treppenwitz

Is it just me...

... or does anyone else find it odd that pretty much all the news coverage of the bloody shooting spree at Fort Hood has buried the fact that the shooter was a lifelong practicing Muslim well down in the article (if it is mentioned at all)?

I ask because I have absolutely no doubt that if an Orthodox Jew were to do anything similar, the world (and even the non-orthodox Jewish community) would be trumpeting his religious affiliation, and especially his orthodoxy, in the headlines and throughout the early paragraphs.

I'm just saying.

Seriously, here's how things stack up as of this moment:

Jerusalem Post - First mention of his religion comes in the 10th paragraph.

New York Times - Amazingly never actually says he was a Muslim.  In the 34th paragraph they have a condemnation of the shooting from the Muslim Public affairs Council... but that seems odd since in the 20th paragraph they go out of their way to mention that the shooter had indicated 'No Religious Preference' in his service record... a point completely contrary to easilyavailable interview material from his fellow Mosque members.

Haaretz waits until the 10th paragraph to mention his religion.

The Washington Post waits until the 16th paragraph to mention the shooter's faith.

YNet doesn't see fit to mention his religion at all, although well into the article they say that it is unclear if his name (a very Islamic sounding one) was given at birth or if he converted at some point to Islam.

The Chicago Tribune doesn't mention the shooter's religion in all 29 paragraphs of their coverage.  Nada. 

A common thread in all the articles is a quote from the Base Commander saying that they are not treating this as a terror attack. 

It boggles the mind.  Here is a Muslim who, by all reports was about to be shipped to an overseas posting where the US is engaged in fighting a Muslim enemy.... and just before he is shipped out he goes postal (apologies to my mail carrier friends) on his fellow soldiers.  Nope... no religious connection here.

[face palm]

The racism they have forced upon us

I was standing at the entrance to Kiryat Arba waiting for the bus that would take me to Beer Sheva (Zahava had the car), when a late model SUV pulled up and let off a 20-something woman at the bus stop.

The woman was dressed in loose slacks, a pretty blouse and sweater, and had her dark hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail.  At her feet sat an overstuffed soft-sided suitcase, and in her arms she held a baby blanket and a bottle filled with milk or formula.

This seemed odd... baby blanket, baby bottle... but no baby.

But then I spotted the car that had dropped her off idling nearby, and as our bus approached, an older man (perhaps in his 40s) emerged from the car with a baby and handed the child to the woman.  Mystery solved.  Since it was cold outside, they had simply left the baby inside the warm car until the last possible moment.  Responsible parents.

But as I was watching the man pass the baby to the woman, the blanket slipped from her arm and landed by her suitcase.  But for this small slip I would never have noticed that there was a luggage identification tag on the handle... written in Arabic.  And on the suitcase itself I noticed there were a few more Arabic words written in magic marker.

I should pause here to point out that once upon a time it was commonplace to see Arabs riding Israeli buses and Jews riding the Arab bus lines.  If you were in a hurry and a bus came along you simply took whatever bus passed.  Likewise Jews and Arabs shopped freely in one another's communities and stores, meaning there was significant economic overlap. 

However, this isn't to say that there was much social interaction. There wasn't.

Of course there were exceptional cases of Jewish and Arab families becoming close because of work or proximity... to the point where they invited each other to family celebrations and such.  But for the most part, the relationship was one of economic convenience rather than affection (by any stretch of the imagination).

So back to this woman boarding the same bus that I was about to take to Beer Sheva... a bus with bulletproof windows and armor plating on the sides, roof and floor against a very real external threat.  Now here was a potential internal threat... against which none of that armor would help!

A moment before I had looked at this woman and seen only a caring mother who loved her baby so much, she had asked her husband (or some other relative or friend) to wait with the car so the infant wouldn't be out in the cold.  Now all I could see was a potential suicide bomber with the perfect cover.

Apparently I wasn't the only one who had noticed the Arabic writing on the suitcase.  Nobody was saying anything, but when the woman asked the driver to open the luggage compartment, her Arabic-accented Hebrew caught the attention of everyone nearby.  Suddenly this woman had become the object of silent but intense scrutiny from a bunch of Israelis who would otherwise have been pushing one another out of the way to get on the bus.

A young soldier with the insignia of an elite infantry unit on his shoulder saw that the woman was having trouble juggling the baby and her suitcase, so as she was speaking to the driver, he deftly took her suitcase and carried it towards the storage compartment that was now opening on the side of the bus.

Under other circumstances, his gesture would have seemed polite... chivalrous, even.  But as he got on the bus and flashed his ID to the driver (soldiers ride free in uniform, but they need to show their army card), he leaned in close enough not to be heard by anyone but the driver (and the person behind him; me) and said, "It was too light to be problematic."

The driver, who had certainly heard the woman's accent, nodded and visibly relaxed.  The people at the front of the bus who had watched the exchange between the soldier and the driver (without hearing it), also visibly relaxed once they saw the driver's posture change back to one of 'business as usual'.

The only person who seemed unaware of the scrutiny and discussion was the Arab woman who was now seated about halfway back on the left side... fussing with her baby.

The entire drive to Beer Sheva, my mind was full of conflicting thoughts.  On the one hand I felt like a racist.  After all, in the blink of an eye I had changed my view of this woman's potential reason for being on the bus from passenger to murderer the instant I realized she was an Arab.  On the other hand, who was responsible for this racism... me or the terrorists who so often cynically sent women and even children to carry out suicide bombings and lethal attacks?

I'm sure that in Tel Aviv/Yaffo and Haifa where the Jewish and Arab populations mix more freely this sort of thing doesn't happen. 

But while I continue to read about mythological roads that are forbidden to Arabs, and of terrible restrictions on Palestinian movement here in 'the territories'... the reality is just the opposite.  They can go wherever they want, but there are roads and places that I am forbidden by law from entering because they are 'Area A' and officially Judenrein by order of the Palestinian Authority.  

The Arab buses and taxis are likewise forbidden to me wile Palestinians seem to have every legal right to ride the Egged buses.   While I must pass through countless security checks each day to travel to work, enter stores, restaurants and public transportation, there are no armed guards in front of Arab restaurants or stores... proof that nobody is hunting them.

I'm wondering... I am the racist here?

'Tis the Saison

'The Saison', (or hunting season) was a dark period in Israeli/Jewish history that officially began in November 1944 after members of the Lehi (Stern Gang) assassinated Lord Moyne, the British Minister of State in the region.

Tensions between the three armed Jewish 'militias' (for lack of a better term) - the Haganah, The Irgun and the Lehi- had been building for most of the latter half of WWII.  As the tide of the war turned in favor of the Allies, the Haganah favored full cooperation with the British authorities in hopes that the mandatory power would reward the Jews with a better deal after the war.

However, the Irgun (under Menachem Begin) and the Lehi (under Avraham Stern) were furious with the British for their heavy handed treatment of the Jews, their deliberate disregard for their mandate and their refusal to allow Jews to enter Palestine at a time when Hitler couldn't kill them fast enough.   

By 1944 all cooperation/truces between the three militias had broken down,and the Irgun and Lehi began waging open war on the British in defiance of the Haganah's orders.  This culminated with Lord Moyne's assassination by two Lehi operatives.

As a result, the Haganah declared a 'hunting season' (la saison de chasse), initially on members of both groups, but eventually exclusively on the Irgun.   'The Saison' included:

• Firing suspected Irun and Lehi members from workplaces and expelling them from schools and universities.

• Denying members of these groups shelter and sanctuary when they were being pursued by the British.

• Cooperation with the British struggle against them.

This last point was especially troubling.  The word 'cooperation' could be mistaken for things as subtle as providing tips and passive assistance.  But in many cases Irgun and Lehi members were kidnapped by the Haganah and actually handed over to the British... resulting in torture, imprisonment, deportation and on more than one occasion, execution.

The Lehi couldn't do much about the firings and school expositions, but they drew the line at kidnapping.  They made it clear that if any more of their members were kidnapped, the Haganah would find themselves facing the wrong end of Lehi guns.  And for the most part the Lehi was left unmolested from that point on.

But the idea of Jews killing (or even threatening) Jews was so abhorrent to Begin that he ordered Irgun members not to respond to the Haganah 'Saison' under any circumstances.  As much as he hated the British, he hated the idea of Jew raising a hand against Jew even more.

Even though 'The Saison' ended during 1945 (when the three groups began loosely cooperating in actions against the British), one late event which occurred after the declaration of the State of Israel can't help but be associated with that terrible time; the Altalena affair... a tragic incident where David Ben Gurion, the new State's Prime Minister, ordered Yitzhak Rabin to have his troops open fire on an Irgun ship carrying refugees and much-needed arms, all because he couldn't come to an agreement with Menachem Begin over how the arms would be distributed.

On the one hand, it is understandable that the state couldn't tolerate 'an army within an army.  But it was nearly eight months later that the Haganah's elite Palmach troops were fully absorbed into the IDF leaving one to wonder why that wasn't considered an army within an army.

In any event, the Haganah had morphed into the IDF, and the Irgun was expected to integrate fully into the ranks of the new state's defense forces.  However, the arms the Irgun ship Altalena carried were procured before the establishment of the state, and the ship set sail from Europe without clear instructions from Begin. 

Rather than treat the ship as a Godsend (which it certainly was) and make heroes of the arriving Irgun members who had worked tirelessly to find the badly needed arms and ammunition, Ben Gurion opted to create a confrontation and issued perfunctory orders to his commander in the field to tell the ship to surrender its arms or be fired upon.  When the ship didn't respond immediately, Rabin opened fire, destroying the ship, sending its precious cargo into the water off Tel Aviv beach, and killing many of the helpless, unarmed Irgun members who were trying to escape the ship and swim ashore. 

Near the end of his life, Yitzhak Rabin was quoted as saying that his part in the Altalena affair one of his life's proudest moments.  By comparison, Menachem Begin wrote that his years in government and his time as Prime minister meant nothing to him compared with his pride at the fact that - even according to his detractors - his policy of restraint played a role in averting a Jewish civil war during the Saison. 

The French word 'Saison' which means season suggests something that returns year after year.  During the first half century of Israel's existence the right and left distrusted and attacked one another only slightly less vehemently than during the pre-state years.  But the hate was a fairly constant thing where the two sides pretty much gave as good as they got (even though the left had the distinct advantage of being in power).

But since the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin by a lone lunatic who happened to belong to the rightist camp, the hate and distrust that the Israeli left has heaped upon the right has swelled and taken on a life of its own.  And it has found a natural cycle during each passing year... a season, if you will, during which Rabin's flaws are all forgotten and his murder is held up as the death of the one and only chance Israel may ever have for peace. 

The season leading up to the anniversary of Rabin's assassination is a hideous spectacle of squandered opportunities and lessons lost.  Rather than using the commemoration ceremonies as an opportunity to seek unity, explore common goals and repair the broken vehicle of Israeli political discourse, these events are used as partisan workshops in how to indoctrinate yet another generation in the fine art of hate and distrust.

Well, I'm done being blamed.  I used to delude myself into thinking I was a centrist... a Tevye capable of endlessly looking 'on the other hand' to see almost any point of view.  But like Tevye, I am out of other hands... there is no other hand on some things.   

The right did not kill Yitzhak Rabin.  And although he pulled the trigger, even Yigal Amir didn't kill Yitzhak Rabin.  What killed Rabin was the hate and distrust that both the right and left have always felt so free to express and use bludgeon one another. 

He was killed by that most deadly of Israeli attitudes: that anyone who does not share your point of view is your enemy.

Personally, I have no problem with the idea of holding annual remembrance ceremonies for Yitzhak Rabin.  In fact, I'm in favor of it.  It is necessary.  He was the prime minister during a tumultuous time and was gunned down while in office.  It was a tragedy worth marking and remembering.

But these ceremonies cannot be allowed to be used to accuse me and my children, and everyone else on the political right, of creating and fostering an environment where murder becomes not only possible... but probable!

If we are ever to find our way as a nation - a unified nation with a comfortably diverse population engaged in healthy, energetic political debate - we must also use these annual ceremonies to teach our children - and remind each other - about the tragedy of 'The Saison'... and to finally understand that in a world where so many want to annihilate us, Jew must never raise a hand against Jew.

Good music at a price you can't refuse

I had a bit of a rant on this morning, and on the advice of my lovely wife I have decided to let it 'age' for another day or so to see if I can't tone it down enough for public consumption.

In the mean time, I've been meaning to mention that Lenny Solomon, a fellow musician and close friend of more than 20 years, has just released his latest album - entitled 'No Limits' -  and it is available for download from his website. 

Lenny and I have played together in concert countless times over the years, and I've even had a few guest spots on a couple of his previous albums. 

However, unlike most of his albums, this is not your typical Shlock Rock parody stuff (not that there's anything wrong with that!).  Rather, it is a nice mix of Lenny's original stuff... written and performed from the heart.

And the price is an eye-opener.  Lenny has borrowed a chapter from Radiohead's business model and made the album available for download for whatever you want to pay (from $1 up).  Really.  A buck.

Go to his website and follow the link to his 'No Limits' album. Just have a listen... I think you'll agree that it is worth far more than whatever you decide to pay.

Tell him 'Bogie' sent you.

The stuff of nightmares - Part II

[Note:  If you didn't read yesterday's post carefully, today's post will make absolutely no sense.]

Where were we?  Ah yes...

Suddenly a blinding red alarm explodes in my head and I realize what must have happened.  My hand goes into my left front pants pocket and my heart nearly implodes with shock as my fingers find nothing there but a small ball of lint.  I've been pick-pocketed and the ring is gone.

You read in bad fiction about time slowing down during times of crisis and things happening as if in slow motion.  In my dream, which already has a slightly surreal / slow-mo feel to the goings on, things really slow to a crawl at this point.

The first rational thought I have after realizing the ring is gone comes from that well-honed New Yorker sense of subway timing that tells me that any moment there would be a two-toned bell chime (bing-bong!) and the doors would slide shut.  Once that happens the train would begin to move and I would be forced to watch helplessly as the train takes us slowly away from these three young men standing on the platform... and from the ring they had stolen.

The second thought that arrives on the heels of the first is that Zahava still has no idea what's happened.  She looks somewhere between puzzled and annoyed at being unceremoniously jostled into the car by these strangers... but she doesn't have a clue what has resulted from what seemed to simply have been rude behavior.

As I am already imagining the train pulling away from the scene of the crime, I realize that, other than the vague 'three 20-something black men in puffy coats', I would be completely unable to describe these men to the police.  Call me a bigot if you want, but like many white folks from the 'burbs, I have a certain level of ethno-specific prosopagnosia (face-blindness) born partly of not having had much contact with people of color as a kid... and partly of a tendency to reflexively avoid eye contact with young inner-city blacks on the street (or in the subway).  Again, this probably correctly makes me a bigot.  But we're not talking about sitting across a conference table here.  I'm in the NYC Subway system, and for better or worse, political correctness has to take a back seat to self-preservation.

Because the subway doors are about to close, I know I don't have time to explain the situation to Zahava.  But I can't very well jump off the train leaving her to ride away into the night wondering why I had suddenly abandoned her, can I?  So I grab the back of her coat and jerk her (and her overstuffed suitcase) back through the doors onto the subway platform.

Once we are safely off the train, I grab the nearest of the three young men by the front of his puffy down parka and slam his back against the outside of the subway car a couple of feet from the conductor's open window.  As his head bangs loudly against the subway car and rebounds in my direction I begin yelling into his startled face, "Give it back or you're a dead man", over and over as if I actually have the means to carry out the threat.   

But even as I'm doing this, I realize that I have no idea which one of them actually took the ring or is currently in possession of it.  It's a sort of human shell game, and I've simply grabbed the nearest shell in hopes that it conceals the prize.

Clearly I haven't really thought this situation through, because the moment I have this guy pinned against the train, I mentally brace myself for one of two things to happen:  Either he is going to pull a knife or gun and kill me... or one of his two cohorts will do so.  At very least I'm in for a beating since I am out-numbered three to one.

But through no design of my own, a few things begin to subtly shift the situation in my favor.

First, now that I have one of the men pinned a few feet from the bemused face of the guy driving the subway, the train is effectively stuck in the station.  I'm not sure why, but having the conductor - arguably the only semi-authority figure in the vicinity - and his radio close at hand feels mildly reassuring (even though in typical New Yorker fashion, the conductor isn't actually getting involved.  Instead he seems to be taking a wait and see attitude, and like the gathering crowd, is enjoying the show.

Second, rather than assaulting me and freeing their friend, the other two guys have turned on their heels and are bounding up the nearby steps three at a time towards the upper level and the freedom of Columbus Circle.  And for whatever reason, the guy I have pinned against the train (to this day Zahava insists that his feet were dangling off the floor as I pushed him further and further up against the curved side of the train) hasn't made any moves to produce a weapon or fight back.

And then time resumes its normal pace... and I'm left with no ring, a subway full of angry commuters who aren't concerned with my problems, and a young black man in temporary custody who may or may not actually have what I am desperately trying to get back.

The crowd around us swells... and with it the noise in my ears.  The commuters begin to complain about the delay and I become increasingly sure that I've picked the wrong shell ... which means that my ring is already up in the 'fresh' air of Columbus Circle and heading towards points unknown. 

As the time passes and the situation refuses to resolve itself, I begin to sweat in the sauna-like atmosphere of the subway, certain that at any moment a cop is going to show up and ask me why I'm assaulting this upstanding young man.  And when a search of said upstanding young man fails to turn up a stolen ring, I'm going to be the one dragged off to the hoosegow... sentenced to relive the loss of the ring, my dignity and maybe even my fiance, over and over... all because of circumstances completely beyond my control!!!

And that's it... that's where I always wake up. 

In real life, the incident never got to the part written in italics above.  What really happened is that the guy I was holding against the train actually still had the ring (wrapped in tissue paper) in his hand, and when he saw that I was quite literally out of my mind with rage, he tossed it in my face, tried (unsuccessfully) to kick me, and as I released my hold on him to catch the ring, he ran up the stairs after his companions.  Zahava and I got on the train, and we lived (so far, tfu tfu tfu) happily ever after.

Replaying the whole episode in my head later that night, I realized that one or more of these guys must have seen me showing off the ring to my coworker on the street at lunch time, and then waited outside my office for me to leave work.  They had seen me put it away, so they knew exactly which pocket to pick.  And if the subway platform had been more crowded I probably wouldn't have noticed the whole pushing ploy as anything out of the ordinary. 

With horror I understood that the only reason I had noticed something was wrong was that we happened to be getting on a train at probably the only moment during rush hour that the platform was relatively empty. 

That's it.  Blind luck.  But for that, and for the fact that I had the good fortune to have randomly grabbed the guy who actually had the ring... the story could/would have ended badly.

And that, my patient readers, is the stuff of nightmares; the terrible realization that we walk through the world with our valuable property... our priceless relationships... our irreplaceable families... exposed to the vagaries of chance and the whims of evil people who see us only as the sum of our vulnerabilities.

Maybe it's because I know how unbelievably fortunate I am that I've been having this recurring nightmare.  Maybe it's because I know how vulnerable each and every precious thing in our lives makes us.  But whatever the reason, this dream about a long-ago event destroys me emotionally for days afterwards, and makes me walk around waiting for some unspeakable tragedy to happen.

I'm hoping that by writing it down and posting it here, it will be like turning on the lights and revealing a monster perched at the foot of the bed to be nothing more than a shirt and hat draped casually over a chair... harmless to nobody and symbol of nothing more than my untidiness.

The stuff of nightmares

I rarely share dreams here... not because I'm such a private person, but rather because I rarely remember them after waking.  But every few years I have a recurring nightmare which is incredibly realistic, probably because it is a faithful replay of an event which actually took place.

I'm not a mental health professional (heck, I slept through most of psych 101 and passed the test by studying from a friend's excellent notes), but I am so disturbed by this dream each time I have it that I'm hoping that the simple act of writing it down and letting it see the light of day will banish it to wherever nightmares go when they lose their power to frighten.

What makes it most nightmarish... is that it actually happened in real life exactly as I dream it.

It always begins the same way... with the sun hitting the pear shaped diamond held in a delicate platinum setting just so... and exploding with light.  It is so dazzling that I have to look away.

I am standing on the sun-drenched sidewalk near my workplace on Broadway and 72nd St drinking a cup of coffee and showing off the engagement ring I have just bought for Zahava to one of my coworkers.  The ring has been burning a hole in my pocket all day, and now that I only have a few more hours before I see my fiance, I need to show someone.

My coworker is a pleasant looking single girl with a pierced eyebrow and too much make-up who probably has a somewhat different picture in her minds eye of what her engagement ring will one day look like.  But she graciously oohs and aaahs over the simple ring I am showing her and makes all the right admiring envious statements about how lucky Zahava is.

After a few moments she hands me back the ring and I wrap it carefully in the tissue paper before putting it back into my front left pants pocket.  I haven't gone the velvet box route because there will be no dramatic presentation on bended knee.  I have already proposed... asked her parents for her hand... and we have already spent a long afternoon with a friend in the diamond business looking at a small fortune in stones in order to let Zahava select just the right one. 

Once she's picked out her stone and sketched out the design she wanted for her setting, we thank my friend for his expert assistance/advice and go out to begin crossing off the endless list of tasks in which engaged couples typically find themselves, well, engaged.

Fast forward a week or so, and on my way to work I pick up the ring from my friend.  At lunch time I go to have the ring appraised (for insurance purposes) and send the paperwork to my insurance agent so that this tiny piece of jewelry (valued at a bit more than my car) can be included in my policy. 

Unfortunately, because it is already mid-day, my agent informs me that the policy 'rider' for the ring wouldn't kick in until the following day.  Zahava is due to fly to Canada on business that evening and I had promised to go with her to the airport and give her the ring before she left.  We had made up to meet after work on the subway platform at Columbus Circle, and go together from there to JFK.

The afternoon moves like molasses.  I'm already missing Zahava and can't wait to give her the ring.  My co-worker's admiring comments a few hours earlier had made the ring burn even hotter in my pocket and each time I looked at my watch the second hand seemed to have stopped.

Finally, after what seems like a year, it comes time to leave work and I head downtown on the train to meet Zahava.  I leave my office and cross the street to the the subway entrance... all the time walking a foot off the ground with happiness and barely noticing that the 'walk' light turns green just as I reach the curb.  I go down into the station and emerge onto the platform just as my train is pulling into the station. 

Apparently lights naturally turn green and trains arrive just in time for people in love.

I sit in the crowded car for the short ride to Columbus Circle consumed with thoughts of how Zahava's hand will look with her engagement ring sparkling on her delicate finger.

When the train pulls into Columbus Circle, I get off and go over to our appointed meeting place next to the candy/newspaper kiosk and begin scanning the crowd for my fiance.  For several minutes the crowd crashes and ebbs on the platform like waves on a beach as each train rumbles in and out of the station.

Finally I see Zahava walking towards me and all is right with the world.  She has her bulging suitcase with her for her trip and is all smiles.  We walk a few feet up the platform and stand together on the relatively empty platform waiting for the next train to arrive that will take us to the airport.   When it finally arrives we position ourselves where the doors will open and wait patiently for the train to stop.

Suddenly, as the doors part, three 20-something black men in puffy parkas begin pushing from behind as if worried about not getting on the train in time.  But the behavior is odd in the extreme because the platform is otherwise quiet and the conductor's window is right next to the door we face.  There is no chance that they might miss the train... and thus no need for them to push us.

Just as quickly as the three men had pushed us into the train, they all step back out onto the platform and stand looking at the overhead signs as if confused about which train to take.

Suddenly a blinding red alarm explodes in my head and I realize what must have happened.  My hand goes into my left front pants pocket and my heart nearly implodes with shock as my fingers find nothing there but a small ball of lint.  I've been pick-pocketed and the ring is gone.

[Part 2 tomorrow]

So that's what they're after!

For weeks now analysts and political pundits have been watching Turkey (the moderate Muslim country] throw the equivalent of a temper tantrum, and have been trying to figure out what it is the Turks want.

It began with Turkey - a full member of NATO - nixing the Israel Air Force's participation in a multi-nation military exercises it was hosting.  The reason given by Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan  for this move was that he wouldn't allow the same planes that were responsible for war crimes in Gaza during Operation Cast Lead to take part in the war games.  As a result of this move, the US and other major players backed out of the planned exercises and Turkey was left looking foolish.

At the same time, Erdogan began making deliberately provocative statements about his country's warm relations with Syria... a move not unlike a rebellious teenager letting his parents spot him hanging out with the neighborhood hoodlums.  But again, the Europeans and US scratched their heads and couldn't understand where this behavior was coming from.

Turkey has long been tauted as a model for what the rest of the Muslim world could be.  It is a western-facing, secular democracy that has historically kept its more restive Islamist elements under tight control.  Even when the current Prime Minister - a man who is more aligned with the religious Muslims than his predecessors - was elected, the pundits reassured each other that the moment Turkey started courting the Islamists and/or turning away from the west, Erdogan's government would be toppled by cooler heads.

And yet, in the past few days we've seen Erdogan making ever more provocative statements to the press such as accusing Israel foreign Minister Avigdor Lieberman of threatening to drop a nuclear weapon on Gaza... while in the same breath extolling the warm friendship Turkey enjoys with Iranian madman Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and the close bond that exists between the two countries. 

Well, yesterday it finally became clear what is bothering Turkey.  They are pissed off because they haven't yet been welcomed into the EU.

Here are his own words on the subject:

"Among leaders in Europe there are those who have prejudices against Turkey, like France and Germany…It is an unfair attitude. The European Union is violating its own rules... Being in the European Union we would be building bridges between the 1.5 billion people of [the] Muslim world to the non-Muslim world. They have to see this. If they ignore it, it brings weakness to the EU."

Here, allow me to parse that for you:

1.  European leaders are prejudiced against Turkey... because they are a Muslim country. 

2.  Europe is violating it's own rules.  Apparently Turkey can exclude anyone it wants for any reason it decides... but Europe must welcome all comers.

3.  Turkey sees itself as the bridge between Europe and the 1.5 billion people of the Muslim world.  Note that when Israel wants to be defined as the Jewish state, that is racist... yet here is a 'moderate' Muslim country making a clear 'them and us' statement about how the world is divided.  Also, the only way this linguistic symmetry works is if Europe is seen as Christian (or at least non-Muslim). 

4.  "If they ignore it, it brings weakness to the EU"... In other words, Europe ignores Turkey's offer to play 'good Muslim' at its own peril. 

I don't know about you, but I don't think there is any place in the EU for an extortionist state which panders to terrorist regimes and positions itself as the best and only conduit for dealing with the 'Muslim World'.  If ever there were a case of 'If you aren't with us, you're against us', this would be it. 

Would it be nice to have them aligned with the west?  Obviously, yes.  But not at any cost.   There are grave dangers in using incentives that can't easily be rescinded. 

For instance, in 2005 Saudi Arabia was granted admission to the World Trade Organization in exchange for agreeing to drop its enforcement of the Arab Boycott against Israel.  Notice I didn't say actually dropping their enforcement.  Once the Saudis had their coveted membership in this exclusive financial club they promptly forgot about their promise... and if anything, increased their enforcement of the anti-Israel boycott.  But good luck trying to expel them from the WTO.

By the same token, now that we know that EU membership is behind Turkey's sudden interest in courting Syria and Iran, EU membership is the last thing anyone should give them. 

Not only should they be required to demonstrate a solid decade or so of unambiguous pro-western policies before they can be considered for EU membership, but each indication of warming relations between Ankara and Syria and Iran should reset the clock to zero. 

The Turks have made it very clear in their own words that they see the world divided between Muslim and non-Muslim.  What the Turks don't yet seem to understand is that even though they sit astride the land bridge between Europe and Asia... in an age of jet airplanes and space travel, bridges are no longer the valuable real-estate they once were.

Disposable DVD Players

Is it just my bad luck or have DVD players gotten so mind-bogglingly crappy that you basically use them for a few months and them throw them away when they stop working?

Granted, we live in a dusty area.  But after the first few machines crapped out I began using a lens/laser cleaning kit religiously.

At a certain point the damned things just decide to stop reading discs and basically become expensive doorstops.

Up until now I have been buying mid-priced DVD players. 

Now I'm torn between buying a really high end machine in hopes that it will actually last longer than a carton of milk... or simply buying a bunch of the really cheap Taiwanese ones so I can just toss them in the trash and hook up a fresh one whenever the inevitable failure message appears on the screen.

Suggestions?

Don't know much about history (or vocabulary, apparently)

Yesterday I got a comment from a woman who lives in the UK that ignored the substance of my post and simply accused Israelis of being a colonial power and of acting like Nazis towards the Palestinians.

Obviously I deleted the comment, but it never ceases to amaze me the way Europeans casually toss around the word 'Nazi' to describe the actions of Israelis towards the Palestinians.  It demonstrates a kind of willful amnesia of exactly what the Nazis did and the kind of ruthless, genocidal policies they were capable of carrying out.

But even more troubling than the casual use of the word 'Nazi' is the frequency with which Israel is accused by Europeans of being a brutal colonial power.  Given the European (and especially British) history of colonialism that's kind of ironic, no?

Just as a little reality check I decided to write a post today that gives a glimpse at just one tiny chapter in the long story of real European colonialism; the 'Mau Mau Rebellion' against British rule in Kenya. 

Remember, we're not talking about un-enlightened 17th, 18th or even 19th-century colonialism.  This is post-WWII!  The 1950s!  Many of you reading this were alive when this happened (or at least your parents were)!!!

Back before Kenya became an independent country, it was a British colony (quaintly termed a 'protectorate'). In addition to rich natural resources and strategically positioned ports, the cool highlands of the country were especially sought after by the British settlers (there's another word whose ironic use today to describe people like me escapes most Europeans) because of the rich farmland and moderate climates; perfect for cultivating tea and coffee. 

Up to and including the early 1950s the British settlers went an an unchecked campaign of confiscating land for their own use in Kenya's central highlands and relegating the native peoples to ever-shrinking reservations.

I won't go into the blow-by-blow details of what led to the creation of the civil and paramilitary rebellion forces of the native peoples against the British... but I recommend this page as a good starting place.  I will, however use some numbers to illustrate how things looked when all was said and done:

British settlers killed by Mau Maus:  26

Native Kenyans killed by British forces:  Somewhere between the 'official' number of 11,503... and as high as knowledgeable estimates of 50,000... with approximately 10% of the dead being children.  One study indicates that as many as 300,000 Kikuyus (the largest native Kenyan ethnic group and the mainstay of the Mau Maus) remain unaccounted for from that period.

During the uprising the British governor and military leaders created 'Special Areas' within which anyone who failed to halt when challenged could be legally shot on sight.  They also designated the Mount Kenya area and Aberdares Range as exclusion zones within which anyone without government authorization (papers) could be shot ... even without the nicety of being challenged.  These two policies were tantamount to declaring open hunting season on anyone with black skin. 

The British also allowed the cutting off of hands of the dead - ostensibly for fingerprint identification - but also to facilitate the collection of an unofficial bounty.

In the end, the Mau Mau Rebellion failed on a military level... but succeeded in hastening the end of British colonialism in Kenya and the establishment of an independent state.  And the real irony is that at the end of the rebellion, the British granted pretty much all of the demands that the originally peaceful protests / civil disobedience movement had demanded before the rebellion began.

So, I would say to the witless British woman who trolled my blog yesterday (and anyone else who is fuzzy about European history),  I encourage a serious review of your own country's track-record and policies on colonialism.  Real colonialism... as in a foreign power invading a land with which they have no previous connection and seizing territory and resources from, and subjugating, indigenous peoples.  And before you call Israelis Nazis, I suggest you visit Yad Vashem and learn a tiny bit of what the real Nazis did in their short, but genocidal, time in power.

Then, dear reader, if you feel the urge to accuse Israel of Nazism or colonialism, compare and contrast polices and actual facts before spewing your wrong-headed prejudices onto pro-Israel blogs and on-line forums.

Israel is not a colonial power for the simple reason that this land was ours historically (read your Bible), a fact that was reaffirmed again in modern times under international law by both the League of Nations and later the United Nations.  Not only are we not foreign interlopers (as you love to imply), but today far more legally purchased/owned Jewish property is held (illegally) by Arabs than the reverse. 

As a parting gift, I would direct you to the U.N. Declaration Of Human Rights; a document which is so often mis-quoted as a weapon against us.  It clearly states that "Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country".  You can't turn over a stone anywhere in the length and breadth of this country (especially in Judea and Samaria; the areas you refer to as occupied Palestinian territory) without finding hard, indisputable evidence of an ancient and continued Jewish presence here.  The very label 'Jew' comes from the word 'Judea'; the real name for the southern half of the so-called 'West Bank'. 

You want to engage me in an intelligent discussion of prejudice, of second-class status, of disenfranchisement and confiscated property?  I won't rub your face in your own country's shameful conduct against the Jews (although by all rights I should).  Instead I will freely admit that like most countries in the world, Israel has many social and legal hurdles to clear before we have the Utopian society we would all prefer.  But our societal shortcomings and ills are not unlike the problems each and every one of your countries has had to face in trying to balance civil liberties and homeland security. 

But if you want to call me a Nazi?  If you want to tell me I'm a colonialist?  That tells me that not only are you not interested in an intelligent discussion... but that you don't even understand the meaning of those words.  

And by the way... in reference to your continued reference to Palestinians as the only indigenous people of this land, I am still awaiting the discovery of the first 'Palestinian' artifact tying that people to my homeland and giving them a greater claim to it than mine.

Contrasts

If you ask pretty much any Olim (immigrants to Israel) how their 'klita' (absorption into Israeli society) is going, they are likely to share a host of horror stories about their encounters with the various bureaucracies here as well as the slow process of cultural acclimatization to the abrupt way native Israelis tend to interact.

However, after they've had their chance to vent, there will usually emerge at least an equal number of heartwarming 'only in Israel' stories that help balance the scales. 

You may remember that my parents are relatively new Olim.  They spend part of each year in the US, but spend the majority of their time here.

During their last visit to the US my mom had on operation on her hand.  The procedure was performed by one of the top hand surgeons at New York's Hospital for Special Surgery, and from all reports the operation was a great success.

However, in the post-operative stage of things it quickly became apparent that the surgeon and patient would have only as much contact as would be absolutely necessary for the hand to be perfunctorily examined... and that no words - especially no questions - would actually be allowed to pass directly between patient and doctor. 

Instead, there would be several layers of secretaries, physician's assistants and nurses to insulate the surgeon from anything more than the most clinical contact with his handiwork.  Just as the immediate area of the incision had been carefully draped in the operating room to exclude all other parts of the patient from view... my mom's surgeon continued to relate to her as though she were still asleep on the table with all but her knuckles carefully draped.

Having been born and raised in the US, both of my parents were used to a certain, shall we say, professional aloofness on the part of physicians... especially those at the top of already rarefied disciplines.  But even so, they were a bit put off by the fact that the surgeon who had, without question, performed stellar work was unwilling to pass even a moment's discussion with the owner of the hand he'd repaired.  After every attempt at contact, he simply waved them away and assured them that his staff would be able to answer any questions.

Fast forward a couple of months and my parents found themselves back in Israel. 

Zahava did a lot of leg-work before they returned to make sure we had the names and numbers of hand therapists and physicians who would be able to follow up with my mom's post-operative care.  But even with this significant groundwork taken care of, it still took a few weeks before my mom had a regular schedule of sessions with an occupational therapist (not a physical therapist)... and an appointment to see an Israeli hand surgeon who could monitor the post operative care.

It actually took a little time to wrangle the appointment with the hand surgeon since my parents had decided to get a consultation from one of the top experts in the country; one of only a couple who actually perform this particular procedure.   So on the day when my mom's 5:00 PM appointment rolled around, my parents were careful to leave two hours early in order to make sure they were on time.

Unfortunately, the best laid plans and all that... delays on the bus and a missed connection turned what should have been an hour ride into more than two-and-a-half hours. 

As you can imagine, my parents were beside themselves with worry as the time for the appointment neared and they were still on the bus.  My dad made several frantic calls to the doctor's office to assure them that they were on the way and not to leave.  In each case the secretary gently assured them that it was all right... whenever they arrived would be fine.

When they finally walked into the office it was after 5:30.  But to their surprise, the waiting room (or more correctly, waiting corridor) was still full of people.  When my mom tried to go in, the secretary said that she still had plenty of time and to take a seat.

Apparently, unlike their experience in the US, my parents noticed that things were severely backed up because the doctor personally took a lot of time with each patient (i.e. as much as needed).  It turned out that my mom was the last patient to be seen, and it was well after 8:00 PM before she walked in and sat down next to the doctor. 

The surgeon took her time with my parents, examining the repaired hand, evaluating the other arthritic hand for a potential future surgery, talking about the therapy sessions and the progress being made, and of course carefully answering each of their questions.  Near the end of the interview the surgeon told my mom that she wanted another x-ray done and wrote out a referral.  However, as it had been such a long day and my parents were so tired and hungry, they decided not to go directly for the x-ray and opted to go home and deal with the radiology department the next day.

As they stood at the bus stop anticipating another extended journey home, a woman came running towards them from the direction of the building where they had just been.  It was the hand surgeon.  She apologized for how long they'd had to wait and told them it had been her intention to offer them a ride home once they'd finished getting the x-rays.  When they hadn't shown up right away, she assumed (correctly) that they had decided to deal with the x-rays the following day.

My parents gratefully accepted the offered ride and went with the doctor to her car which was parked nearby.  But once they were in the car and most of the way home, my parents got a bit of a shock when they asked the surgeon where she lived.  They had assumed she lived in their neighborhood and had offered the ride after seeing their address in the computer.  But to their surprise the doctor explained that she lived in the same area as her office, but felt so bad about how long it must have taken them to get to her office and how they'd waited so long to see her, that she felt compelled to drive them home.

I would have chalked this up to a remarkably kind individual and nothing more, except for another positive experience my parents had with the Israeli health-care system:

A couple of years ago my father had suffered what we think must have been a mini-stroke.  During a walk through Jerusalem he suddenly felt dizzy, and lost some sight in one eye.  Fortunately within a relatively short time he was examined by a doctor and had a battery of tests done and eventually was given a clean bill of health. There was some lingering doubt about what had actually happened to him, but the docs decided it was best to treat him as though he'd suffered a small stroke.

Fast forward a week to when my dad went with all his test results for a consultation with a doctor who was not only considered one of the leading neurologists in the country, but she also specialized in the geriatric end of that field. 

While going through my dad's test results and asking him a long list of questions about his past and present health, the doctor suddenly stopped and began looking closely at one of his cheeks.  Without missing a beat, she told my dad that she had noticed a small skin tag on his cheek which she didn't like the look of, and she wanted him to go across the hall to a dermatologist colleague of hers to have it cut off and biopsied.

It turned out the skin tab was just that... and nothing to have been worried about.  But in looking back my parents were amazed by what had happened.  Here was a highly recognized physician... at the very top of an already very specialized field... and in the midst of going over complex neurological test results she was able to maintain such holistic view of my father as a human being that she noticed a potentially worrisome skin problem and wanted have it checked right away. 

In discussing it later, both of my parents agreed that in all of their experiences with medical specialists in the US, they couldn't imagine one of them stepping back and adjusting their focus to encompass the entire human being sitting before them. 

I'm sharing these stories here, not to imply that doctors in the US are arrogant jerks or that Israeli doctors all have hearts of gold.  Obviously there are many examples of both (and everything in between) no matter where you might look.

But if I were to dabble in sweeping generalities (always a dangerous game), I'd have to say that aside from old-time general practitioners and pediatricians, the physical, clinical and social distance that exists between doctor and patient in the US, is much larger than what you are likely to experience here in Israel.  And Israeli doctors seem to be more accustomed to treating humans rather than the assorted parts of which we humans are composed.

I like that.

Pinch me... I think I must be dreaming

The founder and former head of Human Rights Watch wrote an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times yesterday that defies belief.  He actually criticized the organization for ignoring what he called "brutal, closed and autocratic" Arab and Iranian regimes while publishing "far more condemnations of Israel for violations of international law than of any other country in the region".

You must read the whole thing, but this is a bit that I especially enjoyed:

"Israel, with a population of 7.4 million, is home to at least 80 human rights organizations, a vibrant free press, a democratically elected government, a judiciary that frequently rules against the government, a politically active academia, multiple political parties and, judging by the amount of news coverage, probably more journalists per capita than any other country in the world — many of whom are there expressly to cover the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Meanwhile, the Arab and Iranian regimes rule over some 350 million people, and most remain brutal, closed and autocratic, permitting little or no internal dissent. The plight of their citizens who would most benefit from the kind of attention a large and well-financed international human rights organization can provide is being ignored as Human Rights Watch’s Middle East division prepares report after report on Israel.

Human Rights Watch has lost critical perspective on a conflict in which Israel has been repeatedly attacked by Hamas and Hezbollah, organizations that go after Israeli citizens and use their own people as human shields. These groups are supported by the government of Iran, which has openly declared its intention not just to destroy Israel but to murder Jews everywhere. This incitement to genocide is a violation of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide."

Seriously... read the whole thing.  It'll make your day!

Hat tip Dave

Who are you going to trust?

Hat tip Jack

Dr. Jon..., er, Greenspan, I presume.

I don't know about the rest of you, but for most of my life, whenever read or heard the word 'dentist' I usually pictured a slightly nebby guy (wearing a cardigan sweater, chinos and sensible shoes), who went the DDS route after college to make his mother proud, as well as to assure a nice, secure 'parnosa' (a living) for himself and his family. 

In my mind's eye, such a Mr. Roger-esque figure probably opted not to go to medical school because of the insane working hours and/or to avoid being abused as in intern. Yeah, I know... this sort of generalization is bad from a number of perspectives.  So sue me.

Anyway, that's what I used to think when I read or heard the word 'dentist'.  Not so much anymore since I became friends with someone during my university days who completely defies the stereotype. 

I've written about him here and here, but I just stumbled on a reprint of an article about my friend/dentist/Jewish adventurist, Dr. Ari Greenspan, and felt the need to share (you know me... I'm a giver!).  The article provides a really neat glimpse of just one of this incredible guy's interests/exploits. 

Like some Jewish Indiana Jones, Ari travels the world looking for clues to the history and traditions of lost/vanishing Jewish communities in Europe, North Africa and Asia.  And he has an uncanny knack for showing up in little villages just as renovations of an ancient building reveals the presence of a hidden cache of dusty Judaic or a long-forgotten entrance to a secret basement synagogue clogged with sodden Torah scrolls and holy books. 

But unlike the fictional Indiana Jones, whose adventures benefited only his university, some musty museum, and maybe expanded some narrow understanding of a lost/forgotten culture, my friend Ari's halachic adventures benefit and expand the boundaries of his own people's 'knowledge-base', and assure that future generations of Jews will be able to experience and enjoy aspects of their own traditions that might otherwise have been lost to the sands of time.

Reading the article reminded me that, even though we see each-other every week in shul, it's been far too long since I've brought a bottle of wine over to Ari's house and heard the details of his latest adventure unfold over a good game of billiards.

Enjoy!

Oh yeah? Top that!

I'm sure most of you have encountered people at work or in social settings who like to one-up you on pretty much any topic of conversation that might pass between you.

It might be about the great deal you got on your new car or your children's accomplishments: 

Me:  We're so proud of Ariella for being accepted to such a great school.  She worked very hard and it really paid off for her.

Idiot du jour:  Hey, did I tell you that my nephew just graduated high school at 14 and has been accepted to the elite IDF program for excellent scholars?

A darker side of this phenomenon is the idiot who finds it necessary to 'top' whatever illness or injury you or your loved ones my have just suffered:

Me:  Sorry I missed the meeting yesterday, my son hurt his finger and I had to leave early so I could take him to have it x-rayed and make sure it wasn't broken.

Idiot du jour:  No problem. I completely understand.  I had to miss a lot of work last year when my wife was having her cancer treatments and my father in law needed to be taken twice a week for dialysis.

The problem in both cases is that, although the Idiot du jour seems to have offered a response that was on topic... he was clearly more interested in using your good / bad fortune as a springboard for his own story than offering congratulations or sympathy. 

You can always spot such people in any gathering.  They are the ones who listen to the conversations around them intently for any key-word that might trigger one of their stock favorite anecdotes.  And from that moment on you can see them completely glassy-eyed and tuned out; mentally dusting off their story, and waiting for the speaker to take a breath so they can interject their unhelpful offering.

There's really no cure for this kind of boor.  So you have a choice:  You can either ignore/tolerate them... or make something up that so completely trumps their story that it makes them look even more foolish than they tried to make you.

For the record, as tempting as it might be, I don't indulge in the latter sort of one-upsmanship... and prefer to just smile and let them top me.  But occasionally real life offers a third option... the best kind of revenge; the truth.

Here's a real conversation from last week:

Me [getting out of my car in the parking lot at work on a cool sunny morning]: Good morning!  Man I just had the most beautiful drive to work!

Idiot du jour: Are you just now getting here?

Me:  Uh huh, you saw me drive in... didn't you just arrive too?

Idiot du jour: Yeah, but I live fifteen minutes away! It's great living so close to the office.  I was still asleep half an hour ago!  Moving closer to work was the best decision I ever made.  I'll never understand why anyone would want to spend so much time in their car!

Me:  True, there are advantages to living so close.  But I need some time between home and work... and especially between work and home,... you know, to clear my head and mentally change gears.  My commute lets me do that.

Idiot du jour: But you drive over an hour through 'the territories' every day?  Doesn't that scare you.  I heard on the radio last week about someone getting stones thrown at his car near some Palestinian village.

Me:  You're right, that kind of thing happens occasionally.  But I hear about people being hurt or killed in serious traffic accidents on the roads inside the green line almost every day!  And Arabs throw stones (and worse) in both sides of the green line.  Statistically, since I drive on pretty much empty roads until I get to work, and you have to pass through the busiest section of Beer Sheva to get here, I'd have to say I'm much less likely to be in a traffic accident than you are... much less to be deliberately attacked! [tfu tfu tfu]

Idiot du jour [after a few beats of stunned silence]:  But you have to admit that an hour of driving each way is a lot more stressful than 15 minutes? Right?  You hear about people going crazy from long commutes and having to either change jobs or move closer to work!

Me:  That might be true of people who have long commutes through high-congestion areas, or where they have to contend every day with crazy drivers, road construction, detours and bumper-to-bumper traffic.  But I barely have to touch my breaks from the moment I leave my house to the moment I pull into the parking lot here.  My drive takes me through the most beautiful and sparsely populated area in the country.  And if I want, I even have my choice of alternate routes that are equally scenic and lightly traveled.  Not only that, but there are never any police radar traps or cameras to worry about along my commute, so I can travel at speeds that I feel are comfortable and safe, rather than at an arbitrary speed limit set by some clerk in the ministry of transportation.

Idiot du jour [now sputting with frustration]: Oh come on now, you want me to believe that you never have traffic jams?

Me:  Okay, you got me.  It happens once in a while  that I have to stop and wait as long as 30 seconds... to let a flock of sheep or goats cross the road.  When that happens I have no choice but to smile and wave at the shepherd.  Or occasionally if I see a camel, a family of partridges or an ibex crossing the road... I have to stop and get my camera out to capture the moment.  But of course, when something like that happens, it gives me even more time to adjust the great music on the stereo, appreciate the scenery around me and maybe even roll down the window and breath in the clean cool air.  I honestly don't know how you deal with such abrupt transition from home to work, and from work to home.  A person needs time to make such a big adjustment, no?!

Idiot du jour: [looking at his watch]:  I'm late for a meeting... gotta run.

Me {doing a mental touchdown dance]:  Have a nice morning!

It's about time

I've mentioned on several occasions that I am a bit of a gadget nut.  Okay, perhaps more than just a bit.  I can't explain it... without warning I'll see or read about some new gadget that I simply can't live without, and for several days, or sometimes even weeks, I will be absolutely obsessed with it. 

The only saving grace about this sort of temporary insanity is it tends to pass almost as quickly as it arrives.  Which is a good thing, considering I have very expensive taste in gadgets and a very modest budget for such foolishness.

So what usually ends up happening is that I spend a few days (or weeks) pining for the gadget-du jour like some teen-aged boy mooning over an unattainable girl... and then just as quickly it passes, and I'm sane again.   Just like that.  Afterwards I look back and wonder what I was so jazzed about... and our bank balance remains undamaged.  As a friend of mine would say:  It's all good.

But there is one object of desire (I won't even call it a gadget) that has stood the test of time.  Years after I first started thinking about it and doing research, the wanting kept growing from a small ache into a full blown longing.  The object I have wanted since I was in university is a good mechanical (not quartz) Swiss watch. 

The only reason I mention this in the same breath as my gadget urges, is that it isn't what you would call practical.  You see, mechanical watches are a bit of an anachronism.  They don't keep time as well as their inexpensive quartz cousins, and unlike the mass-produced watches you see in the mall, fine mechanical watches are made and assembled completely by hand.  So, on the face, it doesn't seem to make sense to pay more (by an incredible factor) for something that doesn't work as well.

Now, obviously the term 'Swiss Watch' covers a lot of ground... and the modifier 'good' can mean anything from tossing away a couple of mortgage payments to investing the value of a whole house.  So I came to the conclusion that I would need to narrow my search down to more realistic parameters.

Early on I realized that I would never be able to indulge in the kind of horological excesses that some of my wealthier friends and colleagues had.  So I started making lists of features and criteria to figure out what I needed in a watch... and almost as important; what I didn't need.

The first thing I concluded was that I didn't need a lot of complications (the term used by watch-makers to describe any additional feature beyond the most basic time-keeping function).  Hour, minute and second hands were a must, but beyond that I was even willing to forgo on a date indicator or hand if necessary.

Precious metals were also out of the question, which was fine with me since my interest was more in a fine watch movement, not in a flashy case or bracelet. 

I also realized from my early perusal of the various watch outlets that I would be better off looking for a pre-owned / vintage time piece rather than a new one.  This Revelation came from a patient store clerk who saw me come into his shop nearly every day for a week without once asking to actually take out and examine a watch.  I had asked him a million questions about features and manufacturers, but each time he offered to show me something I simply said 'no thank you'. 

He must have surmised the truth; that I was not in a position to plunk down a small fortune on a piece of wrist bling.  So he took me aside and offered a bit of advice. 

He told me that people who bought fine watches were a lot like people who bought fine cars.  They tended to have several of them... and invariably they fell out of love with one or two.  As a result, a patient person could usually find good deals on pre-owned watches either through watch shops or via referrals from watch repairmen.

From that point on I continued to haunt watch stores... invariably eschewing the new stuff and straight away asking the shop owners and repairmen to see any interesting used watches they might have for sale.

However, this revealed a new wrinkle.  The first tier swiss companies, even in the used watch market, remained well out of reach.  So I received a second piece of valuable advice from a different watch dealer. 

He explained that not all of the high-end Swiss watch companies manufacture their own movements.  Most actually bought movements from other companies and assembled and/or modified them to meet their own needs.  He said that it was important to make sure the movement was from one of the good watch-making regions of Switzerland where there was a culture of good workmanship, and that it had been made (and signed) by a reputable company. 

Those two bits of advice stayed with me for many years, but I was never able to find a watch that I liked enough to bust the monthly budget.  Either they had too many complications, were too flashy or were not in good enough condition to warrant the investment.

On many of my trips to India I spent a lot of my free time bothering the owner of a very upscale watch store located in the lobby of one of the hotels where I stayed.  Most of his inventory is really high end stuff; brand new and solid gold to catch the eye of the well-heeled captains of industry and vacationing Arab despots who frequent the hotel. 

But he also keeps a small collection of used watches, and he indulges me a few hours every trip to check out anything interesting he may have acquired since my last visit.  He knows my criteria, and by process of elimination has even figured out a sense of my budget.  But because of his clientele, even his used watches tend to be both too pricey and too flashy... both deal breakers for me.

However, on my last trip to the sub-continent, as soon as I walked into his shop the owner rushed over to shake my hand.  He told me that he'd been wondering when I would be arriving to India again because he had set aside a watch almost a month ago that he had a feeling I'd like. 

Before showing it to me, he explained that it was a vintage piece from the late '40s, but that it was in like-new condition.  The only thing he had changed was the crystal since it had been scratched at some point in its life. 

the watch itself, he explained, was a large (but thin) gentlemen's timepiece with a simple, classic face, blue steel hands and a calendar hand to boot.  He told me that it had been made by a company called Mulco that had been well respected and quite prolific in its day, even making movements for many other companies, in addition to its own offerings.  But like many good Swiss watch companies, Mulco had gone out of business some time in the '60s when quartz nearly destroyed the hand-made watch industry.

He said that while the company wasn't in the same league as, say Patek Phillipe, it had been a mainstay of the La Chaux-de-Fonds area of Switzerland where some of the top Swiss brands were made, and their movements had actually been procured for the officers on both sides of the conflict in the WWII European war because of their durability and reputation for longevity. 

As he took it out of his safe he explained that this was a civilian model that was triple signed (meaning the manufacturer's name was engraved on the case, the movement and embossed on the face), and had just been cleaned and inspected by his staff.  It had 15 jewels (the ruby pivots on which the moving parts rotated)... not as desirable as 17 jewels, but still quite respectable... and most important, it kept excellent time.

It sounded too good to be true, but when he took it out of the case I swear I heard angels sing.  It was exactly the sort of watch I had been looking for.  Simple, clean lines.  Easy to read face.  A calendar hand instead of a window (which I could never read even when my eyesight was good).  A relatively slim profile but nice large masculine face.

I examined the hands and face under the offered loop and there wasn't the slightest sign of pitting or discoloration.  He opened up the case and showed me the gleaming movement and the frantically racing balance wheel.

When I could speak I asked him the obvious question:  How much?  He refused to answer.  Instead he asked how long I was going to be in Mumbai.  When I told him four day, he took off my battered diver's watch and fastened the new/old watch's leather band on my wrist.  The softly rounded back felt perfect against my skin and the size was also perfect.

He told me to wear it for a few days and get to know it.  This way, he explained, I'd also be able to see if it kept good time.  He waived away my offer of a security deposit saying that even if I hadn't been a regular face over the years, it would be enough that I was a guest at the hotel.

On the day before I was to leave Mumbai for Goa (my next stop in India), I went back into the watch store and laid the watch on the soft mat on the counter.  The owner and I exchanged pleasantries about my trip and then we finally got around to discussing the watch.  In almost four days it had gained only two seconds (I had set and checked it against the atomic clock on the Internet), and if anything I was more attached to it than I had been at first blush. 

But of course I tried not to let my enthusiasm show.  Instead I made a show of being undecided, and even used my wife and the family budget as a potential excuse for not making such a serious purchase.  When I'd finished, I looked up and he was smiling broadly at me.  All he said was, "I knew you'd like it". 

I guess there's a reason I don't play poker.

Anyway, I agreed that it was exactly what I had been looking for... but told him that I hadn't been joking about the budget thing.  He took out a small pad of paper, scribbled a number that was more area code than zip code, and we shook hands.  No haggling... no protests.  Just like that I knew that I'd found the right watch at the right price.  There was nothing else to do but say yes.

When I got home I distributed the gifts I'd bought for Zahava and the kids and then showed off my watch.  I had actually told Zahava about it on the phone from India (she doesn't like surprises), but I watched her face for any sings of annoyance.  All I saw there was the same admiration the shop-keeper had probably seen on mine.  Zahava agreed that it was perfect. 

After all these years of longing, I finally have my good (mechanical) Swiss watch.  I enjoy everything about it.  I enjoy winding it every morning.  I enjoy looking at it a hundred times a day.  I enjoy examining it while I'm engaged in conference calls or waiting for a web page to load.  And I especially enjoy the admiring glances I get from other people who, like me, have an eye for nice things.

So while you might say's it's about time I finally scratched this itch that has been with me longer than even my wife and kids, I'd put it even more simply: It's just about time.

 

[BTW, the face is actually off white, but the flash seems to have washed out the face a bit.  And the tiny splash of color between the 3 and the 4 is a reflection of something in the crystal, not a smudge on the face.]