April 17, 2018--Fallout

I have been hearing from angry friends all morning. They are angry with me, actually most are furious with me for agreeing with the likes of Ann Coulter, criticizing the weekend missile strike in Syria.

One said, "So it's OK with you to let Assad get away with using poison gas to kill his people? Did you see those videos of children, babies gasping for their last breath as they vomited and soon died? I can't believe you wouldn't agree with using a targeted missile strike against his chemical weapons facilitates."

"The strike appeared to turn out well." I agreed, "We seem to have managed to avoid killing any Russians. If we had, who knows where this would have led."

"You're avoiding the issue," my friend pressed on, "Even in warfare there are rules and conventions. Combatants agree not to torture prisoners, engage in ethnic cleansing, or, in this case, not use chemical or biological weapons. There is the Geneva Convention that spells out a lot of this. I can't believe you would have not done anything. What Assad did was barbaric."

"I agree with that too," I tried to say. "I even agree with Trump that Assad is a monster. The last I read, he presided over the slaughter of about 600,000 of his own people. Hundreds of thousands more have been crippled and millions have become refugees."

"And, so, if it was up to you you'd stand back and watch this happen?"

"Though I wouldn't put it quite this way, I must admit I probably would. I would not get involved in what's happening on the ground in Syria, that godforsaken place, any more than I was in favor of invading Iraq or, for that matter, getting involved in Vietnam. Where more than 58,000 of our young people were killed, hundreds of thousands more wounded, and at the end of the day we lost the war. Haven't we learned anything from behaving like the world's policeman?"

"But a tyrant deploying poison gas on his own people is not only against the rules of war--what a concept, war having rules--but monstrous."

"I don't know how to put this," I said, "but what's the difference between using gas to kill babies and blowing them up with conventional weapons? Hideous barrel bombs full of shrapnel is seemingly the weapon of choice in Syria for Assad's air force. This is monstrous too so why not, using your logic, go after his air force and the factories where barrel bombs are assembled?"

"I can't believe your lack of anger or passion about this," my friend said.

"Maybe I've gotten to be too old and seen too much evil in my lifetime. That could be what has made me appear to be inured to barbaric behavior of this kind. About that, guilty as charged. But, still, I am not insensitive to this nor am I seeing your distinctions between poison gas and fragmentation bombs, and I am not convinced it's a good idea for us to try to chase down all the Assads of the world. Sadly, there are too many of them and I don't think it's our role to go after all of them."

"There's a point to what you're saying, but complete hands off when there are holocasts going is also not acceptable. I don't know how to determine where to get involved and when to ignore evil behavior, but a version of America First, or anything that smacks of that is not acceptable to me and shouldn't be to you. I know you were a young boy during the Second World War and were aware even then of Hitler's regime--including how some in your family died in concentration camps--and in later years you knew about other atrocities, but you're opting out now is not attractive or, to me, acceptable."

"I love you a lot," I said, "And respect you. I'll have to do some more thinking about this. One thing I won't concede though--all of this is very complicated and can lead to a lot of hypocritical talk and behavior."

August 28, 2017--"This Jew"

According to Gary Cohn, Donald Trump's top economic advisor, he came very close to resigning after Trump, at his intemperate news conference three days after the violent torch-lit march by white supremacists in Charlottesville, equated the counter demonstrators with the neo-Nazis."

With Cohn standing awkwardly next to Trump in the lobby of Trump Tower, the president said, there are "very fine people on both sides," presumably including among the anti-Semites who chanted, "Jews will not replace us."

As one of Trump's highest ranking, most observant Jews (Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump aside), pressed for comments, Cohn had nothing to say publicly for days, though people close to him, the New York Times reported, said he was "disgusted and deeply upset" by Trump's comments.

He now claims he was thinking about what to do. Even, he said privately to friends, going so far as drafting a letter of resignation. 

Finally on Friday, after nearly two weeks of silence, Cohn revealed the results of his struggle--

Citizens standing up for equality and freedom can never be equated with white supremacists, Neo-Nazis, and the K.K.K. I believe this administration can and must do better in consistently and unequivocally condemning these groups and do everything we can to heal the deep divisions that exist in our communities.

He added--

As a Jewish American, I will not allow neo-Nazis ranting "Jews will not replace us" to cause this Jew to leave his job. [My italics]

Cohn also revealed that he spoke directly with Trump about his feelings. Thus far there is no detailed report of this alleged discussion. From the tepid nature of Cohn's formal statement, one can only guess how the meeting went.

The last thing Cohn wants to do, as he said, is to leave or lose his job. Especially since he has another one in mind as the current one awkwardly unfolds--he is looking forward to being named by Trump to replace Janet Yellen when her term as Federal Reserve System chair expires at the end of January.

In the long tradition of Jews serving as counsellors and advisors to princes and men in power (a version of this is Henry Kissinger serving anti-Semite Richard Nixon), Cohn does not want to receive the Reince Priebus/Steve Bannon heave-ho when he has something else of self-interest in mind. 

As skin-crawling as this makes this Jew (me) feel, Cohn doesn't get the prize for the most craven comment of the week by Trump's palace Jews. His other sycophantic Jew, Treasury Secretary Steve Mnuchin--(who my mother, I know, would refer to as Steve Munchkin)--shortly after the events in Charlottesville came to his lord's defense--

While I find it hard to believe I should have to defend myself on this, or the president, I feel compelled to let you know that the president in no way, shape or form believes that neo-Nazi and other hate groups who endorse violence are equivalent to groups that demonstrate in peaceful and lawful ways.

This must mean that Munchkin doesn't want to mess up what he perceives to be a good thing and that the missus has more shopping to do.

After the Holocaust, surviving Jews vowed "never again." They pledged to do all in their power to confront anti-Semitism and prevent future genocides. And to that end committed themselves to not remain silent but to act fearlessly in the face of bigotry and hate. 

Though I am a non-observing Jew, I know this is still my responsibility. To the Jewish people, and more generally to all of humanity. We are required to speak out when we see injustice. And, equally important, to do our part to actively heal the world. Healing the world is Judaism's highest calling. It is called Tikkun Olam. 

Tikkun Olam is not about clinging to one's job. It is not about ignoring the moral implications. In fact, it is all about being guided by moral implications.

For the sake of their souls, Cohn and Mnuchin need to talk with their rabbis. 

Left to Right--Cohn, Mnuchin, Trump

July 11, 2017--First Girlfriend

I especially loved D's family.

At that time I was interested above all in families that would welcome me and offer an alternative to the limitations of my own extended immigrant family. Freud would have had a lot to say about that. I probably wouldn't have disagreed.

This was many years ago, when I was about to be 16.

We met in Tannersville, NY where both families had summer homes. Ours more a cuchalalane (a modest bungalow with a small kitchen) we rented than a classic cottage; theirs a shingle-style rambling affair in the better part of town that has been in the B family for decades. As a striver, I was eager for that--having associations in the better part of town.

The meeting happened in Greenberg's market where I was sent with a long shopping list to stock up on food supplies before the fathers began to arrive for the weekend after an exhausting week in the city. D had a summer job there, stocking shelves and helping customers find where the bread was arrayed or if there was any fresh salmon. I needed bread and shyly asked D for help. She cheerfully directed me and, boldly, as I turned away, asked if I played tennis.

Though I never had held a racket in my hand, I impulsively said that I did.

She said, "Then how about meeting at the high school? They have tennis courts in the back and no one in the summer ever uses them."

"Well . . . I . . . I don't, don't," I stammered in the hope that by doing so I would not be understood and would evaporate and not have to deal with the mess I was making, "I don't . . . Well, I do . . . I mean . . . of course I have a racket . . . but . . . but my cousin . . . Ruthie has it and. . . ."

"Not to worry," D said, "You can borrow my sister's and so how about tomorrow at 3:00? I get out early on Fridays."

"I . . . I . . ."

I immediately thought about how I would wiggle out of the date or, if I couldn't arrange that, learn to play tennis overnight. I was a good athlete and . . .

But from somewhere within myself I found the chutzpah and did show up. And somehow, because I had decent eye-hand skills, I was able to make contact with the ball and hit it back to D. Or maybe she, realizing I wasn't telling the truth, took pity on me and gently lobbed all her shots right back to me rather than slash at them.

After an hour or so, she decided it was enough and suggested we go to Warm's diner for a drink and a slice of their incandescent huckleberry pie.

And so in 1950s-style we became a couple. We played more tennis, inhabited Warm's, and even went to the movies at the Orpheum Theater. I came to love D but, again, for me being welcomed into her family made our summer romance complete.

D had a beautiful and accomplished sister, E, who would be entering medical school at the end of the summer and an elegant and deeply cultured mother, A, who took charge of their elaborate family and social lives--two homes--one in Tannersville, another in Paterson, New Jersey. D's father, Dr. B, was a research chemist with an international reputation and a long list of patents. Chemical dyes were his specialty and though I knew virtually nothing about chemistry or dyes I could listen to him for hours as he told me about his training and then his work. I basked in his continental charm and worldliness and his willingness to pay attention to me, to take me seriously. He was originally from Germany, but rarely talked about his life there. I never even wondered about why that might be.

Tennis was the least of the things I lied about.

I felt to be interesting to them, for them to retain interest in me, I needed to enhance the story of my life, especially my education as that was a subject of great interest to the entire B family. So, though I was about to enter my junior year in high school, Brooklyn Tech, I told them that I would be enrolling in Columbia in the fall. I felt this was necessary to keep D interested in me as she was about to enroll in Douglass College in September. How would it be for her to have a boyfriend who was still mired in high school.

I was able to maintain this deception over the next two years while we continued to see each other and as I frequently spent time on weekends with the Bs in New Jersey, because my cousin Chuck was a junior at Columbia and I pumped him for information that I shared with D and her parents about what it was like to be a student in Morningside Heights.

But slowly, inevitably, without sturm und drang, just as the result of the passage of time, D and I drifted along different paths (I was finally admitted to Columbia), and though there were no tearful or heartrending conversations, I found myself visiting the Bs less often (though I attended E's wedding) and we hardly saw each other during summers since my family gave up the house in Tannersville. And so, after another year or two, our relationship came to a sputtering end.

Though we vowed to remain friends, over the decades we lost contact.

Then recently, as the result of many friends having passed away, I found myself doing what Rona calls "obituary runs." With the power of the Internet I have been looking up people I know with whom I have lost touch to see how they are faring. More honestly, to see if they are still alive.

I was happy to find that D is, that she lives in Pennsylvania, and appears to be a leading member of her community, especially within the Jewish community. But when I clicked on E, I discovered that she had died in 2014. At only 81.

There was an extended obituary as E was also deeply involved in her New Jersey community and had been a successful and highly regarded physician. More than that, the obituary filled in much that I did not know about D and her family. And helped explain the silences between Dr. B and me--

With her family, E came to the U.S. in September, 1941. [She was eight years old.] One of E's earliest experiences was being put on a kinder transport to save Jewish children from the Nazis. Her father, CB, mother A and sister D, (who was too young to travel), followed shortly after and met up in Belgium. 

Two years later, after the German invasion of Belgium, C was rounded up with others and sent to an internment camp in the south of France. A, with E and D, made her way through occupied and unoccupied France to reunite with C after he had secured release at the behest of a U.S. chemical company. 

They were able to board a French ship for the U.S., [but it was] was ordered to turn back by the Vichy French. The ship went to Casablanca instead. Their journey was not over, the family went from Casablanca to Spain to board an old tramp steamer, the SS Navemar. The Navemar's usual cargo was coal and carried no more than eight passengers. 

On its last trip, the ship carried more than 800 passengers, who slept in holds covered by soot and in life boats during the seven week passage to the U.S. The Navemar was the second to last refugee ship permitted to dock by the U.S. before the borders were closed and was sunk on its way back across the Atlantic.

For weeks now I have been unable to stop thinking about the Bs' harrowing story and the things not spoken. The full story of their lives. The truth of their past. The pain and remembrances. On a different scale, my pathetic lies. And the limitless promise of love.

March 13, 2017--Ladies of Forest Trace: Not Resting

The Ladies are in a place of tranquility but they are not in repose.

I know this from my mother, who deserves to be at rest after more than 107 years of life. I discovered her state of agitation during a recent visit to Mt Lebanon Cemetery in Queens.

When I was a child we visited Mt. Lebanon regularly so that she could be with her parents and bring them news of the family and the world. We would sit together on the bench beside where her mother and father were and I would listen while she told them about Bertha's recovery from a stroke, Nina's trip to Israel, Eli's struggles with his creditors, Fanny's plans to move to Florida, news about Stalin, and how things were with my father.

About that, the state of her own marriage, she would whisper so I needed to lean close and strain to hear what she was reporting. Though I could not catch most of the words, I could tell from their tone and her trembling that things were not going well.

"He never . . . He always . . . ," she said and then tearfully would switch to Yiddish to protect me from being swept into her unhappiness. But from this and how she placed her arm around me and drew me close into the protective nest of her body, I knew her pain was real. And that to her I represented a sense of purpose. She was happy I was there with her, with the family.

More than sixty years later I again needed to be close to her and so, though I sat alone on that now crumbling bench, listening to the wind, I tried to pick up her emanations, the comfort she provided, and, on that chilly pre-spring afternoon, her still flickering warmth.

"The girls are so upset," she began. I could hear the pain in her voice.

"Tell me Mom."

"About him."

"Who?"

"Thump, Donald Thump."

I didn't correct her wonderful malaprops, which frequently revealed more than literal truth.

"You've been hearing about him?" I wasn't sure how information was acquired and shared by the Ladies now that they were no longer . . .

"All the terrible things he's doing. With immigrants--wasn't his own father an immigrant?--with minorities, with women, with health. And we are so afraid about Korea and Russia. Especially Russia. We know Russia. Two of the Ladies are from there and I was born in Poland, near the border. Russian Cossacks raided our village, Tulowice, when I was a little girl. My mother hid me and my sisters and brother in the root cellar below the floor of our log cabin. The evil things they did which I cannot tell you about."

"You can tell me, Mom. You can tell me anything."

"You're still young and I don't want to upset you. You should be enjoying life."

Only someone who lived to 107 would consider me to be young. It was this kind of affirmation that I loved and which I greedily still needed.

"You should have your rest," I said, reversing her lifelong admonition to me.

"As your father said, 'There's plenty of time for rest. Later, there's time for rest.'"

"Yes he always did say that. As I grow older I understand it more and more."

"Ruth, who marched so we could vote, the women, is so upset that a majority voted for him--I can't say his name--so many women that I am sure Wolf on TV is saying that if it wasn't for the women voting for him we would have Hillary. Not that she's such a bargain. But almost anything would be better. Even Mike Expense, the Vice President, who we all are hoping will become president. This person, Expense, who doesn't believe in women's health and is too religious for any of our tastes we are wishing for."

"I am hoping for the same thing. Maybe if there's an impeachment or . . ."

"We're both dreaming. The Republicans in Congress, who we know did not support him will keep him in office because he will sign anything they approve--health care, taxes, regulations, pollution and who knows what else."

"It's a long list."

"But, one of the girls, Rose reminds us things have been worse."

"How? He's been in office only two months, though it feels like years, so how can things already be worse?"

"She means in the past. When we and Negroes couldn't vote. They couldn't drink water here in Florida. They had their own colored fountains. We didn't have the Pill but we had world wars. We had Depression but didn't have Xanax for that." She paused to let me know she meant that to be funny. So I wouldn't worry more than I do about her mental capacities.

"And you are old enough to remember the gas chambers. We had family who survived Auschwitz. Cousin Malkie and her family who lived with Aunt Tanna and Uncle Eli when they escaped and came to Brooklyn. You heard those stories when you were seven years old. I tried to protect you from them but you insisted you wanted to know about the world. Even at its most evil. So I let you sit with us at the kitchen table while Malkie and her son, whose name I forgot but whose haunted look I will always remember, told us about the nightmare."

"I remember that. I also wanted to see the tattoos on their arms. I didn't want to be shielded from the worst that life could bring. But I know you felt otherwise and wanted me to have nothing but a happy childhood. One time you told me that was in part because of all the children who were forced to suffer. You wanted me to live for myself but also when I was old enough to try to do things that would make less fortunate children's lives better."

Recalling that I began softly to cry.

"I bring this up," she said, "because I want to remind you that Rose is right. Too many things were worse in the past. Not quite as much so for those who were blessed to be born here or came to America as hopeful immigrants and refugees. We survived and over time many things did get to be better."

"You always say this," I said, knowing I had come to Mt. Lebanon in large part to have her remind and reassure me about that.

"Of course, things here could get worse but worse than Pearl Harbor? Worse than the Cold War? The Depression? The lynchings? I could say more but I know you have to rush away."

"I have a little more time," I said, feeling a bit better, though not yet assured or optimistic, "So tell me whatever else is on your mind and making you and the Ladies so restless."

"This isn't enough?"

"But I thought you brought up the War and women to remind me not to get too overwrought with what is happening?"

"That's my attention. But, yes, there is something else that is very disturbing to us."

"Please tell me."

"You know your history better than we do so I'm sure you have examples."

"Of what?"

"About what I am going to tell you."

"Sorry."

"And it's not all his fault. Though he is the beneficiary of it."

"You're starting to lose me."

"The hate." I waited but she didn't continue.

"The hate?"

"I'll give you a for-instance. When they talk about health there is so much resentment, so much hate for poor and elderly people who will have it taken away from them. They talk as if it's about how much it costs the government but what we really hear is how much the Republicans--and it is them--feel it is people's fault that they are poor and need help. They say they are making the wrong choices about how they spend their money--as if they had so much. Did we hear this correctly--sometimes communications to where we are are not so good--that someone in Congress, Jascha Heifetz, said that if people had enough money to have a telephone . . ."

"Jason Chaffetz, from Utah."

"I don't have my hearing aids with me. But that's him. He said if they have money for those phones they could give them up and use the money to buy health insurance."

"I did hear that. He really did say that."

"In the meantime if so many millions lose insurance how many will die from that? Who was it who talked about death panels? This is like that. Worse."

"Congresswoman Michele Bachmann."

"Who was also running for president. But all this meanness and resentment about struggling people--about children and old people--is very sad and tells us what these Washington people really think. They are so full of anger and resentment and this makes it acceptable for him to say the ugly things he has for years been saying. About Obama, about women, about Negroes, about Mexicans. And what's really worse when he talks this way is that many of the people who support him, who are filled with fear and hate, want to hear this. They give him encouragement and permission to say the ugliest things. They cheer loudest when he does."

"There has been hate and fear at other times in our history, that's true. About the Irish and Italian and Jewish immigrants. And obviously black people. You experienced that when you were a young girl and woman. People are this way when there are hard economic times. And when . . ."

"I'm sorry to interrupt but whatever was or has been is no excuse."

"I agree."

"About that, by now, we should know better."

To that I had nothing to say.

"We're all gone now," my mother whispered, "There is no room left here for anyone else. All the places are filled. Everyone from the family is here. And the Ladies are scattered like leaves. Ruth to her daughter in New Jersey. It's so cold there. Ruth was always shivering. And Rose next to her beloved father also in Queens. In Mt. Hebron. Adele, poor thing, is by herself. She lost all her family in Russia and never married. Never had children or grandchildren. I love her so much. How she made such a good life for herself. The first woman to become a school principal in Brooklyn."

"She was remarkable," I said.

"I could talk all day, but I know it must be getting dark and they close the gates soon. And you don't like to drive after the sun is down. You were such a good driver," I noted the past tense, "When you would take me to the doctor or out for Chinese, I felt so secure. And now . . ." Her words trailed off. Her breathing slowed. I didn't want her to strain herself.

It was time for me to go. I was feeling better. If not about the state of the world about her and how loved and safe she still made me feel.

"And remember, as I always say, be sure to wear your sweater."

It was as if I could see her smiling.

November 16, 2105--ISIS in Paris

I may have a different perspective after I, perhaps, cool down.

God knows there have been much worse cases of barbarism, evil during my lifetime. Even quite recently. By the numbers, ISIS's blowing the Russian plane out of the sky over the Sinai killed more innocent people than the seven or eight coordinated attacks in Paris.

Numerically, the terrorist bombings in Mumbai, Spain, Beirut, and of course on 9/11 killed and maimed more people, but there is something different about ISIS than al Qaeda. Something different for me about Paris than even New York.

That tells you how in a rage I am about what happened Friday night.

OK, I used the e-word. Evil.

All of these terrorist atrocities, including the pubic beheadings, are more than "cowardly acts." If there is such a thing as evil, this is it. Have there been worse examples? Of course. Including in France.

The French, among other "civilized" people, during the Second World War rounded up and shipped many thousands of their Jews to certain death in Nazi Germany.

A special definition of evil is necessary to categorize the various holocausts of the 20th century.

But what was perpetrated Friday still qualifies as dastardly. Unspeakable. All too human in its inhumanness.

Words fail.

French president Hollande says this was an act of "war." The Pope said we are in "World War III." Both may be right.

If we are, what then does that mean?

France is a linchpin of the NATO alliance. NATO's charter in effect says that "an attack on one is an attack on all." That includes us. The United States.

That charter was written well before al Qaeda and ISIS existed. It was for a time when there were credible threats of a Soviet invasion of Western Europe. What does it mean now when the definition of war had shifted? Does it mean that the U.S. is also at war? That because France was "attacked," that it experienced more than an evil act of terrorism, we too have been attacked and thus are obligated to act accordingly? To join them in waging war?

I do not know how to think about this. What I do know is that this has struck me deeply. I have even been gathering information about going to France, Paris, this week. As an act of solidarity and defiance.

Rona thinks I'm crazy. She's right. I am.

Minimally I am trying to think about what France should do, more appropriately, as an American citizen what we should do because I do think we are at war.

Yes, I know how we got there. Not solely as the result of President Obama's weak leadership--though he has been weak and that hasn't helped, feeling that the "Arab Spring" would help bring about versions of democracy to the region. This just as naive in its own way as George W. Bush's delusion that toppling Saddam Hussein would do that for Iraq and surrounding dictatorships.

What matters now is what to do going forward.

Drone-guided bombings will not get the job done. Depending on lightly-armed Kurd forces on the ground will not defeat ISIS in Syria and Iraq. Russia's involvement, even if it shifts to confront ISIS rather than Syrian rebels, will not get the job done.

Nothing this simple, this limited will work.

I can hardly believe I am thinking this, but only a massive, boots-on-the-ground force of American troops has any chance of succeeding. Perhaps 100,000 are required. Maybe more.

This would mean many casualties, even the beheading of captured U.S. soldiers. But does anyone have a better, more realistic idea?

I hate this. Hate all of it. But I am feeling radicalized.

ISIS has to be shown to be a failure in order to stem the flow of young lunatics to its "cause." Disaffiliated youth from the Islamic world as well as from Europe and the United States are partly drawn to ISIS because it is perceived to be winning. This encourages those with distorted minds to believe that the apocalypse they seek is near at hand. Defeat ISIS, devastate it, and that belief system will crumble.

I am sorry. I wish I could believe in the effectiveness of diplomacy and financial warfare, including bombing the oil fields and petroleum distribution system in ISIS-controlled territory.

I don't.

As long as they feel they are winning, ISIS fighters can live on fumes. They are that motivated and tenacious.

So they have to be killed. All of them would be ideal. As many as possible is imperative.

Again, I can't believe these worlds are coming from me. I have up to now considered myself to be moderate, essentially pacifistic. Not any more.

Paris on Friday changed that.

When will we too again feel the pain and fear?

August 25, 2015--Intimacy of Evil

In her remarkable book, Eichmann in Jerusalem, Hannah Arendt writes about the "banality of evil." How Adolf Eichmann, though he was responsible for the transport system that herded millions of Jews to concentration camps and their ultimate slaughter, was not in the ordinary sense actively and directly evil, but was a bureaucrat who, in a perverse sense, was carrying out orders as expeditiously and efficiently as possible.

For discussing Eichmann in this way--as a banal functionary and not a passionate anti-semite or a fanatical ideologue--Arendt was widely criticized as not holding him sufficiently responsible for his deeds--that he was, she was interpreted as saying, just doing his job. That his actions were "ordinary."

Quite the contrary--she saw his version of evil in a particularly horrific way--how it was manifested in a very average man which left the suggestion that there is a thin human line between "normality" and there ability to commit unspeakable evil. That someone so ordinary, so inconspicuous could participate so dispassionately in one of history's most heinous collective crimes.

I thought--how different is the evil being perpetrated today by ISIS.

We have been sad and outraged witnesses to their public beheadings and other barbaric crimes against innocent people in the lands they have overrun and subjugated to their merciless rule.

Just last week, in the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra, ISIS warriors slaughtered the keeper of its more-than-2000-year-old archeological treasures. Treasures considered so noteworthy and historically significant as to be listed a UNESCO World Heritage site.

To ISIS, since the temples and magnificent artifacts predate the advent of Islam, were built before the prophet Mohammed was born, they are the work of infidels and need to be brutally eliminated as do any people who do not embrace or follow ISIS's version of Islam.

Making an emphatic point of this, they hauled 83-year-old Khalid al-Asaad, the keeper of the antiquities for more than 50 years, into the town square and, after ordering all citizens to come forth as witnesses, according to the report in the New York Times, "cut off his head in front of the crowd" and then "his blood-soaked body was suspended with red twine by his wrists from a traffic light, his head resting on the ground between his feet, his glasses still on."

This is not the banality of evil.

This is not the impersonal imposition of slaughter.

This is not evil propagated from a bureaucrat's office or delivered from 30,000 feet.

This is not using current technology to force victims into "showers" and once there dispense with them by the administration of the latest in poison gases and then with bulldozers pushing the mounds of bodies into open trenches where the machines bury the dead and the evidence.

This is not evil where no one is touched. Where everything is by schedule and assisted by state-of-the-art technology.

ISIS's is the intimacy of evil. Not its banality.

These evil-doers hold victims in their arms. With their own hands they hold up victims' heads. And then, in that ugly embrace, cut off their heads. And then place them carefully on the ground, making sure eyeglasses are carefully arranged.

A friend here who is essentially a pacifist wants "to nuke" them. Minimally place enough American "boots on the ground"--even 200,000 if necessary--to kill them all. Kill them all.

I get it.

August 7, 2014--Israeli (Jewish) Exceptionalism

The outrage and debate continues over civilian casualties in Gaza and Israel. More accurately, about what has been happening in Gaza. There have been relatively few Israeli civilian causalities and, even if there were many more, the outrage would, by comparison, be muted.

Hamas and the Palestinians are not just the underdogs in this fight--improvised rockets versus jet fighters and smart bombs--but they are also not Jews.

This must be said--being not-Jews means less is expected of the Palestinians.

More is expected of the Jews (and I mean Jews as distinguished from Israelis) because of the Holocaust. Because of it, it goes, Jews should know better when it comes to inflicting harm and worse on innocents--people who are killed or wounded not because they are enemy combatants but because of who they are.

Jews were rounded up and mass murdered in Germany, and in much of the rest of continental Europe, because they were Jews. Not soldiers, not resistance fighters. For this reason, Jews should know better. But they also know that the world stood by largely silent. And thus were complicitous. This complicates matters.

By this logic Israeli Jews, and the rest of us who are Jews, should be very careful about setting upon anyone just because of who they are. We should know that if we allow this, worse perpetrate this, "they" will come for us next. As they have for millennia.

This is the Jews' patrimony. Mine as well.

So here we are today seeing the slaughter of innocents in Gaza. Carried out by Israelis. By Jews.

That is not our patrimony nor the lessons we should have learned from our own history.

All right. Point made.

But there is another, related point to make--

To expect Jews, Israelis to act as if there is something often referred to as Jewish Exceptionalism is to apply a higher standard to them than to any other nation or people.

Where is the equivalent outrage about the United States being responsible for hundreds of thousands of civilian deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan? Yes, a few human rights group keep that tally and attempt to grab an occasional headline. But beyond that there is, again, silence.

How much "collateral damage" (that hideous euphemism that means killing of innocent people), how much has there been in South Sudan or Eastern Ukraine? How widely reported has that been? And what martial etiquettes have been assigned to the Russian-backed forces or the Sudan People's Liberation Army? Certainly not the same as those imposed on Jews and Israelis.

But stories about the 1,400 Palestinians who have thus far been killed--admittedly at least half of them noncombatants--have been on the front page of the New York Times for days. Including yesterday, explicitly, with multicolored graphs distinguishing among different categories of the dead, "Civilian or Not? New Fight in Tallying the Dead in Gaza."

This has the tincture of anti-Semitism.

It is no coincidence that anti-Semetic rallies and confrontations have been erupting in many places in Europe, horrifyingly also in Germany. This derives not just from a long history of festering hatred but from the conflation of Israel and Jews--of a nation with a people.

They, we are not one and the same. Many Jews, including me, though we recognize the existential threat to Israel that Hamas and its tunnels and rockets represent and Israel's right to defend itself, not all Jews support a separate state of Israel or the current reactionary, repressive government.

And thus to expect us to be any better than other people is unreasonable. And since it it expressed so one-dimensionally, and leads so quickly to condemnations and worse, all Jews are wise to have their radar tuned to high. Danger of the old sort is lurking.

July 11, 2014--Best of Behind: In the Sunlight of Horror

From September 21, 2007. Not your usual light-spirited Friday posting but . . .
Some years ago I was in Munich. Primarily to visit the museums, but also to take in whatever remained of the atmosphere out of which Hitler emerged. My idea of fun!

So I visited the beer hall, the Bürgerbräukeller, where in 1916 he made his famous speech and launched the putsch that brought him and the Nazi party to prominence. I must admit, though decades had passed since that infamous night, when up in the private room where the early Nazis gathered, to hear the same songs from his day filtering up from the huge hall below, it was not difficult to project myself back in time. In my mind’s eye I could see Hitler surrounded by Rudolph Hess, Alfred Rosenberg, and Herman Göering.

The following day, as a part of my Nazi tour, I wanted to visit the Dachau concentration camp since I understood it was nearby and because it was among the first of the camps. I didn’t have a car so I tried to find out if there was a way to get there by public transportation. It was not easy to find someone to direct me much less get anyone to look me in the eye so I knew it and concentration camps in general were still not discussable subjects in Bavaria. But I did manage to find my way to what was in effect a commuter train—Dachau, you see, is only 16 kilometers (10 miles) from downtown Munich.

Thus, in a mere 20 minutes, on a beautiful sunlit day, I arrived in the town of Dachau; and since I assumed I would need to take another train or taxi to wherever the camp was located—considering what had gone on there I assumed it would be at a considerable distance—I wandered around again seeking directions. I was not ignored because of my halting German, though it was pathetic. I suspected it was more because no one in Dachau wanted to even hear mention of the real Dachau—the camp.

I did, though, eventually find a taxi driver who agreed to take me to it. I got into his car and sat slumped in the back seat not wanting to draw too much attention to myself by looming as a presence in his rearview mirror—I was happy enough that I was able to find someone willing to drive me there and didn’t want to put any pressure on him to have to acknowledge me.

But without any provocation he asked, “Would you like me to take you to the camp by the road along the railroad tracks?”

I didn’t immediately understand the implication of this, thinking only that I did not have much cash and since getting to the camp would be a long and expensive ride I didn’t want him to take a route that would run up the meter. So I said, “Whatever you prefer is fine, as long as it’s the shortest one.”

He chuckled at that and said, “Along the tracks is the shortest.” And added, “You see, they located the camp as close to the tracks as possible. They prided themselves on being efficient.”

Along the tracks we drove, following them as they wound their way right through the center of this medieval town. “You see where we are,” he said, “Where everyone could see.”

Again not understanding, I asked, “See what?”

“What was going on,” he said.

Embarrassed that it had taken me so long to get what he was trying to tell me, I muttered, “Ach, I understand,” and pulled myself up in my seat so I could get a better view of things.

“The trains went right through the town. In the morning they were packed full of prisoners. In the afternoon they returned empty.” For the next few minutes we rode in silence. “And then at night, everyone could smell what was going on. You will see why because we are almost there. It is not far and the prevailing wind blew the smoke right over the city.”

We had been driving for no more than a total of ten minutes when he stopped at the entrance. “This is as far as I can go,” he said.

He refused to take any money from me and then looked back over his shoulder toward where we had been. The town of Dachau was clearly visible. 

He pointed. “Now you understand, yes?”

I did. 

March 13, 2104--Ladies of Forest Trace: The Wimp

“You know how much your mother likes us to come for dinner with her and her friends.”

“Didn’t we . . .?

“We didn’t,” Rona said. “At least not this year. Last winter once or twice but . . .”

“We should,” I quickly agreed, knowing we would wind up there for dinner no matter what excuses I might make. Among other things I hate eating at 5:00. And then there is . . .

More about my resistance I am reluctant to reveal. So we made arrangements to join my mother and the “girls” last week.

“The menu isn’t that bad tonight,” my mother assured us in the passive voice and without much conviction. “But there’s always the chicken. I like it without skin. Which is the way they serve it. Without any sauce. Too much salt.”

This didn’t excite my appetite. But as Rona has said in the past, it’s not about the food. “And you should think about eating at 5:00 as late lunch. Just nibble and then at 7:30 we can go to Toa Toa for some wonderful dim sum. You know, your favorite, chive dumplings.”

I love Rona, especially when she tries to encourage me to see things in the best possible light.

Bertha ordered the brisket (“I can still chew it if it’s not stringy”), Rose the vegetable plate (“I’m eating healthy these days”), and Ruth the fish (“I know it’s frozen. But I can use the brain food”).

My mother, Rona, and I ordered the chicken. “Do you have any with skin?” I asked, “I like skin. And, for me, please include the sauce. I like salty food.”

Rona and my mother exchanged glances.

“So what have you been doing with yourselves?” Ruth asked as she dug into her side salad. I was fascinated by someone having such an appetite in the middle of what felt to me like the afternoon.

“A little of this, a little of that,” I said. Rona kicked me under the table. “Taking beach walks, seeing family and friends,” I continued, “Also, getting a lot of reading and writing done and . . .”

“Reading what?” Rose asked.
"And writing what?” Bertha wanted to know.

“A little of this, a little of that,” I said and again got kicked. This time a little harder.

“I just finished a book my brother-in-law recommended. About the American ambassador to Nazi Germany just before the war started. It’s . . .”

“I read that too,” Rose said. “I forget the title. These days I forget everything. Including who I am.”

“You do not,” my mother assured her. “You have an excellent memory. And you know who you are. Rose is who you are,” she added with a gentle smile, wanting to remind Rose in case she in fact, for the moment, did forget her own name. Which sometimes happens. Rose is nearly 100. Yet, amazingly, a full six years younger than my mother.

“I think it’s called A Beast In the Garden.”

“Actually,” I offered under my breath so only she would hear, “It’s In the Garden of Beasts, which in German is . . .” Once more I was kicked.

“In German it’s tiergarten. When we were in Berlin, Jake and I went there for a stroll. It’s Berlin’s Central Park. Though why he dragged me to Germany I’ll never know.”

“Did you like it?” Rona asked.

“The book or the trip?”

“Well, the book.”

“Not really. I already know too much about Germany.”

“You’re always reading about Germany,” my mother said.

“Not that much. I let myself read just one Nazi book a year. I don’t need to be reminded. Half my family I lost there. Actually, in Poland, where it was even worse for the Jews than Germany, if you can believe it.”

“So the Garden of Beasts was your Nazi book for this year?”

“I guess you could say that,” Rose said with a faraway look. I didn’t know if she was thinking about Jake or the Nazis.

“It was interesting I suppose,” Rose said, “to focus on the ambassador and his family. His daughter was the most interesting. She was jumping into bed with every American, Russian, and German she could get her hands on. And threw in a few from France.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bertha said with a chuckle. “I could use a little spice. On the brisket too, for that matter.” All the ladies joined her in laughter.

“The book reminded me again,” Rose resumed, “what anti-Semites there were in our State Department. The Secretary and all his assistants. Roosevelt wanted to let more Jews come to America but they blocked it. They should all rot you-know-where.”

“I say Amen to that,” Ruth added quietly, “I lost most of my family in the camps.”

All the ladies joined her and said “Amen.”

“Can you believe what’s going on today?” my mother said.

“About what?” Ruth said. “There’s so much it’s hard to know where to start.”

“In the Ukraine with the Rushkins.”

“You mean the Russians in Ukraine?”

“Yes, there. It’s terrible.” She shook her head side-to-side, sadly. “More anti-Semites.”

“You know what’s making me so upset about that?” Rose asked and before anyone could answer said, “What they’re saying about Obama.” The other ladies, knowing where this way going, nodded in agreement.

“They say he can’t do anything right,” Ruth said, “First he’s a dictator, he wants to be the king, and then the next day they say he’s weak.”

“A wimp,” Bertha said. “Didn’t that Graham senator call him that?”

“I’m not sure it was him, but it was him for sure,” Ruth said, “ who said that America, Obama should put a rope around Putin’s neck. He should talk like that considering he’s from Georgia. The Georgia in America where no one should talk about putting ropes around people’s necks. I know. I went on Freedom Rides.”

“He’s just worried about getting reelected,” Rose said. “Not that that should excuse him.”

“He and his sidecar, McCain, are so angry,” my mother said. “When they talk about Obama you can see how much they hate him. Not just disagree with him, but hate him.”

“At least they were in the army, McCain and Graham,” Ruth said, “But what do you make of the others who did not go, who are calling Obama weak and . . .”

“An appraiser,” my mother said.

“Appeaser,” Bertha corrected her.

“That’s what I meant. Sometimes I get so mixed up. They should only know from appraising. You’re too young to know about that darling,” she said to Rona. “And be thankful for that.”

“I know what you’re talking about Mom. About how so many in England and America thought they could buy peace by appeasing Hitler.”

“See how I told you she knows everything?” my mother said to the ladies. “Everyone in my family is so smart.”

“There she goes again,” Rose said, winking at Rona, “How she loves her family.”

“Here’s what I think,” my mother said so softly that all the ladies needed to huddle together to hear her. I joined them in leaning forward. My hearing is not that much better than theirs.

“These days if you’re the president,” she whispered as if she was saying something conspiratorial and did not want to be overheard, “it takes more courage to let people think you’re a so-called wimp than bluster about military options. That’s easy to do.”

“I’m confused,” Ruth said. “Which for me,” she shrugged, “is most of the time.”

“Not true, dear,” my mother assured her, “You still have left at least half your mind. What I mean,” she continued, “is that it’s easy if you’re just in the Congress or on TV to talk about getting tough with the Rushkins. What are we going to do? Bomb them like that fool Sarah Palin said? That’s meshuga.”

“You’re making wonderful points,” Bertha said. “Rachel on TV couldn’t make them any better. She’s the smartest. Her mother must be so proud of her.”

“With Obama weakened,” my mother pressed on, “because he only has two years left and, to be fair, got all tangled up with those red lines in Syria, it takes a lot of maturity, with the pressure he’s under, not to go off the steep end. When you are as strong as America is—and we are still very strong—as I said, it takes courage to hold back and look for a solution without threatening to shoot and bomb. We’ve had enough of that. Just look at the mess doing that made.”

“That sounds like the right thing to me,” Rose said.

“How’s the chicken?” Bertha asked, having has enough of political talk. “My brisket is chewy but tasty. I like the sauce they serve with it.” She stole a glance in my mother’s direction and then smiled at me.

I had picked away at the chicken but was looking forward to the chive dumplings.

September 9, 2013--Good Yontif in Farsi

While much of the attention focused on the Middle East last week was about the United States' struggle with how to respond to Syria's use of chemical weapons on its own citizens, there was another important story that were virtually ignored.

The press covered every minute of President Obama attempt while in St. Petersburg for the G-20 summit to convince at least a few leaders of the world's most powerful nations to support limited military strikes against the Assad regime's capacity to deploy these weapons of mass destruction.  He secured little overt endorsement and may have to settle for going it along, assuming Congress grants him the authority to do so.

Dealing with Congress was the concurrent part of the Syria story. Equally covered by the media wall-to-wall were the deals the Obama administration was working on to garner enough bipartisan support for this authorization. At least half of what was discussed was how big a blow it would be to Obama's prestige and to undercutting the power of the presidency if the Congress failed to do so.

The other half was devoted to how this would play out in the rest of the Middle East, particularly how Iran would react if the U.S. were seen as weakened by bipartisan anti-war sentiment.

If Obama couldn't enforce the red line he drew regarding Syria's use of poison gas, how likely would he be to enforce an even more crucial one--not allowing Iran to develop nuclear weapons? And, always of course, how would Israel react? What would Israel do if the United States was suddenly perceived to be impotent?

These are all important subjects well worth detailed coverage and discussion. But almost lost in the shuffle of Syria-related stories was what might be happening in Iran now that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is no longer president and his successor, the "moderate" Hassan Rouhani appointed an even more moderate, American-educated Javad Zarif as Foreign Minister.

Both, if you can believe it, on the eve of the highest of Jewish holidays, Rosh Hashanah, sent out Tweets, wishing Jews a Happy New Year.

Semi-buried on page A9 of the New York Times, President Rouhani's Tweet was quoted--

As the sun is about to set here in Tehran I wish all Jews, especially Iranian Jews, a blessed Rosh Hashanah. 

And while they were wishing Jews a Good Yontif, unlike Ahmadinejad, who made a habit of it, they dismissed the idea that the Holocaust never happened.

In response to a Tweet from Nancy Pelosi's daughter, Christine, who is married to a Jew, in a message to Foreign Minister Zarif in which she said that the new year would be even sweeter if he would stop denying the reality of the Holocaust, he responded--

Iran never denied it. The man who was perceived to be denying it is now gone. Happy New Year. 

That "man" who is now "gone," of course, is the aforementioned Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

He was not just "perceived" to be a Holocaust denier--he in fact emphatically and repeatedly was. But the Tweets from Iran's recently-elected leadership (though the ultimate ruler remains Ayatollah Ali Khamenei) are encouraging.

Perhaps something good will emerge from the new regime in Tehran. Maybe a deal that would see Iran back off from its nuclear weapons program and, in response, we would agree to end the sanctions that are wrecking Iran's economy--the real source of the apparent sea change in attitudes and, let's hope, behavior.

This to me is the major story of last week.