when he said that he was in fact travelling to Givatayim to pick up a brand new oven. In light of this news we carried on driving to his house as if he hadn't spoken knowing that he is one to speak words that didn't necessarily bear any relation to reality. We arrived to find that he was not travelling to Givatayim.

Chaim and I sat at Baby's place playing with his new dog Julie and admiring the work he had done on the place. It was about 75 square meters in size and consisted of a living room to the left of the entrance and a kitchen to the right with nothing to separate them. Two bedrooms, a toilet and bathroom completed the tour of his new palace.

Baby loves music and a vinyl of The Doors was playing on the turntable, the music blaring out through two speakers set near to the ceiling, the cables being hidden by the work done by another of our friends a week or so ago.

The phone rang, it was the one we call Snake, he complained that he had been sitting with his girlfriend for an hour waiting for us already and was on the verge of leaving. By this I understood that he had been there for about 5 minutes and that his girlfriend had been complaining to him before they even arrived that the whole thing was a stupid idea. We told him to get his ass over to Baby's place where we were all chilling. He arrived moments later, girlfriend in tow. Next to arrive was Elad along with wife and 6 month old child and the moment that Asaf turned up minus wife and child we knew we were in business and that the time to move had come. Baby wasn't coming, he was going to work on his new house some more and we would all link back here with him later anyway.

I jumped back into Chaim's car and everyone else got into their own ride and we drove the three minutes it took to get back to the original meeting point where Peanut was waiting. We drove through a windy trail deep into the Ben Shemen forest where it seemed that the whole of Israel had turned up to do the same thing as us. We drove on deeper into the national park until there were no signs of anyone else save for the litter that previous campers and picnicers had left in their wake. When we found an area of picnic tables and no one else in sight we knew we had arrived.

Snake' girlfriend had cooked up a matzahbri style omlette and Elad had come equipped with cheeses, rice crackers and a whole load of other things. We tuck in talking about who's doing what, who the latest army buddy to go off the rails is and Peanut lets it slip that his wife is pregnant. He says it under his breath as if it's no big deal and then enjoys the hails of "Mazal tov" thrown in his direction, the next day he and his wife have flown off to Rhodes for a little celebration of their own.

Talk turned to who's doing what and then Peanut started talking financial stuff while I asked Elad if he would be interested in selling a product that my Dad was shipping over here. We shoot the breeze there for a while chilling in the forest on a day that is neither cold nor excessively hot, no one's complaining about work and there isn't even a speck of reserve duty on the horizon. Eventually Snake's girlfriend takes her leave to go study for upcoming exams and the rest of us head on back to Baby's where we spark up a nargeela and sit around enjoying the flavoured smoke, The Doors has been replaced with Pink Floyd on the turntable.

A car pulls up and it's the one we call the Indian, he had to work the first part of Friday so is only joining us now. I originally said I would come with him which is how I ended up arriving earlier with Haim (go figure). Eventually talk turns to having a big fat barbecue and Elad, his wife Ella and I go off to buy the meat.

We arrive in the Rami Levi supermarket nearby to discover that everyone who was in the Ben Shemen forest earlier has had the same idea as us and is there making it happen. We plough through the crowds to get to the meat counter and get ourselves some mince as well as steaks and chicken wings. I also happen upon some kosher for pesach bread. It looks like bread, tastes like stale bread and is completely kosher for pesach and only costs 17 times the price of regular bread, what a deal!

So we get the meat, the kosher for pesach bread, some herbs and spices as well as disposable cutlery and plates and we're good to go, except that we forgot salad stuff so we go back, get the salad stuff and then we're ready to go, except that we forgot the sweet and spicy sauce...fuck the sweet and spicy sauce we're out of here.

We get back and everyone complains that we didn't pick up the sweet and spicy sauce but screw them they didn't have to fight through the hordes of orthodox Jews and then negotiate the price with the lady at the till, naturally Elad actually attempted to negotiate the price in the supermarket. Before I could say "let's just pay the damn price" there were seven female employees gathered around our till earnestly discussing with him the issue as if they were talking about peace in our time. Eventually we got out of there and now everyone's complaining?!! Of course they are, it's Israel :)

Haim takes charge of the BBQ and I take charge of sitting down doing nothing which works very well indeed for all concerned. Sometime around 17:00 the food is ready and we're eating the burgers and steak straight off the grill or putting them into a kosher for pesach bread sandwich.

I stand at the fence that marks the end of Baby's property, directly across from me is the village called Hasmonean. I look down into the wadi below but can't quite see what's at the bottom. I call Baby over, "is there anything down there? A small road, or path or something?" I ask.

"Nah there's nothing there, well there's a fence at the bottom"

"Ah marking the division between Hasmonean and Shilat?"

"Well kind of, it's the Green Line, I live in the Easternmost house in Shilat everything over on the other side is the territories."

"Oh" I say "I hadn't noticed."

This Year in Jerusalem

My journey began at the Central Bus Station, that concrete monstrosity that serves as neutral ground for every single one of the many parts of the melting pot that is Israeli society. It's the place where rich girls from North Tel Aviv tread the same ground as the lowest class of hooker who waits on the street corner, where big businessmen wander under the noses of illegal immigrants hocking their shoddy goods. There never seems to be any problems between these vastly different groups of Israelis who rarely even speak the same language and have nothing in common save for the fact that they all live on the same small slither of land on the Easternmost edge of the Mediterranean Sea.

The buses stopped several hours ago and all of the Jewish monit sherut drivers have long since gone home either to prepare their own Seder night meal or to enjoy the start of the Spring Festival with their families. I amble past the swarthy Eritreans, Russian pimps and Arab drivers until I find my own portal to that other dimension which is the eternal city of Jerusalem. I enter into the monit closely followed by three nicely dressed English girls, one of them is carrying flowers no doubt for the host of the Seder night meal to which she is on her way. In Hebrew so heavily accented with London that the driver can't understand what she's saying she tries to ask if he will stop at her destination. In the end she gives up attempting the native tongue. He grunts his agreement when she says the words in English.

The price is 35 New Israeli Shekels to get to Jerusalem, way more than the regular price, but then this isn't a regular day. There are no buses running any more and no way for me to get to where God's house once sat and I pay the fair happily. A man pops his head in the door of the monit sherut and say in harsh Arabic tones words that I didn't understand but whose meaning was clear, it was time to get moving.

The girls are chatting excitedly as only young girls can and I plant my headphones firmly in my head to allow the mournful tunes of Leonard Cohen to drown them out. I have always loved watching the world roll by on the journey from the world of the materialistic to the world of the soulful as we transcend time and space in a white minibus. 

The cityscape gave way to green fields on either side of my little vehicle, I peer out through the window to glimpse the sun setting in the West, behind me, the last rays of light brushing against my machine seeming to gently prod us further towards the one night a year that we take to remember our bondage at the hands of the Pharaohs.

The plains eventually gave way to the hills that signalled the beginning of our ascent to the place where King David's wisest son first built a home for the God of the Jews, the place revered above all by secular and religious alike. We ascend and I await my arrival in my nation's capital while listening to Hallelujah and then Suzanne, one utterly apt and the other not at all.

Finally my journey from commercial centre to the spiritual plain came to an end. Stepping out of the little white vehicle I nodded goodbye to the driver and wandered down to the almost completely deserted Zion Square. The magnificent streets around me were bathed in both silver moonlight and a rather less magical glow from the street lights. I should jump straight into a cab but I can't...not yet, I need to breath this moment in first. I walk a few steps along the street recently re-paved and widened to make room for the tram that isn't running today.I walk along the street, thoughts of plagues and liberation in my mind, thoughts of 21st century Jews and a world now devoid of both parting seas and leaders who talk to God. I shake my head to clear it, if I'm not careful I'll be late. There's a knot of drivers chatting in Arabic in Zion Square, a nod to one of them is all I need to get myself a cab and I'm on my way.

I walk into the apartment armed with not one but two bottles of wine, my hostess welcomes me with a hug, as does her mother and sister and her sister's husband. It's nice to be liked. I place the two bottles of plonk on the ground alongside about 20 more and settle in to making small talk with the other guests while waiting for the latecomers to arrive. I realise as I wait that this is the first time in my life I have celebrated Seder night without my family.

The table is laid out to perfection with a Haggadah on each seat as well as a mini seder plate for everyone alongside a big one in the middle, I'm starving and the smells emanating from the kitchen do nothing to lessen the feeling and everything to raise my expectations for the meal to come, can we get started now please? I'm HUNGRY!

The answer is no, we are waiting for the latecomers but I am given responsibility for pouring the wine which I jump on. Getting everyone wasted is a much better way to break the ice than sitting in a circle saying our names and some (not particularly) random fact about ourselves.

The latecomers arrive and we all sit down at the table and state our names as well as one (not particularly) random fact about ourselves. The hostess's brother in law is running the Seder and I'm pouring more wine. He does the main prayers but we spend the night going round the table, each of us reading a paragraph from the Haggadah. The first time we do it we're all to share a random fact about Pesach that we don't think anyone else knew. I was all set to share this one from the virtual pages of this very publication but apparently I'm not the only one who reads it and I'm pre-empted. I choose to go with the fact that Afikomen is actually a Greek word (for real).

When it comes to my turn to read I read in English, unable or unwilling to try to master the Hebrew on the page in front of such a large audience. My first paragraph of the evening is the question asked by the simple son. I read it in English. The person to my left goes without sharing a random fact about Seder night but does read through his paragraph in perfect Hebrew.

I'm embarrassed, he's not Jewish he's Muslim and he's reading a Jewish prayer more fluently than me. He's an Arab pharmacist from Jaffa, his Hebrew is better than mine and here he sits at the Seder table. He's sitting next to his American born, Jewish boyfriend and their hands remain intertwined throughout the evening. Did he just read the paragraph about the wicked son? Oi Vay! "more wine anyone?"

He covers his wine glass as I move to pour, oh yeah, "anyone else?"

How on earth did the wicked son land on his door?

I gripe about the answer given to the wicked son, "it's not very fair" I say. The genius son uses the same "you" when asking his question as the wicked son so how come the wicked son gets in Schtuck and smart one gets his ass kissed?

The host says that in Hebrew the specific form of 'you' used by the two sons is different, so we take another look and it is...kind of. My objection still stands, everyone laughs...thank God everyone laughs.

We move swiftly on, I do my job and keep the glasses filled, the host does his job and keeps the service moving, the 5 year old does her job and looks cute for the whole evening while occasionally repeating things other people have said but either very quietly or very loudly. The loud repeats are very funny. Her grin at our laughs very cute.

I'm at a table with two journalists (proper ones not bloggers), one Chief Operating Officer of a startup, one violinist at the national theatre, one drama teacher, one pharmacist, one 89 year old Holocaust survivor, one chief buyer for a major fashion chain and two lawyers. I'm in fast company here.

"More wine anyone?"

The night continues and we end up debating the fact that whisky ought to be Kosher for Pesach, especially since there is some kind of grain used in matzah and especially since our own ancestors "ate massa (a more historically accurate transliteration than “matzah”). And that massa looked very similar to a pita." The argument goes on for a while and I'm loving it, mainly because I'm not so involved in it and can pick my side from a distance. Naturally I err on the side of no caution and shall be drinking Scotland's finest from now on.

First part over, soup arrives. The hostesses grandfather has drained his bowl before mine's served after having added more salt and pepper than I would have believed would suit any taste. His daughter, the hostess's mother asks him if he enjoyed the soup she made, he says "no, not enough salt and pepper". I quite liked it, he finished his a lot quicker than I finished mine. He's 89, the same age as Shimon Peres.

Main course comes and we're really off, requests for more wine from every direction and stories flowing across the table like so much spilled red. Stories of acting, stories form Canada and America and South Africa, stories from London and stories of reporting the news. Stories of music and life and culture in Israel and beyond. Stories from Jaffa and stories from the territories. Stories from kindergarten and from the different worlds we each inhabit but that have crossed over on this night, just like when an Angel passed over us on another night long ago. But how long ago? Another lively debate begins over meat and potatoes and fish and lord knows what else inhabited the table.

When it's my turn to read again I go for the Hebrew, If the wicked son can do it then the simple son might as well give it a try I reason. The hostess's sister has a better idea of why I am suddenly prepared to try it in the naitve that's my second language; "ah so now you've had enough wine to be able to read Hebrew she says" Everyone laughs, I turn red and laugh too.

The second part of the Seder gets going and the songs get belted out, from it would have been enough, to one more kid, you know the rest. We say grace after the meal and prepare to head back to Tel Aviv. I have a ride with the hostess's sister and brother in law and another couple. The five of us bundle into the car.

On the way home we listen to the radio, when Pink Floyd comes on the driver turns the volume right up and we all join in, singing our hearts out to Wish You Were Here.

Veronica

I wrote about the Old Woman earlier and yesterday I ran into her again.

I stopped into the Cafe under my apartment yesterday for an iced coffee at about 9pm and found Veronica there. It wasn't unusual to find her there as it's where she tends to spend her days. She was almost in tears over the fact that she had last the keys to her apartment. She was holding her mobile phone to her ear but she wasn't speaking and no one was on the other end to speak to her.

I asked why she didn't just call the landlady and get another key, she looked at me through eyes artificially enlarged by the lenses of her glasses and I saw no comprehension in them. I'm not the most patient man in the world and I asked her once again, to which she said "What will she do?" I responded that she would have a spare key for her.

Again I saw no comprehension in those bulging eyes.

She had a plastic bag with her filled with random bric-a-brac which I went through on the off chance that her keys were inside. There was a pad, a pen, a few biscuits loose, and her purse but no keys.

"I have called my cousin" she said, she was holding a phone number on a piece of paper which she had gotten from the waitress in the cafe, (about 5"9, auburn hair, supermodel thin, blue grey eyes, sweet if awkward smile). I couldn't make the leap between the waitress writing a phone number down and it belonging to Veronica's cousin.

We share the same landlady so I called her and arranged to pick up Veronica's spare keys. It was just a short walk to go and get them and when I arrived back at the cafe I gave them to Veronica. The tears appeared in her eyes making me embarrassed so I said something quickly in English, which, to my surprise, she answered in English.

We entered our apartment building together and made small talk in the lift, she kept thanking me and every time she did she looked like she was going to cry out of worry at the situation she was in. I moved the conversation back towards her English which she said she learned during five years of study at Cambridge gaining a PhD in English Literature. She reminisced about her time there and I joined her in her one room apartment.

The table top was covered with pages of magazines which served as a makeshift tablecloth. She offered me a glass of coke and asked me to grab the glass from a cupboard that was too high up to reach. There were no glasses in the cupboard she had directed me to. I found a mug and we sat while I drank diet coke.

She hadn't been in the camps during the war but had been hidden with a family in her native France from the age of 6. She told me that she had learnt an entirely new identity, her father also survived the war and they were reunited with the liberation of France. She can' t remember when she studied in the UK but she does know she was born in 1935.

She starts talking about the operation she had several months ago where she had a kidney removed, she talks about it over and over as if on a loop and it's hard to get her away from it. She talks about her dad, a man who was an aristocrat in Czarist Russia who bolted to Germany when the revolution happened and then on to Paris.

She spoke of her father lovingly and said that when he died she sank into a "mini depression" at the age of 29. I try to find out more but it's not easy and somehow it doesn't feel fair either.

After a while I wish her well and take my leave...she closes the door on her room and I can hear the television from my own apartment as per usual.

So Who Cares for Obama’s Second Coming? | Marc Goldberg | Ops & Blogs | The Times of Israel

So Who Cares for Obama’s Second Coming? | Marc Goldberg | Ops & Blogs | The Times of Israel:

I find it hard to believe that anyone really cares about the fact that Obama’s coming to Israel. Surely no one has any expectations that this carefully stage managed piece of theatre is going to herald any real changes. Maybe there’ll be a few cosmetic changes but even those are likely to be Netanyahu once again calling on Abbas to come sit at the table with him and start negotiations now as though none ever happened in the past.

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