The State of the Union is (adjective)

This week, President Obama will deliver the annual “State of the Union” to Congress, broadcast live throughout the United States, and around the world. Commentators and pundits will spend days analyzing and commenting on Obama’s address from even before he begins, with advanced copies provided to the press. Many are looking at this address as much as a “State of the Obama Presidency” as it is about the state of the Union. Indeed, it will be interesting to hear what the President has to say about the state of the Union, reflecting on the end of his first year in office and looking ahead. The President is likely to begin his remarks with the traditional formula, “Madam Speaker, the State of the Union is (adjective).” The question is what adjective President Obama will use. It’s unlikely that he’ll pick a word that resembles one which Jimmy Carter used in a different address, and which has haunted him since, malaise. And he may want to use a word that has not used before, or at least one that has been over used. What do you think? What word will President Obama use? What word should he use? While not scientific, please do share your thoughts before the pundits have their say and before Obama begins his remarks. And while you’re at it, please share any notable highlights of Obama’s first year, good or bad. Living for the first 40 years of my life in the United States, it’s clear that the state of the Union is important to all Americans. However, living in Israel since 2004, it has become clear that the state of the Union is something that is important worldwide, on a myriad of levels. Ideally, please share your adjectives and any other remarks at http://jonathanfeldstein.blogspot.com, or you may go to my Facebook page but since that is an audience of limited number, I’d rather you share your thoughts on my blog. If you don’t want your comments shared publically, you may send me an e-mail at no1abba@gmail.com.

Remembering To Never Forget

The following excerpt is from “Hidden” (http://uwpress.wisc.edu/books/3522.htm) a memoir of the survival of a brother and sister from Kanczuga, Poland, the town in which my paternal grandmother’s family once lived for generations. Their account of life in Kanczuga and their lives in hiding is deeply personal and I share it this week, marking the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Rather than passing along things that have been circulating e-mail lists and the internet for years, I hope to add a moment of meaning and a personal reflection on the Holocaust for those who read this, and for future generations, even if it is only those who are my own descendants. While Jews observe Yom Hashoah on the 27th of the month of Nissan, international Holocaust Remembrance Day will take place this week, January 27. In an era of growing Holocaust denial, and the aging of the remaining survivors whose personal experiences will one day only be a distant memory, I share this account both because it is personal and vivid, and also because while I do not know the Rosens and did not know their family, the life and murder of their relatives as noted here were lived and ended the same as my grandmother’s family. In the event that one day someone should ever doubt the veracity of these accounts, I take the liberty of sharing something that is also deeply personal and connected to my own family in Kanczuga, and the recount below. In the early 1990s, I became president of the First Kanczuger Society, a Landsmannschaft (welfare and cultural associations for Jews from cities, towns and villages throughout Europe and Russia established to provide kinship and support for émigrés, survivors and their descendents) established by my great-grandfather, Shalom Yakov Birnbach, in 1901. In the course of meeting several of the members who were born in Kanczuga and who remembered my family, I got to know Benny Shanzer (Yankele Kelstecher*). Benny shared with me that when my father came to the US, Benny got him his first job. And Benny also remembered my great-grandmother, Dreizel Hamel Birnbach, who he credited with saving his life. As the Jews of Kanczuga were being rounded up to be murdered, Dreizel turned to Yankele and said, “You’re too young.” Yankele knew that meant they were going to be murdered and used this as the impetus to escape, and survive, as is recounted just in passing below. I have never been to Kanczuga and can only imagine what life was like there before 1939. My sense is that just as in any community there were rivalries and differences within the community, yet there was nevertheless a great sense of community. This sense of community was what motivated my great-grandmother to inspire Yankele to save himself. It is what brought Yankele, Bernie and Yehuda to come back to Kanczuga in April 1945 to bury the seven Jews murdered in a pogrom after the War ended and to protect the survivors. It is what made it second nature for Benny to help find a job for the grandson of Dreizel who saved his life when he arrived in the US as a new immigrant himself. While this week we mark the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, my relatives who were murdered, with their neighbors witnessing it all standing by as spectators, on a hill on the outskirts of Kanczuga never made it to Auschwitz. I remember my great-grandparents, Shalom Yakov and Dreizel Birnbach, their children, sons and daughters in law, siblings, cousins and grandchildren who were murdered in a hastily dug ditch in the summer of 1942. I also remember the relatives on my grandfather’s side whose names are not all known but whose lives must be remembered nonetheless. While the account below is not about them, their lives were lived alongside those who are mentioned, as were their lives taken from them in exactly the same way. May we, and the generations that follow, always remember to never forget. Hidden – Fay Walker and Leo Rosen Prologue 1942 (http://uwpress.wisc.edu/books/3522.htm) We were hidden in the countryside by the time the war flooded the streets of tiny Kanczuga, until the screams and bursts of gunfire were as familiar as the cries of the peddlers hawking their wares in the rynek, the town’s main marketplace. More than a hundred of our people were executed at point blank range in front of the Brill’s house. Then early one morning, two young SS men, ably aided by the Polish police, rounded up the hundreds of Jews who had not managed to hide themselves in time. The officers deposited then in the main square, where they stood in shocked silence, some of them still in nightclothes, shivering in the sparkling dawn. Now the police herded their prisoners past the jeering crowd and in to the synagogue. Our people struggled to stare straight ahead, but, as they trudged the dusty streets, they found themselves peering into the faces they had known all their lives, into the flat features and pale eyes of their closest neighbors, empty and cold as death. Kanczuga‘s newest synagogue was a good quarter mile from the Jewish cemetery on the edge of town. It was not quite complicated, but already it was the pride of our community, a spacious sanctuary large enough to seat several hundred people. That Shabbos, every inch of the shul was filled for the first time. Yet it was eerily quiet, the low murmurs punctuated only by the occasional barking if a policeman. Our family, apart from the two in hiding, filled the floor by the eastern wall. Tata’s brother David sat with his wife and three of their five children, Aron, Runie, and little Golda, named after our grandmother. The other two children had been on vacation with their mother’s parents and had already been captured and sent to Siberia. Wordless and watchful, our Tata fingered a pocket of his long, black coat and stroked his beard. Beside him, Mamche, her face raw from weeping, rested a delicate hand on one of my sisters’ shoulders. Now and then she whispered to little Tunia, who was serious even in the best of times. The child’s face, olive-skinned as a Gypsy’s, glistened with tears. Pretty Senia, Aryan-blond and almost a teenager, seemed out of place in this group of frightened Jews. She scanned the wan faces, searching for friends from school. With so many bodies huddled together, the room was close with the odor of human flesh. People slept standing, straight as sentries; others twisted into unnatural positions on the floor. At some point, rain tapped a somber staccato on the roof and windows. A poor tradesman, reverential and cowering, broke off from the crowd to consult with Tata. “Do you think they’ll deport us instead of killing us? Maybe send us away and spare our lives, God willing?” Our taciturn father shrugged and shook his head. “Who is to say?” he asked. “I have heard that the families who didn’t come to the square to be picked up were shot in their homes. We can only wait and put our faith in God. God will provide for us. God has never forsaken us.” Like everyone else, my parents had come to the shul without packing a bag. But my best friend, Bruchcia Laufer, whose family had been temporarily spared because they were engineers still useful to the Reich, visited every day with supplies. That Friday morning, she brought two white Shabbos candles. The crowded room was hushed now, as Mamche lit the trembling flames. For a moment, her face was illuminated, as if from within. When she said the bracha, her shimmering soprano could scarcely be heard, so quickly did it make its way to God. Blessed are You, oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who commands us to light the Sabbath candles. Shabbos morning arrived warm and bright, but the synagogue was musky with fear. Several men began to daven, and Tata joined them in prayer, swaying back and forth to the familiar chants. Mamche, as a woman forbidden to pray with the men, hummed the wailing nigunim under her breath, her voice sweet and smooth as her homemade jam, her pitch never wavering. The families were still praying when the police ordered them to leave their families and trek the short distance up the hill to the cemetery. Mamche gripped the girls harder, her fingers digging so deeply into their flesh that they squirmed, but they did not break away. Our father, never a demonstrative man, reached for our mother’s hand. The gesture was so unexpected that she met his eyes with a smile. Then the butt of an unseen rifle knocked Tata squarely between the shoulder blades, and he flinched and moved on without speaking. They traveled a short distance in wagons. A boy named Yankele Kelstecher jumped out of his wagon and disappeared into the woods before the policemen could fire.(*) Then the men were ordered out of the wagons. Perhaps the thought of Yankele gave the men strength as they climbed in a thin, halting line along the muddy path that wove through a cornfield. They passed a scarecrow, mocking in unfettered repose. At the crest of the hill was the tree-lined cemetery, its tombstones swathed in even rows of shrubbery. As if on command, the men paused to catch their breaths and to wipe their brows. They gazed out over the crest of the hill to the patchwork of fields below. For a moment, they forgot their terror and shook their heads at the lush landscape. It could not be helped; they loved this country. A straight-backed officer handed out shovels and told them to dig. “Keep digging,” he said. “We’ll tell you when you’re finished.” Most of the men were spindly and weak, with soft palms more used to the Hebrew siddur than to the spade. “Dig, keep digging! Thought you could get away with something, eh? Thought you could hide from us, you filthy Jews?” When at last they were allowed to stop, the men stood in silence beside the freshly dug earth. Their faces slick with tears and sweat, they stared at the raised rifles in astonishment. At eyes opaque as marbles, that didn’t look back. Then they saw the other eyes, those of their neighbors, the customers in their shops, the people to whom they had just last week sold a loaf of bread, who gave them a good price on chickens and eggs. The goyim stood or sat on their haunches in unruly rows alongside the policemen. Whole families, with baskets of cheese and bread and homemade wine, little ones scurrying along the fringes of the crowd, hunting down field mice. The chattering spectators were in an edgy, festive mood, the women’s heads bobbing in their colorful scarves. “Zyd!” they cried. “Jew! Out with the Jews!” The policemen raised their rifles. One hundred hearts were broken before a single shot was fired. When it was over, the audience applauded and cheered. The next day, the sunlight was so fierce that the women shielded their eyes when they were led outside. They climbed through the tall grass directly to the pit, as if they had done so many times before, their children sobbing at their skirts. A fetid smell they did not recognize reached their nostrils, and they covered their faces in horror. When the policemen loaded their rifles, Senia clutched Mamche’s waist. “I don’t want to die!” she cried. “The sun is shining so brightly, and I am so young, Mamche. I want to grow up in this beautiful world.” For the first time in Senia’s life, our Mamche could do nothing to help. She could not hold her any closer; she could not love her any more. One policeman who witnessed this scene was so moved that, later, he would recall Senia’s words to the Kwasniaks, who had worked for us back in town. Then a bullet shattered our little sister’s face, and she collapsed at Mamche’s feet, spraying blood in her new white shoes. Next, Tunia dropped onto Senia, her breath a shallow purr. Even before the third shot was fired, our mother fell on them both, trying to protect what was no longer hers. Beside the gunmen, the onlookers, some of whom had tied handkerchiefs over their noses to stave off the scent, clapped and shouted their approval. A burst of laughter skimmed the crowd. Neighbors clapped each other on the back, not quite meeting each other’s gaze.

Remembering To Never Forget

The following excerpt is from “Hidden” (http://uwpress.wisc.edu/books/3522.htm) a memoir of the survival of a brother and sister from Kanczuga, Poland, the town in which my paternal grandmother’s family once lived for generations. Their account of life in Kanczuga and their lives in hiding is deeply personal and I share it this week, marking the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Rather than passing along things that have been circulating e-mail lists and the internet for years, I hope to add a moment of meaning and a personal reflection on the Holocaust for those who read this, and for future generations, even if it is only those who are my own descendants. While Jews observe Yom Hashoah on the 27th of the month of Nissan, international Holocaust Remembrance Day will take place this week, January 27. In an era of growing Holocaust denial, and the aging of the remaining survivors whose personal experiences will one day only be a distant memory, I share this account both because it is personal and vivid, and also because while I do not know the Rosens and did not know their family, the life and murder of their relatives as noted here were lived and ended the same as my grandmother’s family. In the event that one day someone should ever doubt the veracity of these accounts, I take the liberty of sharing something that is also deeply personal and connected to my own family in Kanczuga, and the recount below. In the early 1990s, I became president of the First Kanczuger Society, a Landsmannschaft (welfare and cultural associations for Jews from cities, towns and villages throughout Europe and Russia established to provide kinship and support for émigrés, survivors and their descendents) established by my great-grandfather, Shalom Yakov Birnbach, in 1901. In the course of meeting several of the members who were born in Kanczuga and who remembered my family, I got to know Benny Shanzer (Yankele Kelstecher*). Benny shared with me that when my father came to the US, Benny got him his first job. And Benny also remembered my great-grandmother, Dreizel Hamel Birnbach, who he credited with saving his life. As the Jews of Kanczuga were being rounded up to be murdered, Dreizel turned to Yankele and said, “You’re too young.” Yankele knew that meant they were going to be murdered and used this as the impetus to escape, and survive, as is recounted just in passing below. I have never been to Kanczuga and can only imagine what life was like there before 1939. My sense is that just as in any community there were rivalries and differences within the community, yet there was nevertheless a great sense of community. This sense of community was what motivated my great-grandmother to inspire Yankele to save himself. It is what brought Yankele, Bernie and Yehuda to come back to Kanczuga in April 1945 to bury the seven Jews murdered in a pogrom after the War ended and to protect the survivors. It is what made it second nature for Benny to help find a job for the grandson of Dreizel who saved his life when he arrived in the US as a new immigrant himself. While this week we mark the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, my relatives who were murdered, with their neighbors witnessing it all standing by as spectators, on a hill on the outskirts of Kanczuga never made it to Auschwitz. I remember my great-grandparents, Shalom Yakov and Dreizel Birnbach, their children, sons and daughters in law, siblings, cousins and grandchildren who were murdered in a hastily dug ditch in the summer of 1942. I also remember the relatives on my grandfather’s side whose names are not all known but whose lives must be remembered nonetheless. While the account below is not about them, their lives were lived alongside those who are mentioned, as were their lives taken from them in exactly the same way. May we, and the generations that follow, always remember to never forget. Hidden – Fay Walker and Leo Rosen Prologue 1942 (http://uwpress.wisc.edu/books/3522.htm) We were hidden in the countryside by the time the war flooded the streets of tiny Kanczuga, until the screams and bursts of gunfire were as familiar as the cries of the peddlers hawking their wares in the rynek, the town’s main marketplace. More than a hundred of our people were executed at point blank range in front of the Brill’s house. Then early one morning, two young SS men, ably aided by the Polish police, rounded up the hundreds of Jews who had not managed to hide themselves in time. The officers deposited then in the main square, where they stood in shocked silence, some of them still in nightclothes, shivering in the sparkling dawn. Now the police herded their prisoners past the jeering crowd and in to the synagogue. Our people struggled to stare straight ahead, but, as they trudged the dusty streets, they found themselves peering into the faces they had known all their lives, into the flat features and pale eyes of their closest neighbors, empty and cold as death. Kanczuga‘s newest synagogue was a good quarter mile from the Jewish cemetery on the edge of town. It was not quite complicated, but already it was the pride of our community, a spacious sanctuary large enough to seat several hundred people. That Shabbos, every inch of the shul was filled for the first time. Yet it was eerily quiet, the low murmurs punctuated only by the occasional barking if a policeman. Our family, apart from the two in hiding, filled the floor by the eastern wall. Tata’s brother David sat with his wife and three of their five children, Aron, Runie, and little Golda, named after our grandmother. The other two children had been on vacation with their mother’s parents and had already been captured and sent to Siberia. Wordless and watchful, our Tata fingered a pocket of his long, black coat and stroked his beard. Beside him, Mamche, her face raw from weeping, rested a delicate hand on one of my sisters’ shoulders. Now and then she whispered to little Tunia, who was serious even in the best of times. The child’s face, olive-skinned as a Gypsy’s, glistened with tears. Pretty Senia, Aryan-blond and almost a teenager, seemed out of place in this group of frightened Jews. She scanned the wan faces, searching for friends from school. With so many bodies huddled together, the room was close with the odor of human flesh. People slept standing, straight as sentries; others twisted into unnatural positions on the floor. At some point, rain tapped a somber staccato on the roof and windows. A poor tradesman, reverential and cowering, broke off from the crowd to consult with Tata. “Do you think they’ll deport us instead of killing us? Maybe send us away and spare our lives, God willing?” Our taciturn father shrugged and shook his head. “Who is to say?” he asked. “I have heard that the families who didn’t come to the square to be picked up were shot in their homes. We can only wait and put our faith in God. God will provide for us. God has never forsaken us.” Like everyone else, my parents had come to the shul without packing a bag. But my best friend, Bruchcia Laufer, whose family had been temporarily spared because they were engineers still useful to the Reich, visited every day with supplies. That Friday morning, she brought two white Shabbos candles. The crowded room was hushed now, as Mamche lit the trembling flames. For a moment, her face was illuminated, as if from within. When she said the bracha, her shimmering soprano could scarcely be heard, so quickly did it make its way to God. Blessed are You, oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who commands us to light the Sabbath candles. Shabbos morning arrived warm and bright, but the synagogue was musky with fear. Several men began to daven, and Tata joined them in prayer, swaying back and forth to the familiar chants. Mamche, as a woman forbidden to pray with the men, hummed the wailing nigunim under her breath, her voice sweet and smooth as her homemade jam, her pitch never wavering. The families were still praying when the police ordered them to leave their families and trek the short distance up the hill to the cemetery. Mamche gripped the girls harder, her fingers digging so deeply into their flesh that they squirmed, but they did not break away. Our father, never a demonstrative man, reached for our mother’s hand. The gesture was so unexpected that she met his eyes with a smile. Then the butt of an unseen rifle knocked Tata squarely between the shoulder blades, and he flinched and moved on without speaking. They traveled a short distance in wagons. A boy named Yankele Kelstecher jumped out of his wagon and disappeared into the woods before the policemen could fire.(*) Then the men were ordered out of the wagons. Perhaps the thought of Yankele gave the men strength as they climbed in a thin, halting line along the muddy path that wove through a cornfield. They passed a scarecrow, mocking in unfettered repose. At the crest of the hill was the tree-lined cemetery, its tombstones swathed in even rows of shrubbery. As if on command, the men paused to catch their breaths and to wipe their brows. They gazed out over the crest of the hill to the patchwork of fields below. For a moment, they forgot their terror and shook their heads at the lush landscape. It could not be helped; they loved this country. A straight-backed officer handed out shovels and told them to dig. “Keep digging,” he said. “We’ll tell you when you’re finished.” Most of the men were spindly and weak, with soft palms more used to the Hebrew siddur than to the spade. “Dig, keep digging! Thought you could get away with something, eh? Thought you could hide from us, you filthy Jews?” When at last they were allowed to stop, the men stood in silence beside the freshly dug earth. Their faces slick with tears and sweat, they stared at the raised rifles in astonishment. At eyes opaque as marbles, that didn’t look back. Then they saw the other eyes, those of their neighbors, the customers in their shops, the people to whom they had just last week sold a loaf of bread, who gave them a good price on chickens and eggs. The goyim stood or sat on their haunches in unruly rows alongside the policemen. Whole families, with baskets of cheese and bread and homemade wine, little ones scurrying along the fringes of the crowd, hunting down field mice. The chattering spectators were in an edgy, festive mood, the women’s heads bobbing in their colorful scarves. “Zyd!” they cried. “Jew! Out with the Jews!” The policemen raised their rifles. One hundred hearts were broken before a single shot was fired. When it was over, the audience applauded and cheered. The next day, the sunlight was so fierce that the women shielded their eyes when they were led outside. They climbed through the tall grass directly to the pit, as if they had done so many times before, their children sobbing at their skirts. A fetid smell they did not recognize reached their nostrils, and they covered their faces in horror. When the policemen loaded their rifles, Senia clutched Mamche’s waist. “I don’t want to die!” she cried. “The sun is shining so brightly, and I am so young, Mamche. I want to grow up in this beautiful world.” For the first time in Senia’s life, our Mamche could do nothing to help. She could not hold her any closer; she could not love her any more. One policeman who witnessed this scene was so moved that, later, he would recall Senia’s words to the Kwasniaks, who had worked for us back in town. Then a bullet shattered our little sister’s face, and she collapsed at Mamche’s feet, spraying blood in her new white shoes. Next, Tunia dropped onto Senia, her breath a shallow purr. Even before the third shot was fired, our mother fell on them both, trying to protect what was no longer hers. Beside the gunmen, the onlookers, some of whom had tied handkerchiefs over their noses to stave off the scent, clapped and shouted their approval. A burst of laughter skimmed the crowd. Neighbors clapped each other on the back, not quite meeting each other’s gaze.

The Holy See should take a better look.

To the Editor, If it were not so sad it would be funny with the Vatican releasing a document blaming Israel “occupying” land as the reason for driving Christians out of the Middle East. Let me try to understand this; the Vatican is planning to discuss the plight of Christians in the Middle East in October and this document represents the outline for these discussions. http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3837018,00.html Having just spent a day with members of Israel’s Christian minority, hearing their stories of “jihad” against them by their Moslem neighbors, including stories of forced marriages of Christian women to Moslem men, Moslems harassing and threatening the Christians, an assault against the Christian mayor of Nazareth, multi-million dollar foreign Islamic investments “perseverance funds” to buy out Christians from their homes and businesses (I guess that they forgot they are supposed to be boycotting Israel), unilateral destruction of ancient archeological sites of historic significance to Judaism and early Christianity in an attempt to erase our respective connection from the Land, “conquering” of private Christian schools by Moslem students that relegates Christian students to public schools where they are threatened, boycotts of Christian owned businesses by their Moslem neighbors, and many other allegations that are too vast to list, it’s a wonder what planet the Vatican authors live on that a Jewish Israeli can understand the real threat to Christians in the Middle East that the Vatican can’t. Or, doesn’t want to. I wonder how my friend “Sami” would respond to the Vatican on this, a Lebanese Christian who welcomed Israel’s invasion to eliminate the PLO in 1982 but fled his home and homeland afterward because of the people who “stole” his home and business and “ruined” his life. Who were the thieves that ruined his life? Israel? No, Hizbullah. The Vatican would be well off to spend a day like I did and getting to know the worries and fears of their co-religionists before making stupid and incorrect, not to mention borderline anti-Semitic allegations. Placing blame on Israel for the plight of Christians in the Middle East is about as honest as saying Pope Pius saved millions of Jews during the Holocaust. When issuing documents, let the Vatican find some proof in their archives that disproves that he was no saint in this regard. And while they’re looking, perhaps they can return some of the loot from our Temple that the Romans destroyed 1960 years ago, lest they be accidental accomplices in erasing the Jewish, and Christian, roots of the Land of Israel. If the Vatican does not want to ask the Christians themselves, just take a look at the former Christian cities of Nazareth and Bethlehem. Churches are overshadowed by Mosques whose green illuminated minarets dominate the sky line like an Islamic game of connect the dots. But the Vatican is who needs to be connecting the dots to see the true picture that it is an intolerant stream of Islam that is the guilty party for the plight of the Christians here. Any Vatican discussion of the plight of Christians in the Middle East that is not grounded in reality will relegate the remaining Christians living here as an endangered species to extinction. The Holy See should take a better look. Jonathan Feldstein http://jonathanfeldstein.blogspot.com

Darkness at the End of the Tunnel

Scarcely a year after the end of Israel’s military operation in Gaza to stop the daily barrage of missiles and rockets fired at Israeli communities by the thousands, a new war is raging involving the Palestinians and Gaza. But this time it’s a war of religious edicts (fatwas) between Palestinian factions that seek to ban and, conversely, justify, the digging and operating of smuggling tunnels under Gaza’s border with Egypt. http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?pagename=JPost/JPArticle/ShowFull&cid=1263147877009 This is just another chapter in the saga of the network of smuggling tunnels that have become a big and profitable business in Gaza, one that even the Hamas leadership “lisences,” taxes, and from which it profits. As a result, other problems have arisen relating to the tunnels, including groups calling upon Hamas to guarantee workers rights for those who dig and operate the tunnels. http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1256799082916&pagename=JPArticle%2FShowFull It seems that tunnel business can be dangerous and risky. What’s next, a Gaza Tunnel Diggers and Workers Local 101 union complete with a pension, health benefits and of course a hefty life insurance (martyr’s) policy? Maybe the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey should step in to offer expertise in management, maintenance, and an easy, efficient electronic toll collecting system with each worker wearing a transmitter around his neck to clock each time he passes a toll collection point and registering what his toll is at the end of the day. Regrettably, as much as these incidents expose a darker side of the tunnel digging industry, in no case – either the fatwas for or against the tunnels, or those brazen enough to fault Hamas for sanctioning the tunnels to begin with, yet not providing for the safety of the workers – none on the Palestinian side have come out and just said it’s wrong to use these tunnels for smuggling, especially of weapons, drugs, and women for prostitution. Until recently Egypt, whose territorial integrity has been violated daily by the tunnel operators and illegal traffic, commerce, and overt smuggling, didn’t say a peep. I could even make the case that Gaza’s residents may in fact be stuck between a tunnel and a hard place, and may be legitimately upset that Israel closes its border with Gaza to prevent the delivery of all but the most basic humanitarian needs. (This does not mitigate the fact that Israel fosters the shipment of literally tons of humanitarian supplies that do cross into Gaza all the time, or the regular flow of Palestinian patients from Gaza into Israel to be treated at Israeli hospitals.) But the proclivity to blame Israel for any Gaza problems raises two questions to which I have just not seen a good answer. If the humanitarian situation is indeed so bad there, why would Hamas allow the smuggling of drugs, weapons and prostitutes, as well as suitcases of cash and other wanted criminals and terrorists? Other than the inherent vice associated with these things that presumably contradict Islamic law, if the tunnels are indeed necessary to avert a humanitarian crisis, shouldn’t every tunnel be used exclusively to solve the humanitarian needs of their population? But of course, that would mean Hamas changing its MO and actually caring about the well being of the population under its iron clad extremist grip. Oh, and it would mean giving up its cynical blaming of Israel for all their problems, even when they fabricate a situation that is based on one lie building the foundation for the next. And whether the humanitarian situation is so bad or not, why is it Israel’s responsibility to open the borders to importing of any supplies into Gaza, especially when doing so often is a catalyst for terrorist attacks on the very convoys of food and other supplies that are being brought across. Of course this is not to mention the fact that Hamas, and Gaza especially under Hamas’ control, is a hostile enemy entity which seeks to terrorize and ultimately destroy Israel. Why must Israel prop that up and support it at all, let alone be considered the sole responsible party? Golda Meir once said that Israel and the Arabs will only have peace when the Arabs care more about the lives of their children more than they care about killing ours. Allow me a modern interpretation. Israel will only have peace, and the Palestinians under Hamas’ grip will only truly have freedom and prosperity, when the tunnels they dig have light and not darkness coming in from both sides, and the contents of goods and traffic through these tunnels are for the welfare of their own population, not to harm or delegitimize Israel’s. If the tunnels are indeed necessary, let them be used exclusively for good. If the world truly cares about the plight of the Palestinians in general, and those in Gaza in particular, let it clamp down to prevent the Hamas terrorist warlords who control Gaza from using the suffering of the residents of Gaza as an excuse for continued smuggling of weapons, drugs and human beings which are only associated with terror, vice, and crime. And let the people of Gaza end the fatwa wars, take control of their destiny by forcing Hamas out, and let them assert that the tunnel business and Hamas itself are bad for their well being. To borrow a phrase from the 1960s, let the world in general, and Palestinians in particular affirm that, “Smuggling and illicit tunnels are not healthy for Palestinians and other living things.”

David and Jonathan

The Torah has many lessons about many aspects of life that can be relevant to almost everyone, in one way or another. Some only become clear at different stages and phases of life. There are many Biblical models of friendship but one that is most striking is that of David and Jonathan. Their relationship is particularly interesting because while they should have been competitors for Saul’s throne, instead they were best friends. We all should be lucky enough to have at least one such relationship in our lives. I have been fortunate to have many, and since moving to Israel to make many more. Recently, I was thinking of one of my earliest, substantial, and most meaningful friendships with a dear friend whose name happened to be David. No, we did not reconnect on Facebook. A mutual friend found some letters from 25 years ago that he had written to her, and shared them with me. It brought back vivid memories of early morning classes and late night conversations from the 1980s. I met David during my freshman year of college. We were fraternity brothers and became instant friends. David became the closest thing to an older brother that I had. We shared hopes and fears, talked politics and religion, cooked meals, and drank together. There was scarcely anything that David and I didn't talk about, and we learned many things from each other. My friendship with David was, and remains, one of my most cherished relationships. When I met David he had just returned to college following surgery and recovery from having a grapefruit-sized tumor removed along with a large piece of his colon. His prognosis was very good, and he returned to finish his senior year at Emory. In addition to studying, David did a good bit of informal teaching, about recovery from cancer. I never knew about the effects of morphine, either as a hallucinogen or as a pain killer, or what a colostomy bag was. A grandmother had died from cancer, but I never knew what recovery was like, or about what one who has/had cancer and is in recovery was thinking. I didn’t know David before his cancer, but he was entirely open with me about all his thoughts, not just about cancer, but about life. In addition to being open about his hopes and fears, David retained an extraordinary sense of humor. It was common to have nick-names in the fraternity and David was no different. His was “semi-colon.” His fraternity jersey had our three Greek letters on the front and, while others had their names or nick names on the back, David’s simply had the punctuation mark “;” representing the name by which we all knew him affectionately. Having cancer forced David to confront many things that an average college student never considered, or even knew about. David graduated and stayed in Atlanta for a while where our friendship continued to flourish. He returned to New Jersey and was preparing to go to medical school when, following a typical post surgical medical checkup, it was discovered that his cancer had returned. David had to put medical school on hold to deal with more chemo and other treatments in order to beat the cancer again. If medical schools took credits for personal experience, David would surely have entered far ahead of his classmates. His understanding of medicine, cancer, surgery, recovery, and both the physical and psychological side effects made David far more aware and sensitive to aspects of medicine that most medical students would take years to learn. And it drove him to get well so he could be the best doctor he could be. In the 1980s, before e-mail, Facebook, cell phones, or even long distance phone plans, keeping in touch long distance was harder. David and I did so with an occasional phone call, and the now antiquated art of letter writing. My studies kept me busy in Atlanta and I rarely traveled to the north. After graduating, I kept busy finding a job and planning my second visit to the USSR to continue my advocacy for Soviet Jews. David had been a huge supporter and participant in my advocacy for Soviet Jews. We talked about it all the time, and why it was imperative to do everything we could. In October 1987, I returned to my parents’ house in Jew Jersey for a visit en route to the USSR. This trip was less nerve stressful than my first trip two years earlier, partly because I was going with a friend, and partly because I had already been there before. But I was still nervous. David was too ill at the time to drive himself to visit me before my departure, so he had his parents drive him the 90 minutes to my parents’ house so that he could visit me, encourage me, and partly live this impending experience through me while giving me an outlet for my nerves. Among the things in my life that I’ll never forget was that visit. David was bald again, thin bordering on emaciated, and his bright eyes were sunken, all as a result of the new round of chemo that was trying to arrest the cancer. Yet, as physically weak and broken as he looked, David was vibrant and full of life. His eyes were piercing and his interest in the mission on which I was about to embark was intense. David was interacting with me on every level of his being. As he left, we embraced and agreed that I’d be in touch after my safe return. He was not worried about my safety, but he knew I was. I returned to the US after an “adventure” filled trip and filed lengthy reports with the Soviet Jewry organizations and many individuals that had facilitated my trip. I sent David a copy. Settling back into a routine, I got a job, winter came, and my life went on. One day I got a call that David had died. My emotions ranged from shock, sadness, and denial. I realized then that David probably knew he was dying which is why he made the effort to visit me two months earlier. But I had not understood that. Maybe he didn’t want me to. I was in Atlanta and the funeral was in New Jersey the next day amid a winter storm. As much as David was, and always will be, one of my closest friends, I still regret not having been able to make it to the funeral. We held a memorial for David with friends from the fraternity, Emory, and all over Atlanta. This was important closure for us all, and even though he had left Atlanta several months earlier, the void of his death was pronounced. If David had lived, ours is a relationship that would have transcended the need for Facebook because we’d have been in close touch even throughout these many years. We’d have danced at each others’ weddings, shared the blessings and challenges of parenthood, stresses and achievements of work, and endless thoughts on life. Instead, I have a child named for David who I hope will grow up knowing at least this much about the man behind the name. I have been blessed with many “David and Jonathan” relationships since then. Not all my closest friends are named David, but my friendship with David is the model upon which I base many of these relationships since. David’s death was, and is, a big loss in my life. It has not been replaced by other relationships, but supplemented by them. David taught me many things, including dealing with mortality. As I have gotten older, one of the best things that I have been able to take away from my friendship with David is to realize that life is finite and that the “David and Jonathan” relationships that we are fortunate to have are ones that should never be taken for granted.

Taking Stock in Hamas

If Hamas were a publically traded company, there's little doubt that they would be rated a stock to buy. As it appears Israel may be about to strike a deal with Hamas to release nearly 1000 terrorists and others in exchange for Gilad Shalit, an Israeli soldier kidnapped and held hostage for three and a half years by Hamas in Gaza, it’s a safe bet that upon concluding this deal, Hamas’ stock will go up. Especially on the Arab street. Hamas’ ability to kidnap and hold Shalit hostage all these years gives them added prowess in the eyes of the Arab world for holding Israel at bay. Exchanging Shalit for as many as 1000 Arab terrorists will be perceived as a big victory for Hamas. In business terms, it’s like launching a new product that replaces that of the nearest competition, or the conclusion of a hostile takeover. Yes, if Hamas were a publically traded company, now would be a good time to buy. But a careful analyst, while issuing a recommendation to “buy Hamas” now because of the impending deal, and a resulting increase of Hamas’ value, would be remiss not to consider other factors that might change the “buy” recommendation to a to a “sell”, almost as quickly as many of the terrorists who are expelled from the region find their way back to Gaza through the porous border with Egypt, through the network of tunnels to which Egypt and the world turn a blind eye. One of the reasons Hamas’ stock is likely to dive as fast as it rises is an ongoing conflict with Egypt. While Egypt facilitates the smuggling of weapons, drugs, prostitutes and terrorists through the tunnels if only in not preventing it, Egypt has been embarrassed by Hamas too many times and consequences are likely to arise. Egypt has been trying to serve as the broker to strike a deal to release Shalit but Hamas has embarrassed Egypt by seeking to work through German mediators. Egypt has also been trying to strike a reconciliation deal between Hamas and Fatah since the violent Hamas insurrection that saw Fatah and the ruling Palestinian Authority expelled from power in Gaza, and the establishment of a mini Hamas terror state in Gaza under its total hegemony. Hamas’ agreeing to, and then retracting from, reconciliation with Fatah was a personal slight to Egyptian President Mubarak, diminishing Mubarak’s own stock in the Arab world, challenging his strength, influence and even legitimacy. As a result, Egypt announced its plan recently to build a 30-40 meter deep underground metal wall along the Gaza border to block and prevent smuggling in the tunnels which, until now, they have let happen with virtual impunity if not active support. The political struggle between Egypt and Hamas aside, were smuggling like this to be stopped or significantly diminished, access to many items that have been smuggled will decrease, their prices will increase, and Hamas’ stock on the street will fall. While Hamas’ stock may well go up as a result of its ability to strike a deal that sees the release of as many as 1000 terrorists and others, a good analyst will not discount the fact that a year ago this week, Hamas instigated a battle that saw Gaza attacked and an equal number of Gazans killed as a result. If half of the human tragedy that Hamas (and Goldstone) claimed took place actually did take place, while there may be cause for celebration in the release of the terrorists on Gaza’s streets, nobody can ignore that the suffering that Gazans have endured is a direct result and consequence of Hamas’ religious extremism, ideological intransigence, and their unrelenting attacks on Israel whose very existence they still give no legitimacy. With nothing changing on the extremism, intransigence or physical attacks, a good analyst will know it’s just a matter of time before there is another battle that could see 1000 or more Gazans killed, again. This too will diminish Hamas’ stock on the Arab street. There is a great conflict in Israel over this deal with Hamas. There is near universal support for and solidarity with the Shalit family and desire to bring Gilad Shalit home. He is one of us and could be any of our sons. But there is equal division, and are lots of questions, about at what price to do this. How should the relatives of someone murdered by these (soon-to-be-released) terrorists feel that their murderer is going free? How should any of us feel in making such a deal? It gives us pause to go out for coffee, ride a city bus, or spend a holiday with family in a hotel, knowing that the terrorists responsible for some of the worst terror attacks in places just like this are running free, plotting to do it again. There is concern that in making such a deal we are legitimizing Hamas’ tactics and rewarding terrorism. The world chastises Israel for fighting Hamas which is part of the reason that Israel does so without completing the battle and crushing them entirely. Yet the very completion of the deal at hand may be the inevitable act that necessitates Israel to fight Hamas yet again. Of course, Hamas is not a publically traded stock but a criminal Jihadist terrorist organization. In business there are any number of factors that cause a company’s stock to rise and fall. Some we can project and predict. Others surprise even the best analysts and planners, and can only be responded to. If Hamas were a publically traded company and I were a business analyst, I would project is that a deal to release Gilad Shalit for some 1000 terrorists and others may increase Hamas’ short term value and may bring Gilad Shalit home to sleep peacefully in his own bed at last. But, I’d issue a call to sell shares in Hamas as fast as Shalit gets home, because his return will give no reason for Israelis, or Palestinians, reason to sleep peacefully for very long.

Cousins

This week is the anniversary (yartzeit) of the death of my grandfather. He was born in Poland to Yosef and Yaffa Feldstein, and made aliyah in 1931. He and my grandmother were married and she arrived in Israel in 1933 where my father was born 4 years later. Luck, and passionate Zionism, had it that my grandfather’s arrival was eased by the earlier arrival of some of his siblings. By shortly after Israel declared statehood, he lived in Israel with three sisters and a brother who had either made it to Israel before the Holocaust, or in the case of one brother, survived the war and arrived afterward with his surviving son. Most families of Polish Jews were not as lucky as the Feldstein siblings who survived and were reunited all in close proximity to one another. A variety of circumstances transpired that my father and his mother left Israel in order to reunite with her two brothers and sister who survived the War and had settled in New York. In 1963, my grandfather died. He is buried in the beautiful old Haifa cemetery. According to Ashkenazi Jewish custom, since I was born after he died, I am named for him. While my father returned to Israel immediately after his father died, he lost touch with his uncles and aunts and cousins. I knew the names of uncles and aunts, but had no real way of finding them. During my junior year in college I studied in Israel and visited Haifa often. When I’d visit, I’d go to the cemetery to look after my grandfather’s grave. But other than imagining what my grandfather was like, a man whose name I carried but who I never knew, I had an ulterior motive. I’d leave notes on the grave, wrapped in plastic, weighed down under the rocks that were the sign that I visited, with the hope that a sibling, niece or nephew or old friend might find it and I’d reunite with my family that I didn’t know. I don’t know if they were ever found, but I never received any indication that they were. During my first visit to Israel, and the only time that I’d be in Israel together with my father, he brought us to visit his old neighborhood and his school. He found an elderly former neighbor who recognized him immediately after 30 plus years, and found an electronic shop owned by his best childhood friend, Ben Zion, across the street from where my father grew up (and next to where my grandmother once had a clothing shop of her own). We found that Ben Zion lived just two buildings down on the same street in which they grew up and where they played together as children. While it was meaningful and interesting to see where my father spent his early years, and I really enjoyed being taken in by Ben Zion and his family as if I were family, I always wondered about the biological family my father left behind. I wondered how he dealt with going to the US with his mother to reunite with her siblings who survived the Holocaust, and what it was like in an age prior to the internet and easy phone access to leave a parent so many miles away, just as his parents had done leaving their families in Poland, never knowing when, or if, they’d see each other again. Many years later, after my own father had died, I still had an unquenchable desire to find my Israeli relatives. Every time I’d meet a Feldstein I had to play genealogist to see if maybe we were related and if I could track that person’s family to find my own. Once, on vacation in Israel, I took a Haifa phone book and called all the Feldsteins, but had no luck considering that there was only one surviving male relative and all the sisters took on their husbands’ names. Ten years ago, I stumbled upon a Jewish genealogy web site and tried to look up all possible configurations of names and locations to find living relatives. http://www.shtetlinks.jewishgen.org brought me to a page on which a woman also named Feldstein was looking for relatives from the same town from which my grandfather came. Her phone number was a Haifa area number. I could not contain my excitement. I woke up early the next day, the eve of Rosh Hashanah, and called her. In my broken Hebrew, I was able to discern that her husband was indeed my father’s first cousin. As I would learn later, Shlomo arrived in Israel after the War with his father, Jacob, and lived with my father and his parents until they got settled on their own. After searching most of two decades, I had found my family. Fortunately, my mother had planned a family trip to Israel that December and thirteen American Feldsteins had a family reunion with nearly 100 other Israeli descendants of Yosef and Yaffa Feldstein, finally meeting our Israeli family for the first time. After moving to Israel with my own family in 2004, I was able to get to know my relatives here somewhat. We were moved that some of my father’s cousins (and their children) joined us at the celebrations of our daughters’ bat mitzvahs, we have shared in their celebrations, and have had other occasions to visit and get to know one another, some more than others. What’s so interesting is that one cousin after the next are really fine people. While none are religiously observant, they are proud Jews and Israelis. They run the political spectrum from right to left. I have enjoyed getting to know them as people, but also have been grateful for their ability – and willingness – to piece together my own family history by sharing parts of their past, and memories of my father and his parents. This past summer we were invited to the 80th birthday of my father’s oldest cousin, David. We had met the cousins before but had not seen some since 1999. Just before the party, I found a photo of my grandfather along with several others and shared it with David. As I suspected, this was my grandfather and his siblings all in Poland, including each of the brothers and sisters who made aliyah, and a brother, Ephraim, who was murdered during the Holocaust. Sharing the photo at the party brought back memories to the cousins, and brought me closer to them. As I sat with them, I couldn’t help think that my father really would have loved to have been there. It would have made him happy to sit with his cousins and reminisce even though he left Israel as a young man and did not see them again. My father would have been proud to see that everyone grew up and came out OK, that they had raised beautiful families of their own. It was sad that he couldn’t have been there with us, but I was happy, and fortunate, that I had the privilege myself. My grandfather was the first of his siblings (in Israel) to die, and my father was the first among his cousins. These are not milestones about which to be especially proud, but that’s the reality. Now, ten years after reuniting with my family and 46 years after my grandfather’s death, I hope that circumstances will enable my nuclear family and all generations of my extended family to get to know one another and share many happy occasions together. We are very different people with very different perspectives, but we are all family and descendants of those who left Poland to build a better life for themselves in Israel. By thriving in Israel, we honor their memory and truly play a direct and active role in realizing the goals and dreams that they had for themselves, and for us. We fulfill the dreams of my grandfather, who never knew his grandchildren or great grandchildren, but who came to Israel so we’d have the privilege of being here as well. As I observe the yartzeit of the man for whom I am named, wondering about his life, I know that if he were around still he’d be very proud of our coming full circle, not just living here but in our reuniting with my father’s cousins with a common bond and a common destiny, as well as our common DNA.

An 'Al Het' Too Little Too Late

To the Editor, Jimmy Carter's sudden crocodile apology to the Jewish community is about as sincere as the probability of his reversing the flow of the Chattahoochee River. While it might be a stretch to doubt that Carter may truly wish for peace in the Middle East, his calculating “apology” is hard to accept given three decades of his cozying up to Arab terrorists and their collaborators, his faulting Israel for every problem in the Middle East, and blaming the Israeli victims of Arab terrorism. After three decades of strong arming and pointing a finger at Israel at every opportunity, Carter's word is about as good as the United States' credit rating during his presidency. Demonstrable actions are needed to back up his words, not copying liturgy from Judaism's most solemn Day of Repentance. Judaism requires meaningful actions to accompany repentance, not just the insincere utterance of scripted words. This is the standard by which Carter's sudden “apology” should be measured and judged, maybe in another 30 years. Jonathan Feldstein No1abba@gmail.com Jerusalem, Israel

Who Will Take Care of My Fruit Trees?

Recently, I started looking for a new gardener, someone to cut my small lawn and maintain the flowers and shrubs we have, but mostly someone who will care for the six beautiful fruit trees and grape vine that we have in our yard. Before moving to Israel I had a small garden, growing tomatoes and herbs mostly. But in Israel there is something unique about planting trees in general, and fruit trees in particular. These are a point of great pride and pleasure to be able to harvest and enjoy fruits that are grown in the land of Israel. As I was looking for a gardener, among the several referrals, I got one from someone whose yard is particularly beautiful whose gardener is in miluiim (military reserves) until the end of the month. This made me wonder that if I hired him, there could be extended periods during which nobody would take care of my garden, and mostly the fruit trees, for a full month. This also made me realize that we have been immune to military service and the need to do reserve duty in my own family; but it won’t be that long before this changes. Most immediately, a good friend and former neighbor who is like an older daughter, Rachel, made aliyah recently. She is getting married next month. We’re all excited for the wedding and that it will be in Jerusalem, meaning one less simcha among dear friends that we’ll miss in the old country. We look forward to dancing and celebrating with her and her soon to be husband, Moshe. Rachel will be initiated very early into a side aliyah that we don’t know because her husband is called to miluiim regularly. For a newlywed, much less a new immigrant, this can and will be trying and stressful. We also have good friends and new neighbors who are native Israelis and also leave their families periodically for 2-4 weeks at a time to do their required miluiim, and their sons, and sometimes daughters, who do mandatory military service for two to three years and sometimes more. We can see that this disrupts the family, that kids need their fathers, and siblings miss their big brothers and sisters. But as stressful and out of sorts as this may be, for people who were born here, or long time veterans, it is the normal pace of life. That does not make it any less stressful I am sure, but the stress is probably different because it is expected. It’s what they know. When we moved to Israel, I was too old to serve in the army, so we’ll never have the inconvenience of me being out of the house like that. But eventually my children will. My daughters will grow up, get married and raise families knowing that it’s the norm that for a month or so every year their husbands will be called into the army for miluiim, and with the awareness that at any point that they could be called into actual battle. My sons will grow up, get married and from time to time leave their families as they are called into miluiim. This will be their norm. It will be stressful and inconvenient at best. But it will be their norm. Another incident that made this hit home was that my 5th grade son’s teacher was called up into miluiim recently, just for a week. But this took place toward the beginning of the school year, just as my son was bonding with this teacher, and learning himself how best to learn with and from this teacher. Not that the substitute teacher was bad by any stretch, but it upsets the pace of life, the continuity of living. But here it’s the norm. We put a lot of trust and faith in the teachers who spend most of our kids’ waking days with them, that they will teach them, set a positive example, help mold them, and enable them to blossom and flourish. Of course it’s much more important that the teachers have a positive impact on the kids than the gardener who takes care of our lawns, shrubs and fruit trees. Yet, the fruit trees, especially in Israel, are vastly important. And the fruit tree is an appropriate metaphor for our children. I have six fruit trees, and I have six children. Children and fruit trees both need constant attention, nourishment, care and a guiding hand. If left alone without these, a tree will deteriorate and die. Entrusting a gardener to maintain these is very important. How much more so this is the case with a teacher. And even more so with a parent. Parents teach their kids many things by example, however in moving to Israel at the age and stage of life that I did, military service was not required. One might even say that the army didn’t want me, leading me to the relief, paraphrasing Groucho Marx, that “I wouldn’t want to be a member of an army that would have me as a member”, anyway. But my kids will only know of the imposition and hardships of military service from their friends, future spouses and others who have gone through this. Of course there is, and should be, pride in serving to defend our country, our home, as much as there is a hope that one day we won’t have to do so. Military service and miluiim are not something that’s part of our life now, but will be part of my fruit, as they grow up and yield their own fruit. Whether relating to a gardener, teacher or future spouse, I can’t help wondering that when military service and miluiim comes to my kids’ lives, who will take care of my fruit trees?