After an eight-year unofficial war against Southern Israel, Hamas has now been faced with Israel making it official. For years Sderot activists like myself have warned the country that the Kassams are not an isolated problem of Sderot, and if not dealt with will spread to the rest of the country. In the past month this has come true in the form of rockets on Ashkelon, Ofakim, Beer Sheba, Yavne, Netivot, Ashdod and other cities. As is well known, Israel has been bombing Hamas institutions all over Gaza for the past month. Hundreds have been killed, among them civilians. Exactly how many civilians have been killed is impossible to know. The people reporting the casualties from Gaza are the same people that claim no more than ten thousand Jews were killed in the Holocaust; obviously statistics are not exactly their strong point. Hamas wants as many casualties as possible in order to gain international sympathy. They purposely do not build shelters for civilians and entrench themselves in hospitals and schools to maximize innocent lives lost. After eight years of Kassams, negotiations and “ceasefires”, Israel is left with no choice but to attack the Strip forcefully, whatever the cost may be. Israel has done her utmost to minimize the civilian casualties in Gaza, with surgical strikes on Hamas buildings and even dropping leaflets in Arabic warning the civilians to leave the area, despite the danger that doing so caused to her own soldiers on the ground.
     International anti-Semitism has reared its ugly head once again in the wake of the war in Gaza. After twelve thousand protesters demonstrated against the Israeli campaign in Hyde Park, England, an angry mob left the protest in search of a pogrom against the Jews. In Golders Green, a Jewish dominated neighborhood in London, they burst into busy restaurants and stores and assaulted everyone inside. They took the Ahava store, an Israeli chain, hostage along with its workers. Outside the store they hung a sign saying “Condemn the Israeli Army as War Criminals” and chained themselves to the door, preventing police from getting in to save the terrified hostages. In Spain, an Israeli flag with a swastika instead of a Star of David was burned before thousands of jeering protestors. Two Israeli workers were stabbed in a mall in Italy. Countries varying from small west African states to France to Australia have all come out against Israel. Jewish self-hatred made its expected appearance in the form of washed up actress Roseanne Barr declaring the Jewish Homeland a “Nazi state”. This campaign in Gaza has forcefully reminded Jews around the world that which they have tried to forget: That no matter how detached and unassociated a Jew anywhere in the world may be towards Israel, he will always be part of the Jewish state. He will be held personally responsible for Israel’s actions in the eyes of the violent anti-Semite.
* * *
     For the last month, the media has swooped down on Sderot like a flock of vultures on a carcass, as if it were making up for its eight years of absence with a vengeance. Never leaving a ten-foot radius from a shelter, they stand opposite the camera and claim, “I’m standing here in Sderot, in the line of Kassam fire from the Gaza strip. The extent of their interaction with the the town’s residents is stopping random passersby for a few questions. They don’t listen to the heartbreaking stories of the traumatized families. They don’t cry when one of our soldiers dies. They don’t cry for the five-year-old boy who wets the bed nightly, living in fear after being injured by a Kassam. I, on the other hand, spent ten days in Sderot since the campaign began. I met scores of residents, sat with them in their homes listening to their stories, and my heart felt the fear and burden of the typical Sderot resident. I would like to introduce you to a few people whose stories truly touched me and recreate some scenes of life in the shadow of terror. 
     On Shabbat day, December 27, the Israeli Aif Force began bombarding Hamas strongholds in Gaza. Within twenty-four hours the call went out for volunteers to go down and help bear the burden of the people of Sderot, located within arm’s reach of the war. At the “pump up” speech in Jerusalem before the volunteers came down to Sderot, one sentence that really stuck with me was “The army has called up 6,500 reserve soldiers. We hope to enlist at least that many, if not more volunteers to help the residents of the South.” How amazing are the Jewish people that instead of running away from a border under fire, we run towards it to help those in dire need.
     I was on the first bus down, consisting of about twenty-five volunteers. Upon my arrival Sunday night I could hear the helicopters and feel the explosions in Gaza. The first night I was in Sderot was the last night of Chanukah. As I lit the Menorah in the bomb shelter I slept in, I thought of the symbolism of the moment. Now as then, an enemy is determined to destroy us. The Greeks wanted our soul, but Hamas wants our body too. Yet, even here in these dark times, we still have enough hope left to light the Menorah, just like the Maccabees. With the shelter occasionally shaking from an explosion, we sang and danced together, Secular and Observant Jews together as one, united to help our fellow Jews in need.
* * *
     I would like to introduce you to Mazal, an elderly Russian woman. After a Kassam exploded near her house, she has no running water. With no car and an ill body, all of her water must come from the supermarket. My assignment was to get a volunteer to drive her and I to the supermarket to buy sixty bottles of water, plus her food for the next month. When we got to the supermarket, the only way she was able to obtain money to buy groceries was by writing a check against her March pension. In December. As she shopped their was suddenly a deafening shriek above the supermarket. Certain it was a Kassam, I rushed Mazal into the store and away from the entrance, and crouched down. “This is it,” I thought to myself, “I am going to die now.” When the noise continued for several seconds, I realized that it was not a Kassam but rather an Israeli fighter jet, flying five hundred feet above the city. From then on I knew how to identify the sound of a jet instantly.
     There was a time when any explosion, or even any loud noise, in Sderot meant a Kassam had struck. Today, after eight years of suffering, Israeli tanks, helicopters, jets, and artillery in Gaza can be heard in Sderot. It is commonplace now for an entire room of people to jump at the sound of a blast, only to have one “expert” say reassuringly, Don’t worry. That was one of Ours.”
     I would like to Ana, also an elderly Russian immgrant. A widow with no family, Ana lives alone in a two-room tenement, in the poorest neighborhood of Sderot. As if her life was not difficult enough as is, a Kassam exploded in her yard, sending shrapnel and glass shards all over her living room and kitchen. Ten minutes later, a clean-up crew from the volunteer organization Lev Echad, myself included, showed up at her door with brooms, buckets, tape and plastic sheeting. My heart broke as I saw the poor woman; she looked like she was about to have a heart attack, crying in shock and frustration. Our attempts to comfort her were in vain, for Ana speaks only Russian and none of us knew the language. I quickly called a Russian speaking friend and had her explain to Ana what a bunch of teenagers in matching T-shirts were doing in her apartment, and she calmed down. After hours of moving furniture and countless knick knacks, sweeping up glass and taping windows shut, we managed to return a sense of normalcy to Ana’s life. A Russian speaking volunteer came and helped ease Ana’s stress. After seeing the miraculous turnaround that a few teenagers brought about with sweat and love, Ana became a new person. Turning into a typical Jewish grandmother, she began smiling and showering us with praise, handing out kisses and chocolate. As I watched this modern day miracle unfold, seeing Ana shift from hysteria to happiness, I suddenly remembered that it was the last day of Hannukah. A strong longing to be with my own grandparents enveloped me after kissing Ana a happy Hannukah and goodbye. On Hannukah we bless G-d “Who performed miracles for our fathers, in those days at this time. This year we went to war against our enemies ”in these days at this time”, on the sixth night of Hannukah.
     I doubt I ever had a more chilling experience than when I saw a house in Sderot that a half hour earlier had been covered in a pool of blood. Though volunteers had cleaned up the blood already, the destruction was everywhere. The next door neighbors are an elderly Tunisian couple. The trauma of the explosion caused them to move into a shelter with the female Lev Echad volunteers. Eli and “Daisy” (no one knows her real name) made Aliyah to Israel from Tunisia in 1954. Despite the fact that they are too afraid to sleep in their own home, they warmly welcomed in a young man tracing their footsteps, over fifty years later. Eli and “Daisy” are the typical funny elderly couple. Eli’s hearing is almost non-existent (he can’t put in his hearing aids for fear than a “Code Red” alarm will deafen him), but ”Daisy” is as sharp as ever, with a quick tongue. The hours I spent joking with Eli reminded me of my own paternal grandfather, whose passing this past summer has not sunk in at all. Their love and praise truly warmed my heart in an aching time.

To be continued…

With Love from the Holy Land,
Elisha
P.S. Lev Echad is desperate for money to continue funding its assistance in this critical time. To make a donation go to http://lev1.org.il/English/Donation.html

Monday Night, 18 Kislev 5769   

Note: In Israel, a “caravan” refers to a small trailer, without wheels, shaped like a tiny house.

I live in a caravan. I have old couches and carpets outside my door. I do not have any running hot water. I wash my clothes in a metal pot and hang them on a clothesline outside to dry. My next-door neighbor is a horse ranch.

Were I to live this way in America, I would most likely be dubbed “white trash”. But in Israel, I consider myself a pioneer. I live in one of the most beautiful places in Israel, the gorgeous Golan Heights. During the day, I see the sun glimmer off the scenic Sea of Galilee; at night, the lights twinkle from shoreside cities. When I look at the infinite amount of stars that blanket the sky, I think of the promise G-d made Abraham, “Look now towards the heavens and count the stars. If you can count them…so shall be your offspring (Genesis 15:5).” I watch the majestic Griffon vulture soar overhead with its nine-foot wingspan, the “nesher” described in the Torah (commonly mistranslated as an eagle). In a day’s work he may fly to Syria, Lebanon, and back, crossing hostile borders with ease. So call me a redneck, but no amount of money in the world could bribe me to leave this paradise.

Caravans like mine have long played a significant role in Israel’s history. Their predecessors were the massive tent cities built to house nearly one million Jewish refugees from Arab countries in the 1950’s. Then, when the call went out for Jewish pioneers to move back to Judea, Samaria, Gaza and the Golan, their first dwelling was the caravan. And when those courageous trailblazers were subsequently expelled from their beautiful stone homes in Gaza that they had built with sweat, blood and tears, the caravan was there to house them again. The caravan that I live in actually came from Sderot.

In the Golan I see myself living not in a trailer, but in a piece of Israel’s history. Here I watch the future of the Israeli Army developing. I see thirty-five young men push off their life plans for a year, despite the fact that they have three years of army service awaiting them, to refine themselves into the best soldiers humanly possible. And beyond. I listen to the heartwrenching song written during the last Lebanon War by a boy who was shelled in Safed. I feel the pain that one of the young rabbis bears, after losing eight of his officers in the war. I listen to the ancient texts of the Torah being analyzed in the light of modern warfare, by rabbis who are not only brilliant scholars but war heroes as well. Here I see the future of the Jewish people, and never have I been so proud to be part of something so much greater than myself.

Elisha is currently attending a Mechina, a pre-army preparation program, until his draft in March.

I was in a taxi from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv, with a young couple sitting next to me. We got to talking and they asked me what I was doing in Israel. “I’ve been studying here for the past two years, I’m going into the army soon, and as a hobby I try to be a journalist.”

“We’re both journalists,” they said, “what do you write about?”

“I write about what’s going on in Israel, I try to put a face behind the headlines.”

“Have you had anything published?”

“Only in local Jewish publications in my hometown. A mainstream newspaper wouldn’t publish what I have to write.”

“Why not?”

“Because what I write is too controversial.”

“Like what?”

“Like how a ‘Palestinian’ state would be an absolute disaster.” After giving them the rundown on why I believe that is so, the woman asked me, “Have you ever been to the ‘West Bank’?”

“The ‘Wild West’ Bank? Yeah, I’ve been there.”

“Where?”

“All over: Kochav Yaakov, Beit El, Revava, Bethlehem, Hebro-”

“You’ve been to Hebron?”

“Yeah.” I said

“Why should there be Jews there? Six hundred Jews in the middle of tens of thousands of ‘Palestinians’?”

“Well there was actually a much larger Jewish population there until the Netanyahu administration drove them from their houses and gave ninety-seven percent of Hebron to the ‘Palestinians’,” I answered.

“What about the fact that there are streets that the ‘Palestinians’ can’t walk on?”

“There is one hundred-meter stretch of one street that ‘Palestinians’ can’t walk on, and that’s because it’s right in front of the “Jewish side” of the Tomb of the Patriarchs, where thousands of pilgrims visit regularly.” I replied, starting to get annoyed.

“You know in the Jewish Ghetto there was a street that the Jews couldn’t walk on, but at least they made a bridge across it.”

Suddenly, a gentleman sitting in the row in front of us turned around. “I’ll give you each a candy to change the topic,” he said. It was good timing, because at that point my blood was boiling.

How can an Israeli, or for that matter any Jew, honestly compare Hebron to the Warsaw Ghetto? What he was referring to was that the Warsaw Ghetto had two parts: the Big Ghetto and the Small Ghetto. They were connected by a pedestrian bridge. They were also surrounded by barbed wire walls, overpopulated and the population inside diseased and starved. The Warsaw Ghetto was about 4.5% of the city of Warsaw.

The “Palestinians”, on the other hand, occupy 97% of Hebron and  are not surrounded by barbed wire fences. The “Palestinians” are allowed to work, they are not starved nor diseased. They are given full access to Isaac’s Tomb, which Jews are only permitted to visit ten days a year. In fact, Jews are only allowed to visit one quarter of the Tomb of Patriarchs.

If anything the Jewish residence in Hebron is much more “ghetto-like” than the Arab, as much as I absolutely hate to use the term. Jews are only allowed to walk within three percent of the municipal area of Hebron. Thousands of Arabs continue to live in this “Jewish Zone.” Jews are prevented from buying and building houses, even as the community grows naturally.  In the past twenty years, building permits have only been issued for three Jewish buildings. The police have admitted to officially sanctioned discrimination in Hebron, enforcing the laws much more strictly against the Jews than the Arabs.

All of this is only on a practical level. But in Israel things run much deeper than the surface. Hebron was the city that Abraham chose to bury Sarah in, her burial plot being the first Jewish property ever owned in Israel. All of the Patriarchs were there at some point. For the first seven years of his reign, Hebron served as the capitol of King David’s kingdom. It had a vibrant Jewish community throughout the ages, up until the Massacre of 1929, in which Arab mobs mutilated, raped and murdered dozens of the peaceful Jewish residents of Hebron. Isn’t Israel supposed to be the Jewish state? Then how can she forsake Hebron, the city where her forefathers lived and are buried? Much less how could an Israeli compare Hebron to the Warsaw Ghetto?

I am tired of the abuse of Holocaust terms in “Palestinian” propaganda. To think that they deny our Holocaust, then claim that one is being staged in Gaza. How ridiculous is that? Didn’t the “Palestinian” people want all the Israelis to leave Gaza? So they got what they wanted. But when we don’t provide them with water, electricity and “humanitarian” aid as they fire rockets on our civilians, suddenly we are perpetrating a holocaust? By not feeding and supporting people dedicated to our destruction?

Meanwhile, on the Israeli side of the Gaza border they have now developed an “armored tractor”. Basically, it is a bullet-proof, kassam-proof farm tractor. So in order for Israelis to farm their fields, they now need to do so in a tank so that they’re not murdered. The Negev communities have used the “ceasefire” (Gaza has fired over 45 rockets during this time) as an opportunity to build up more shelters, and wait in fearful anticipation during the calm before the storm. Hamas is arming itself to the teeth on the other side of the fence and the Negev residents know that it’s only a matter of time until their life goes back to being a living hell.

There is no point in using the Holocaust as a comparison, because if you do it goes both ways. Last summer, as a volunteer in Sderot I was assigned to help a kindergarten in a bomb shelter. The shelter was two floors underground, with peeling walls. When I walked in the kindergarten teacher asked me if it was hot or cold outside. Upon seeing the look of astonishment on my face, she said, “Welcome to the Warsaw Ghetto.” I looked around me, at children playing two floors underground in a shabby shelter, and I realized that it didn’t look too different from the Warsaw Ghetto. But I was still uncomfortable with the analogy.

I am tired of Jews calling me and saying, “The Israeli army obeying orders and driving Jews out of their houses is like the Nazis, just ‘following orders’” or “Hey, I just saw a documentary about how the treatment of ‘Palestinians’ by the Israeli army is like how the Nazis treated the Jews.” Israel’s conduct with “Palestinians” is in no way comparable to the Holocaust. Six million martyrs would probably turn over in their grave if they heard this. The “Palestinians” are not corralled, diseased, starved, murdered in mass, or gassed. Unless that happens, G-d forbid, I don’t want to hear anymore comparisons of Israel to Nazi Germany. Where Israel was left with no other choice, she put walls around the “Palestinian” towns with soldiers guarding the entrances. But this was a last resort-never did we want it to come down to this. Yes, there are checkpoints that “Palestinians” have to wait in long lines for. This is unfortunate, but it’s also part of the reason for the drastic drop of suicide bombings in the past few years.  There is a small minority of Israeli soldiers whose behavior with the “Palestinians” is disgraceful. There needs to be some reform and enforcement of the rules in this regard. But never has this behavior stooped to the level of Nazis. Comparing the Holocaust and “Palestinians” is an abuse and cheapening of the genocide and torture of our people to a mere catchphrase.

I had an interesting experience last week. I was walking along listening to music, going about my daily life, when I noticed a homeless man in a wheelchair waving at me. “You need some help?” I asked.

“Up! Up!” he kept repeating. I looked at the sharp incline behind me and back at the stump of the man’s leg. “Well I guess G-d blessed me with two legs, so I should help out those who are less fortunate,” I said to myself. I pushed him up the steep hill in the hot sun, sweat pouring down. At the top he offered to buy me an ice cream, but I politely declined. “Where do you need to go?” I asked him.

“To the number four bus stop,” he replied. I thought of how far that was, how hot it was, and how heavy the man was. But I figured he wasn’t going to get there on his own, so why not help him. I pushed him down Jaffa Street, the busiest street in central Jerusalem. It is under heavy construction, supposedly for a new railway system. Currently there is only a narrow passageway fenced off on the side of the road for pedestrians. I pushed him along this corridor and he asked every person we passed for a shekel. Whoever didn’t give him, which was the vast majority of passersby, he shouted uncomplimentary remarks about their mother in Arabic. About halfway down the passage, he started shouting again. “Up! Up!” he shouted.

“But I am taking you up!” I answered.

“Help the man, can’t you see he’s falling?” a shopkeeper usefully suggested to me.

“Why don’t you help me?” I asked the man. Together we were able to lift the fragrant man up onto his seat and we continued on our way. We began approaching the end of the passageway, right before Zion square, where it was most congested. Suddenly, he saw a woman beggar sitting on the street and her face lit up in recognition. “Stop. Stop!” he shouted, “This is the nicest woman in Jerusalem.” He rummaged through his bag to find some money to give his friend, and the crowd began gathering behind us. A woman pushing a stroller started speaking to me in fast-pace French. After about a minute of this, I turned to her and said, “Lady, I don’t speak French.”

By this point, the one-legged man had found a decent amount of change to give his homeless ladyfriend. A smile spread across her lined face. I immediately thought of the Jewish law that if a person is too poor to give charity on Purim, then two paupers must exchange charity to one another. Now I understood why. I started pushing him again. “Stop! Stop!” he cried.

“What?” I asked.

“I want a kiss from her,” he said. I rolled my eyes, but waited for him to get on with it. A man behind me pointed out the obvious, “Excuse me, there are other people who want to get by here.”

“I don’t know this man,” I replied, “so you can either help me or quit complaining.” Meanwhile the homeless courtship was continuing.  The crippled man reached out his filthy hand and the beggar woman took it and kissed it. It was almost beautiful if it wasn’t so tragic. Finally, we were able to move and the angry mob behind us stormed off, grumbling. I no longer cared what they said, I was on the homeless guy’s side. All these people just walk by him and make comments, but no one stops to help. After another ten minutes of pushing him uphill, refusing more ice cream, lifting his sweaty body again and listening to a slew of Arab curse words, I got him to his stop and went on my way.

After I left I got to thinking. For twenty-five minutes I experienced what it’s like to live in this man’s world. What it’s like to be ridiculed, ignored, and even worse, to be invisible. It was absolute hell. But I also learned what it’s like to see a smiling face after seeing a hundred unfriendly ones. I left him with my body drenched in sweat and my hands reeking to the high heavens. But I knew there was a reason I had run into him, and I was even glad I did. I appreciate my relatively comfortable life and the use of both legs much more now. I will try not to be so judgemental next time I see a homeless person. But most importantly, I saw that you can never know what it’s like to be another person until you walk a mile in their shoes…or at least push them around for half an hour.

When I see artists painting the same stone arches and cobblestone streets that I walk through every day, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When I walk into Jaffa Gate, and I’m not the least bit surprised to see a camel sitting there, or someone playing sitar, guitar, or harp. When I see the policemen riding in the ancient streets on six-feet-tall horses and imagine that it must not have looked too different here three thousand years ago, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When I get heckled by Arab vendors shouting at me in English, “Come into my shop!” and I see their jaw drop as I, a blond-haired, blue-eyed American Jew say to them, “No thanks, but have a great day!” in fluent Arabic, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When I hear music from my balcony late at night and I follow it. When it leads me to a group of young Jews sitting under the giant golden Menorah, designed to look like the one used in the Temple and I sit. When I look around and I see Americans and Israelis and Brits, “black and white” yeshiva students and religious Zionists in T-shirts and shorts. When a Hassid, donned in the full traditional dress, stops by and starts playing a guitar and another one joins in on the flute. When we all sing songs of Jerusalem late into the night and forget the differences between us, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When a bride and groom come to film their wedding video and we all start singing the ancient Jewish wedding song, “Quickly, quickly, oh G-d our Lord, let us hear again in the cities of Judah and in the outskirts of Jerusalem the voice of rejoicing and the voice of happiness, the voice of a groom and the voice of a bride,” and I see their faces light up, right across from the Temple Mount, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When I go to an open-house Friday night meal and over a hundred people are eating there, free of charge, and the host stands up and apologizes that it’s a bit crowded, but don’t worry-they’re adding on, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When my wallet falls into a sewer and before I even have a chance to attempt to get it out myself, a bunch of strangers crowd around, push me “out of the way” and do it themselves, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When I sit out on my balcony and take in the view. When I look to my left and see the Western Wall and Temple Mount. When I look straight ahead and I see a candlelit wedding in the gardens by the southern wall of the Temple Mount. When I look to my right and see the lights twinkling in the ancient City of David. When I see the beautiful fireworks shooting up, indicating that one of our “cousins” just got married. When I sit and watch the orange, layered sunrise, like a breathtaking painting over the hills of Jordan as a rooster crows, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”

When I think of Pesach Susnitsky, who in 1892 was arrested on Shabbat in Brenham, Texas. Who was carried to jail, then subsequently released for keeping Shabbat, since he refused to attend the Saturday hearing. Would he, in his wildest dreams, ever have fantasized that over a hundred years later his great-great-grandson would be living in the Old City of Jerusalem, welcoming in the Holy Shabbat at the Western Wall with thousands of other Jews, of every color and every flavor, from every corner of the globe, together as one?

Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.

I feel compelled to share this heartwarming story with you that happened to me on Friday: I was waiting in line at the ATM in the Old City of Jerusalem. As I was taking my credit card out, my wallet fell out of my hand and slipped into a grate covering a sewer four feet below. “What did you drop?” asked a man walking by.
“My wallet,” I answered.
“Oh, I dropped my keys down there once.”
That didn’t really make me feel any better. Somehow I managed not to despair as I thought about the fact that all of my cash, credit cards, keys, and ID were in that wallet. I also needed to catch a bus to Sderot soon and I now had no money. I walked to one of my rabbi’s houses and asked his wife if she had the number of the city’s sanitation department. She said no, but to bring her kids to where it was. “They’re smart,” she said, “they’ll figure something out.” I showed them where it was and went back to my room to get some wire hangers.
By the time I got back, one of the kids had come back with an iron rod and a thick rope, and a group of French tourist girls were standing around. We tried fishing the wallet out with the hangers, unsuccessfully. Then we tried to pry the drain cover up with the iron rod. After several attempts, I, my rabbis’ kids, and the French girls were able to lift up the forty pound piece of metal. I was a bit hesitant to go in to the open sewer, as I was already wearing my Shabbat clothes. Before I knew it, one of the French girls lowered herself into the sewer, and picked my wallet up with her feet. As she did so, all her friends starting singing something in French, what I imagine is the French equivalent of “way to go” or “2-4-6-8″. I thanked them and they disappeared.
My wallet was just a bit dirty on the outside and nothing had even gotten wet. With a big sigh of relief I thought this debacle was over. However, as I was replacing the drain cover with another guy, it fell down into the sewer. Now there was a forty pound drain cover four feet in the ground, and a gaping hole in front of an ATM on a busy street. I could not conceive of any way to get it out and resigned myself to calling the city. But an Israeli man and his son walking by decided to stop and help. Immediately, his son dropped down on his stomach and tried to lift up the drain cover, but it was too heavy. After several failed attempts, the son managed to tie the rope around the drain cover, and together we all lifted it up and replaced it. I tried to offer to pay to have the son’s clothes cleaned, as he had made his white shirt and black pants completely filthy. He refused, saying he’ll just throw them in the washing machine and they went on their way.
I cannot imagine another place in the entire world where a bunch of total strangers would stop and help someone in need. Where a young girl would lower herself into a sewer to get out a stranger’s wallet. Where a man and his son would put in a lot of effort and ruin their clothes, again to help a stranger. I am not sure that the concept of “stranger” even exists in Israel. Because when I walk around, even if I haven’t met the people around me just yet, I never feel estranged.

With Love from the Holy Land,
Elisha

In the spirit of my favorite magazine, the New Yorker, I decided to give this article a ridiculous, satirical title to portray how ludicrous ignorant smear campaigns can be. For those of you who do not know what I am referring to, the latest New Yorker magazine cover beheld Barack Obama wearing full Arab garb, pounding fists with his wife, who is dressed like a black panther-esque terrorist. On the wall hangs a picture of Osama bin Laden, and an American flag burns in the fireplace. To top it all off, all of this is taking place in the Oval Office. (To see it for yourself go to http://www.stuff.co.nz/images/738865.jpg) The New Yorker claimed it was a satire of smear campaigns. But it kind of backfired on them. You see, 99.99% of Americans do not read the New Yorker. So when they went to the newsstands to pick up a paper or a Sports Illustrated, they glanced at this cover and thought, “Oh. Obama equals Arab.” and went about their day. An aside, there is no country Palestine nor has their ever been one under sovereign rulership. We can only pray that there never will be one.
Barack Obama came to Israel Tuesday, acting as though he was already president. In a thirty-six hour visit strongly reminiscent of Republican candidate John McCain’s trip to Israel, he visited Sderot, Ramallah, Yad Vashem, and the Kotel (Western Wall). The gesture he made by going to Sderot is very meaningful. Due to the fact that Hamas is busy rearming itself to the teeth under a so-called “ceasefire,” the danger of him going there was much less then when McCain was there last March. However, that was not his fault and the gesture was appreciated nonetheless. I also admire that he had the courage to go to the Kotel, which Bush did not.
Originally, Obama planned to come to the Kotel at 10 PM. However, he pushed it off until five the next morning. Was he tired? Perhaps. Or maybe he wanted his visit to Judaism’s holiest site to be broadcast live on prime time news in America, as opposed to the early afternoon slot it would have been. Meaningful gesture or media stunt to win over Jewish voters? You can decide for yourself.
Sharp shooters manned a perimeter around the Kotel plaza, as they always do when there is a big event or a famous person coming to visit. Obama’s motorcade of flashy black SUV’s and limousines drove in, and the tall, young, possible future president of the United States stepped out. The truth is that few people were there to see him. His main supporters had shown up the night before, with big signs saying “Barack Obama” in Hebrew letters and “Jews for Obama.” However, these people had left disappointed six hours earlier and did not return.
As he stepped out his car, he want along a fence to shake some hands. If he was trying to spot out the Americans, he did a rather lousy job. Most of the people’s hands he shook were actually Australian. I certainly hope he wins the Australian vote in the upcoming election. Once he began nearing me, he had already stopped shaking hands. So I said to him what I would say to any current or possible future world leader. “Mr. Obama, please don’t give Israel away. It’s the only thing we have.” He chose to ignore me. His five minute prayer at the Kotel involved him being heckled by Israelis and blinded by flashbulbs-not exactly the most spiritual experience. On his way back, I extended my hand again. “Mr. Obama, I’m an American voter. Please shake my hand.” Again, he ignored me. So I said, “Please don’t give away Jerusalem,” as he continued back to his vehicle.
Why would I say these things? Have I been brainwashed by narrow minded warmongering right-wing Orthodox Jews? Maybe. Or maybe I went on his website and looked at his policies. On the “Israel Fact Sheet” it states, “Barack Obama believes in working towards a two-state solution, with both states living side by side in peace and security.” It’s a nice idea, and I believe it is possible. If the current state of Israel becomes the “Palestinian” state and the Mediterranean Sea becomes the Jewish state, I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t be able to live side by side in peace and security. But anything short of that is a fantasy. The establishment of a “Palestinian” state will put me within eyeshot of an Arab terrorist state. I hope to elaborate in full on the practical reasons why that is so in a future article.
There was also the AIPAC fiasco. On June 4, before the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, he declared “…any agreement with the Palestinian people must preserve Israel’s identity as a Jewish state with secure, recognized, defensible borders. And Jerusalem will remain the capital of Israel and it must remain undivided.” The next day, after PA leader Abbas strongly condemned him, a campaign adviser “clarified” his statements. “Jerusalem is a final status issue, which means it has to be negotiated between the two parties” as part of “an agreement that they both can live with. Two principles should apply to any outcome,” which the adviser gave as: “Jerusalem remains Israel’s capital and it’s not going to be divided by barbed wire and checkpoints as it was in 1948-1967.” This month Obama again “elaborated” on his comment on CNN, “You know, the truth is that this was an example where we had some poor phrasing in the speech. And we immediately tried to correct the interpretation that was given. The point we were simply making was, is that we don’t want barbed wire running through Jerusalem, similar to the way it was prior to the ‘67 war, that it is possible for us to create a Jerusalem that is cohesive and coherent.”
If this man plans on being a world leader, he needs to say what he means. If he says one thing to the Jews and then changes it as soon as he faces “Palestinian” criticism, it makes me seriously doubt his integrity. If he wants to be president, he needs to stick by what he says. Obama must stop trying to please everyone on every side of the argument and take a firm stance. The creation of a “Palestinian” state is a concession that puts Israel’s security at grave risk. Until Obama retracts his support for it, I won’t be voting for him. And neither should you.

With Love from the Holy Land,
Elisha

As I sat at lunch last Wednesday, I heard the words that I dread most. “Did you hear about the terrorist attack?” I felt my heart speed up in fear. “A tractor (the Hebrew word for bulldozer) flipped over a bus.” I rushed to the computer and was horrified by what I saw. An Arab Israeli resident of East Jerusalem, Hussam Duwiyat, went on a killing spree in a bulldozer on the busiest street in Jerusalem. The terrorist flipped over a city bus and crushed several cars. Bat-Sheva Unterman, 33, a Jerusalem nursery school teacher, was going about her daily life, driving her baby Efrat in her car. When she saw the bulldozer coming toward her she managed to hand her baby to someone outside of the car, but did not have time to save herself. She was crushed in her car. Lili Goren-Friedman, 54, a school teacher and former vice president of the Jewish Institute, was the second of the slain. Lastly, Jean Relevy, 68, was murdered by the Arab terrorist. Jean was born in Iran and made Aliyah (moved to Israel) from India in 1949.
Various policemen climbed on top of the bulldozer attempting to stop the driver, unsuccessfully. One man saw what needed to be done and stood up to the task. He was more a boy then a man really, an 18-year-old Yeshiva graduate on leave from the army, named Moshe F (his identity is being kept secret for his safety). He was riding his bicycle and saw the attack happening. Moshe ran to the scene, climbed onto the tractor and shouted at a policeman already on it to shoot the terrorist. When the policeman hesitated, he grabbed a pistol from a security guard behind him and shot the terrorist himself, three times to the head. Only then did a Yassam policeman get up on the bulldozer and shoot the terrorist again, to “confirm the kill.” The Yassam policemen are the infamous Israeli “supercops” or “men in black.” Men with no identity, and most likely no soul. So effective, so brutal when it comes to beating their fellow Jews. Yet when it comes to actually doing what they are trained to do, stop terrorists, they froze this past Wednesday. It took an 18-year-old Yeshiva boy to have the courage to stop the murderer. Incidentally (or not so incidentally), Moshe was the brother-in-law of David Shapira, the soldier on leave who stopped the terrorist at the Mercaz HaRav Yeshiva High School a few months ago.
Let me make one thing clear. This was not an oppressed “Palestinian” acting out of desperation. This was a man with full rights, with Israeli citizenship, given work by Israelis. Yet he still decided to murder and wound innocent civilians. The terrorist who murdered eight innocent boys at Mercaz HaRav a few months ago was from the same East Jerusalem neighborhood. Let this dispel the myth once and for all that East Jerusalem Arabs are docile, peace-loving, law abiding citizens. There is absolutely no difference between the Arabs in East Jerusalem and those in Gaza, at least in regards to their support of terrorism against Israel.
The attack itself was not as much of a surprise as the fact that it hasn’t happened sooner. When we surround ourselves with a violent people dedicated to our destruction, what do you expect? How many more mothers, sisters, brothers and fathers will have to die before a permanent solution is made? These victims were innocent, going about their daily lives, and they were crushed to death in their cars by a cold blooded Arab terrorist. What did two teachers and an old man do to deserve such an awful death? Bat-Sheva sacrificed her life to save that of her baby’s. Do I need to fear every bulldozer I walk by, every crane, every tractor and every truck operated by Arab workers? Israel brought this upon herself by ignoring the inherent risks of hiring a massive Arab work force in return for cheap labor. There are plenty of Jewish immigrants who would be more than glad to take these jobs and then we can avoid having to live in fear.
* * *
Later that night I went to a beautiful wedding just outside the Old City walls. The Chuppah was held on the balcony of the David’s Citadel hotel, with the background of the sun setting over David’s tower. I thought there about the pattern of Jewish life. The day may have started with the darkness of terror, but it ended with the light of a young Jewish wedding. This is the Jewish order of life, first there is dark and then there is light. First there is evening and then there is morning. No matter how hard our enemies may try, they will never succeed in extinguishing the light in us.
* * *

The Torah portion this past week was Chukat. Though Chukat is my Bar Mitzvah Parsha, I never learned it in depth, as it always falls out in the summer. I decided to study it properly this year, with the latest Arab terrorist attack fresh in my mind. I noticed that it contains several clear instructions for how the Jewish nation is to conduct itself.
When the Jews approach the nations living around the borders of Israel, they send messengers asking for passage to the Holy Land. They say, “We will go up on the highway…, I will pay their price, nothing will happen. I will pass through on foot (Numbers 20:19).” Rav Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal, who was murdered by the Nazis, writes in his masterpiece Eim Habanim Semeichah that this verse indicates how the Jews had to return to Israel to make a state. We had to go up with the permission of the kings. Twice, once in the League of Nations in 1922 and again in the U.N. in 1947, the nations of the world gave the Jews permission to return to their land. Thus, it was possible for the Jews to make a state after two thousand years of exile. Then, “Israel will dwell in safety, alone, in the likeness of Jacob (Deuteronomy 33:28)”
Later on in their travels, the Jews were attacked. “The Canaanite, king of Arad, who lived in the south, heard that Israel had come by the route of the spies, and he warred against Israel and captured a captive from it (Numbers 21:1).” The great Torah commentator Rashi explains the seemingly superfluous terminology of “captured a captive” to mean that the captive was a slavewoman. Nevertheless, Israel retaliates. First, they pray. Then, they attack. “G-d heard the voice of Israel, and He delivered the Canaanite, and destroyed them and their cities (Numbers 21:3).” Today, there are three captives being held from the Jewish nation: Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev in Lebanon, and Gilad Schalit in Gaza. These were not slavewomen, they were soldiers protecting their people. Yet, for the past two years the Israeli government has done next to nothing to free them. The Torah gives clear instruction how to respond to captors: not to negotiate with the terrorists and reward them for their treachery, as Israel is currently doing with Hamas and Hizbullah. Rather we should pray and put our trust in G-d, then destroy them and their cities.
Lastly, the Torah portion teaches us how to handle land captured in defensive war. Israel sent messengers to Sichon, the Emorite king, asking for peaceful passage through their land. “But Sichon did not permit Israel to pass through his border, and Sichon assembled his entire people and went out against Israel to the desert. He arrived at Yatzah and waged war against Israel. Israel struck him with the edge of the sword and took possession of his land (Numbers 21:23-24).” Israel was attacked, unprovoked. They fought a defensive war, won, and kept the land they conquered. The term used here for “took possession of” in Hebrew is Vayirash, which literally means “and they inherited.” The Torah is telling us here that when the Jewish people capture land in a defensive war, they are so entitled to it it’s as if they inherited it from their parents. In June 1967, Israel was attacked, unprovoked, by Syria and Jordan (and Egypt). In the six days of defensive war that ensued, Israel captured what is known as the “West Bank” and the Golan Heights. Aside from the fact that never has there been a historical precedent of a country returning land won in a defensive war, the Torah clearly tells us that our entitlement to that land is so strong it is as if we inherited it. Therefore, their should be no discussion of “occupation” or returning these lands; they are ours forever, as an inheritance.

For those of you have read this far and are under the impression that I am an insane religious fanatic, I assure you that every point I have made here has practical backing as well as historical precedent. I welcome you to take up any issue you have with what I have said and I will explain it in further detail. I have attached a video of Moshe stopping the terrorist as well as a link to his full account of what happened.
http://www.cbc.ca/clips/mov/rampage-080702.mov
http://www.israelnationalnews.com/News/News.aspx/126707

With Love from the Holy Land,
Elisha

As I was walking out of the Old City of Jerusalem today, a man wearing a big yellow sign handed me a flyer. “Big hug around the Old City of Jerusalem. Join thousands of people holding hands with open hearts to promote happiness and human unity in the Holy Land and around the whole world.” The idea was to make a human chain around the Old City, followed by a joint, non-denominational prayer and song and dance. I smiled to myself and went on with my day.
On my way back into the Old City later tonight, I heard the sound of drums from a far. As I got closer I saw a conglomeration of people around a circle of bongos. Did they make it around Old City? Probably not. There were the mandatory hippies, of course, but also a surprising number of religious Jews, some even in black and white; there were Arabs, some of the women wearing the traditional head covering, as a well as an assortment of other people. People were laughing and singing, Jews and Arabs side by side. Is it possible?! Does this show hope that there is indeed hope for peace in Israel? Is this a precursor to the utopia imagined by some liberals, of a single secular state in which the Arabs are in charge of the streetlights and the Jews the mail? Maybe.
But I doubt it. The problem with this mini-utopia which mine eyes beheld is that it was only thirty people. This could never happen on a nationwide scale. There will never be peace with Jews and Arabs living together. I’m not a racist, I’m a realist. The hate here is in people’s blood, not their mind. From birth, the Arabs are taught to hate Jews. Unless it is enforced by Israel, no “Palestinian” textbook even has a map of Israel in it. The Muslim leaders glorify bloodshed and jihad, less than a hundred meters away from where I live. The media pumps them with propaganda against Israel and promoting violence. The “Palestinians” do not want peace.
It’s not as if Israel hasn’t tried. When Jewish settlers arrived in Israel at the turn of the twentieth century, they lived rather peacefully with the Arabs around them. The Jews bought the land legitimately, offering gifts of friendships to the local leaders and more often than not buying disease-infested swamps. The Arabs could care less about their new neighbors. Once the Jews converted the disease-infested swamps into beautiful orchards, the Arabs’ eyes started turning green. They introduced their Arab neighbors to modern medicine, clean water, and successful agricultural technique. The quality of life for Arabs in Israel was higher than any Arab country (it still is). Tens of thousands of Arabs swarmed to the Holy Land, seeking a better life amongst the Jews.
So what went wrong? The Arab leaders were not pleased with the fact that they were losing control of their people, who up until now had lived in a feudal system, with the majority of people living in poverty that bordered on slavery. They incited the Arab masses to jihad and the rest is history. Israel’s has had seven official wars. But the truth is she has been at war since the day she was founded. Maybe it is only because the Arabs want a state of their own, with full rights, and they only use violence as a desperate last resort? Perhaps. But then how do you explain the massacre in Hebron of 1929, in which dozens of Jews were slaughtered and injured; and the remaining Jews were forced to flee Hebron, never to return in full number to the ancient Jewish city, even to this day? There was no Jewish state then, no “oppression of the poor ‘Palestinian’ people.” They rose up and murdered their neighbors out of cold blood. And this was not a lone occurrence.
So what do we do now? Some propose a joint secular state, but as I said before, that will never happen. The prevalent Western opinion today is the two-state “solution.” I agree. We should make one Jewish state and one Palestinian state. We’ll call the Jewish state Israel and the Palestinian state Jordan. The original land appropriated to the Jewish state and verified by every country in the League of Nations (the equivalent of the U.N. today) in 1922 included modern day Jordan. Britain was given a mandate over the area to oversee the construction of the Jewish state. But Britain went behind our back, and made what is known as Jordan today an Arab state. Jordan had a vast majority of “Palestinian” residents, with a Saudi Arabian king in charge. The “Palestinians” want a state of their own? Fine, move to Jordan. I challenge you to give every “Palestinian” in the West Bank Jordanian citizenship and see how many stay. More than fifty thousand “Palestinians” have left Gaza since it was given autonomy in 2005. Many more would join them if not for fear of having their families murdered, and if their Arab “brethren” would grant them citizenship. The “Palestinians” prefer to stay in Israel? Fine, as long as they stop supporting those among them who blow up, shoot, stab, and fire rockets at innocent civilians.
I am tired and you may be tired of reading this. In the future, with G-d’s help, I will continue. I will provide several practical reasons for why a “Palestinian” state would be an absolute disaster. If you are interested or at least intrigued, read it. Everything I have written is with basis. If there has been any misunderstanding or if you take contention with anything I have said, feel free to take it up with me. Good night.

With Love from the Holy Land,
Elisha