WELCOME HOME!!

Yet another planeload of new immigrants landed in Israel today. Israel National News – www.israelnationalnews.com -- interviewed some of them as they stepped off the plane and entered the reception hall. It’s interesting – 55 new enlisted immigrant soldiers came on that flight, in addition to everyone else.

I was impressed – most of them seemed pretty coherent. After weeks of cleaning, packing, selling and throwing away, after months of enduring the tension of not knowing what it will be like, of saying goodbye, and then sitting nearly immobile on the airplane for a dozen hours, I don’t think I was nearly that alert.

Both Prime Minister Bibi Netanyahu and Natan Sharansky welcomed these new Israelis, just as did Ariel Sharon, when we landed.

I was on the very first Nefesh b’Nefesh flight, July 10, 2002. The NBN flights have now become standard, but at the time the whole organization seemed too good to be true. NBN did dozens of things to help make our Aliyah – moving to Israel – easier, but prime among them was cutting the bureaucracy. While we were in flight, officials from the Immigration Agency were also on board, helping us complete most of the required paperwork. By the time we landed, we’d finished about 90% of the things every group of immigrants before us had spent their first weeks in Israel doing. At the time, it seemed like a miracle.

Looking back, NBN still seems like a miracle.

As long as I live, I will never be able to thank NBN enough for everything they’ve done – and have never stopped doing. During last December’s war, when missiles were blasting Beersheba, NBN staffers still tracked me down, calling to ask if I was okay. They wanted to know if there was anything at all I needed, or if there was anything they could do to help. They offered to find a place for me to stay – with my dogs, yet! – if I wanted to get out of the line of fire for a few days. So seven years after I arrived, NBN was still there offering help.

There were 350+ new immigrants on our first flight. We stepped off the plane unto the tarmac in what must have been 110 ° heat and then were directed into a hangar that was even hotter. A shofar was blowing, a band was playing, there were hundreds of cheering people who’d come to meet the historic flight, families, friends and just regular Israelis who wanted to be the first to welcome us home. The whole thing was spectacular -- few of us made it into the hangar without shedding a tear or two.

Inside, strategically placed fans struggled to cool the place off, but the heat was awesome. Volunteers pressed bottles of ice water into our hands. Others handed out other “welcome” gifts, artwork, calendars, booklets, certificates for discounts on all kinds of things.

Through it all, I have to admit I was distracted – Guinness, my elderly Cocker Spaniel, had flown in the ‘hold’. He wasn’t a seasoned flier by any means, and in the tremendous heat, I was seriously worried about him.

The moment I got into the hangar, I started to look for someone who looked ‘official’, someone who could give me some information. There were seven dogs on our flight, probably twice as many cats, and who knows what else, in smaller cages.

I wandered around, asking everyone I could, and finally located an El Al worker. All I wanted, I explained, was to get to the baggage area so I could check on my dog. He said that wouldn’t be possible. I’d have to stay here until the ceremonies were over. But I was panicked – what if the traveling cages were out in the sun? I knew poor Guinness – who’d been locked in his crate for 15 hours by that time – couldn’t handle that.

The El Al guy took pity on me, pulled out his cell phone and punched in some numbers. He spoke, then turned to me. “Your dog is the Cocker? He’s just fine. They’ve all had fresh water and Guinness is on his leash, they’re taking him for a little walk.”

I coulda kissed the guy. As long as Guinness was okay, I could enjoy the rest of the ceremony.

Truth is, that first opening ceremony lasted too long – it was probably three hours later when all the music groups had performed and all the dignitaries had spoken.

We were then directed up to one of the offices to complete another hunk of paperwork. We were channeled up at least one set of stairs, down hallways and finally into yet another huge room where they began calling individuals by name to go into one of a number of small offices.

I was shocked. As I looked around, I realized this could take all night. The room was packed – dozens of little kids milled around, some were crying, everyone was way beyond exhausted. I listened to the first names being called. They didn’t appear to be alphabetical, so I wondered how they decided who to take first. ‘It will be the families with little kids,” I thought – but just then they called my name. I still don’t know how they decided – or how long the last people had to wait – but I was directed to a tiny office, desk and a chair, and invited to sit. The man asked to see all the paperwork I’d completed on the plane, then asked for a few more bits of information.

The only question I remember was, ‘What’s your mother’s first name?”

“Elphie,” I said – hardly a common name.

With no hesitation at all, he typed it out in Hebrew, printed out the documents, folded them into the little holder and handed me my Tuedat Oleh, my immigration papers. With tears in his eyes, he shook my hand and said, “Welcome home.” Naturally I burst into tears again.

Now I was free to go to the baggage department, dig out my luggage from among the mountains of bags they’d unloaded, and had a happy reunion with Guinness – who seemed to be in better shape than I was.

Next step? Claim my free taxi ride to Beersheba.

Every new immigrant gets a free taxi ride to his first home. As it turned out, that taxi ride proved to be the most interesting part of the trip. My taxi driver got lost.

Beersheba is a major city, on a major highway. It’s less than 60 miles from Tel Aviv. As we drove, I was surprised to see road signs in Hebrew, Arabic and English. Several of them read, “Beersheba” – with an arrow that pointed to a turn.

My problem was, I had a Russian driver. We didn’t turn. I don’t know if he couldn’t read the signs, but the second or third time I saw him whizzing by a sign clearly pointing to a sign that read “Beersheba”, I started to wonder.

And then I started to laugh.

You’re not gonna believe this, but Maggie Rennert – whose book, “Shelanu: An Israel Journal” – was responsible for bringing me to Beersheba in the first place – also encountered taxi drivers who got lost on the road from Tel Aviv to Beersheba. (For more about Maggie, see my May 3 blog, “Channeling Maggie”)

Back in 1973, Maggie, too, lucked out with a pair of enormous Russian taxi drivers she began calling “Tweedledum” and “Tweedledee”. They spent so much time arguing or debating with each other -- she couldn’t tell, it was all in Russian – that they got lost.

They were lost for so many hours they had to stop at a kibbutz and eat, thinking they’d have to stay overnight and start again the next day. Maggie writes that she was so freaked out at their strange behavior that she found someone at the kibbutz who spoke English, and in response to her tears, agreed to drive her to Beersheba. They finally arrived “hours and hours” late. She was, she said, a total basket case.

For us, it took just over six hours to make the 59 mile trip.

I have no doubt the taxi driver drove four or five times that far. The problem started when, at some point, he decided to turn off the main road, taking a gravel road instead. Maybe he was just trying to turn around, maybe he thought he had one of those ‘short cuts’ men always seem to know about. But before I knew it, we were in the middle of absolute nowhere. There was nothing around – no civilization, few trees, a curvy ad hoc road which kept getting more and more like a path with every minute.

Finally there was a truck was approaching us from the other direction. My driver stuck his hand out the window, flagged the other driver down, and even though I didn’t understand a word of it, I could see that a complicated set of directions was being conveyed, beginning with “turn around.”

We turned around. We drove awhile, then my driver took a left, and we headed in a new direction. Again there was absolutely nothing in sight. We drove and drove. By this time, we’d already been on the road for well over three hours, and I was ruing the fact I hadn’t taken several more bottles of water that had been handed out so freely back at the hangar. Who knew? Now I had only a tiny bit of water left, which I poured into Guinness’ travel bowl. He ignored it, making me wish I’d had it myself. I considered drinking from the dog bowl, but decided I wasn't quite that desperate. Yet.

We kept going, and honestly, it was getting funny. Every car my driver saw, he’d flag down. And every one would start the directions with “turn around”, which he did. Every time.

I was watching the road intently, hoping for some form of civilization. Finally, I could see something ahead – were we finally getting somewhere? It turned out to be a fence – a huge barbed wire fence, with an awful lot of signs I couldn’t read, but which I sure as heck understood. If ever there was a “DO NOT ENTER” warning, this was it. The driver turned around, and – unperturbed – headed off in yet another direction.

On and on. Then another driver came up behind us and again the taxi driver flagged him down. This time, he made some much longer explanation and pointed to the gas gauge. Oh, no! The other driver rubbed his head, a gesture of pure frustration, but clearly indicated, “Follow me”.

We did. A relatively short time later, we drove into a kibbutz.

Do you believe this? Maggie – wherever she is -- must have been laughing, too.

We were at Kibbutz Kerem Shalom – which you now read about frequently in the news as a trouble spot. It’s right on the border with Aza – and remember, this was 2002. Buses and cafes were exploding, and there we were – probably in their midst. I kept envisioning newspaper headlines, “New Immigrant Shot and Killed, First Day”.

But the kibbutzniks at Kerem Shalom were very welcoming. The driver, Guinness and I were invited in and offered fruit and water – true hospitality in the desert. I was directed to the facilities, and Guinness availed himself of the same opportunity in a much more informal fashion. The taxi driver disappeared – probably to get gas.

By the time we set out again, we were already five hours late. It was getting dark. I hadn’t had any sleep for upwards of 40 hours, and I was barely functional. My taxi driver, on the other hand, seemed refreshed. And this time, he had a set of written instructions and a photocopied map in his hand. Good deal.

Honestly – Beersheba is hard to miss. It has lots of tall buildings, and at night, city lights were visible for miles. It took us less than an hour to find the city, and another half hour to find my first sublet apartment, which the driver finally found by giving a local taxi driver the address and following his instructions. The people who’d been there to welcome me had given up and gone home hours ago, but there was someone to open the door. Home. At last.

Just think. By sheer luck, we’d had a chance to see parts of Israel lots of Israelis have never seen.

All this makes me wonder: How those new immigrants who arrived this morning faring? Probably taxis have GPS systems now – but that sure would take the excitement out of it.

(Photo, courtesy of NBN, www.nbn.org.il)

T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruelest month, but I disagree. I think it’s August.

I hate August.

There’s something about the unrelenting sun, the extreme heat, the sameness to every day, which makes these 31 days the most unpleasant of the year.

The only good thing that ever happened in August was that my son Peter was born on August 6th – Happy Birthday, baby! But my much-beloved father passed away in August, 1985. I miss him every day, and August is when I miss him most.

Even when I was a little kid I hated August. During those years, my passion was swimming, but in Buxton, North Dakota where we lived, there were no actual swimming pools. Instead, we kids worked overtime to persuade some grown-up to drive us out to Asheim’s farm, several miles out in the country.

There were only five kids in my grade in school, but one of them was Bernell Asheim, so since he was a classmate, we felt comfortable using Asheim’s cow pond as a place to swim -- just as we ice skated on it during the winter. At Asheim’s, the swimming season started during the last part of June, when the water was finally warm enough. We swam as often as we could in July. But by August, the pond was unswimable. The water level was very low, and it was green and slimy, filled with algae. When the hottest days of August came, the swimming season was all over.

So was the family vacation. When I was very young, we’d spend a week at Wis & Effie’s Resort on Lake Plantagenet in northern Minnesota, near Bemidji. I looked forward to that one week for the entire other 51 weeks. For seven glorious days over the 4th of July holiday, rain or shine, I’d be in the lake, swimming, boating or fishing 14 hours a day, from dawn to long after dark.

But when that week was over, it was over for a whole year. August was a good time to think about how very long it would be until we could go to the lake again.

By the time I was in high school, my parents had bought a home on the lake, and they spent large parts of the summer there. But by that time, I had a job -- lifeguarding and teaching swimming – at the new community swimming pool. I loved working at the pool, but I was a little young to be living by myself in the family home, not only working every day, but also being responsible for everything from watering and mowing the grass to keeping everything clean.

August never offered much of a vacation – there were times I absolutely knew I could see that darn grass growing, which meant yet another three hot mosquito-filled three hours with the lawnmower.

August was also prime tornado weather, when everyone in the prairie states pays strict attention to the weather and forecasts, dreading the funnel shaped wind tunnels that love to sweep down and wipe out whole towns.

The worst tornado I remember took place in August.

I was with a friend in Fargo, 40 miles from where we lived, where we’d gone to shop for back to school clothes. This was before malls, so we were downtown, going from one store to another, when someone spotted the funnel cloud and shouted a warning. Like everyone else, we ran for the nearest building, which happened to be a bank. Along with about 60 or 70 others, we were hustled into the basement where we huddled against the walls as the tornado passed over, complete with the beyond-description roar. Nothing in the world is as loud as a tornado.

Conventional wisdom is that you try to stand in a doorway or sit against an interior windowless wall. I sat on the floor, but directly across the room was a small slit of a window high up on the wall. As I watched, the huge metal flagpole on the building across the street bent until it lay flat on the roof, then sprung up, then bent flat again.

Weird, impossible things happen during tornados, like finding a piece of straw driven straight into a brick, having a whole truck picked up and set down a half-mile away, or even seeing someone’s kitchen table deposited 100 yards outside the demolished house, with a cup of morning coffee still undisturbed.

Several people died during that tornado, trees were down, electricity was out and dozens of homes were demolished. By the time we two teenagers found our way back home that night, we were totally exhausted.

And then there was the problem of school.

At that time, school – for everyone – started the day after Labor Day, whenever that was. So every day of August was like a countdown to execution – every day meant there was one less day before the combined trauma and boredom of school began again. I was never happy to go to school – which is why, when I got college, I doubled up on studies so I could finish faster, get done, get the degrees and get out.

But all that’s changed now. Now there’s no problem of school. There are no tornados in Israel, swimming pools exist, as does the Mediterranean. Why do I still hate August?

Interestingly enough, the concept of “dog days” -- that most sultry period of July and August – originated right here, in the Mediterranean.

Why ‘dog days’? Not because our canine friends are especially miserable during those days, although they are. Every morning, my two roommates stake out their own personal spaces on the cool tiled floor. From about 9 am to 5 pm, nothing much interests them. They hardly move. They don’t like the heat any more than I do.

Officially the ‘dog days’ extend from 20 days before to 20 days after the conjunction of Sirius – the ‘dog star’ -- and the sun. Even in ancient times, this part of the year was associated with disease and discomfort.

Disease as such may not be worse now than during any other month, but somehow, there’s something sad about August.

When T.S. Eliot wrote “The Waste Land”, he lamented April as the worst month, characterizing it as full of false promises of spring and rebirth. But August is a time of endings. Summer isn’t over in August, but everything good about summer is. All that remains is unbearable heat – and worse than that, the assurance that every day will be exactly like the day before: hot sun, dry and dusty landscapes, with flowers that are all done blooming.

It’s a frustrating month, too. It’s not even easy to work. Israel follows the European mode so here, lots of things are closed during August. If there’s anyone you need to reach, they’re gone, on vacation. Which certainly presents August’s greatest mystery: With everything closed, where does everyone go?

What’s the best thing about August? It has only 31 days.

This too shall pass. August can’t last forever. With a typically motherly rationale, I hear myself saying, “I’m so happy August is here. The sooner we get it started, the sooner it will be over.”

If you can think of anything good about August, I’m waiting to hear it.

NOXIAE POENA PAR ESTO.

For those of you who managed to escape the course in Legal Latin I got suckered into, that’s Cicero speaking, one of the foremost anti-Semites of ancient times.

Let’s let the Mikado, the Emperor of Japan, make the point instead.

“My object all sublime,” the Mikado sang, “I shall achieve in time: to let the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime!”

What’s the crime that bothering liberals at the moment? The lack of ‘proportionality’ in the arrest of the Community Organizer’s friend and colleague, Henry Louis “Skip” Gates, Jr.

Two things quickly became apparent: First, the President scored his very own Gates-gate just six months into his presidency. Second, all this reminds us how well suited the POTUS was to previous job as a community organizer in Chicago. Now that he’s holding the US’s highest elective office, it proves again the deadly accuracy of the Peter Principle: that in a hierarchy, individuals tend to be promoted to the level of their incompetence. Barack Hussein Obama was apparently a pretty good community organizer.

What happened in Cambridge, MA, was this: a possible burglary had been reported to the Cambridge police by a 911 caller. The officers responded, saw that the door had been forced, and upon entering the house, found two black men. They asked for identification.

From this point on, accounts differ, but according to the officers, “Skip” Gates, who was living in the Harvard-owned house, became “unruly” and “non-cooperative”, refused to answer some questions, and was ultimately arrested. He spent a few hours in a jail cell before all charges were dropped.

All of this gave rise to an impromptu lecture from the self-proclaimed Ruler of the World, whereby he began by admitting he didn’t have all the facts, but nevertheless set out to castigate the Cambridge police for “acting stupidly”. As he pontificated for his world-wide audience, it appeared that the Community Organizer was certain the only reason Gates was arrested was because he was a black African-American.

“There is a long history of African-Americans and Latinos being stopped by law enforcement, disproportionately,” Obama instructed us, slipping into the racial advocacy cant of his previous profession.

So how would the Community Organizer have preferred the Cambridge police to have acted?

When the officers walked in and saw two black men standing inside the house, saw the forced door, what should they have done? Should they have dragged out their calculators and record sheets, entered the appropriate information, and then said, “Ah, excuse us. We had been informed that a burglary may have been in progress at this residence, but we’ll have to leave. Our records show we’ve already detained and arrested our quota of black men for this month. So? As you were, gentlemen. Carry on!”

I don’t know about you, but I suspect very few of us would like to see our tax money spent for that kind of law enforcement. (Geez, wouldn’t you think a resident would be pleased that the police responded so quickly to a report of a possible burglary?)

Quotas – “proportionality” – have no place in law enforcement. Citing crime statistics -- how blacks and Latinos ‘proportionately’ commit more crimes than other ethnic groups – is irrelevant. It really doesn’t matter.

When a home has been forcibly entered, when a car is dangerously exceeding the speed limit, when stores are being burned and looted, the only issue for police to address is who -- which individuals, right now -- appear to be engaged in an unlawful act. It’s ridiculous to suggest that they need consider the race of the individuals -- or check ‘detain and arrest’ statistics -- before taking action.

This insistence on “proportionality” in responding to law breakers or evil-doers isn’t limited to Cambridge, MA. Liberals and Israel haters all over the world hurled the “P” word -- “proportionality”-- at Israel recently, too.

What was Israel’s crime? After eight long years of terrorist rocket and missile attacks in the Negev, putting the lives of a million people -- Arabs and Jews – in jeopardy, Israel finally struck back last December.

What happened? The world went into a tailspin, claiming that Israel’s response was “disproportionate”. Everyone from Nikolas Sarkozy to the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights ran to the microphones to denounce Israel for using a “disproportionate” amount of force against the Hamas terrorists, who had been attacking Israel, killing civilians, inflicting tens of millions in property damage – not to mention incalculable infliction of pain and anxiety for everyone within range – for nearly a decade.

What did the world want? Passivity? Or is it as blogger Jonathan Mark suggested: What would have happened if after Pearl Harbor, the United States had been limited to bombing a few Japanese fishing boats, then calling it a day? Would the war have ended, just like that that?

(Read his whole blog on Jewish World Review. It’s excellent. http://www.jewishworldreview.com/jonathan/mark_disproportionate.php3)


It’s not that I’m against all “proportionality” – in general, the Mikado’s admonition to let the punishment fit the crime is valid. For example, there’s a group of people in Israel who have suffered disproportionately – and who should be compensated.

To our everlasting shame, next week is the 4th anniversary of our infamous “Disengagement” from Aza. Forced out of their homes and businesses were 10,000 Jews, expelled from their land so Aza could be turned over to the Arabs in a magnificent and unilateral “land for peace” gesture.

Today, of course, we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that ‘land for peace’ means ‘land for terror’. In a heartbeat, Aza became a cesspool of terrorist activity, adding to the destabilization of the whole region. To a large extent, those displaced Jews still lack permanent homes and are still largely unemployed – many were in their 40’s and 50’s, and retraining and finding work at that age isn’t easy. They’re still suffering.

There’s no excuse for Ariel Sharon’s government having instigated the “Disengagement”, but it was the world as a whole that cheered him on. Yes! Land for peace! Give the land to the Arabs! Allow them to build their own homes and farms, and the finally this seemingly endless battle between the Arabs and Jews in the Middle East will end.

So Sharon forced the Jews out, gave the land to the terrorists, and look what happened. Of course, anyone who doesn’t hold a valid Certified Cockeyed Optimist credential couldn’t possibly have thought it would end any differently than it did.

But here is a case of legitimate disproportionality. There are 6 million Jews in Israel, over 7 million people, total. Assume a miracle had happened, and that great sociological experiment had succeeded: we all, Arab and Jew alike, would have benefited. So would the US, France, Great Britain, all 22 Arab countries – everyone, in fact, who feels the need to tell Israel how we should be solving this terrorist problem of ours.

If it had worked, the entire world would have benefited. But who paid the price for Sharon’s dangerous experiment? A mere 10,000 people who gave up their homes and livelihoods. The cost to them was disproportionate in the extreme -- and they’re still paying the price for the world’s foolish insistence on ‘land for peace’.

If there’s anyone suffering from the evils of ‘disproportionately”, it’s the displaced Jews of Gush Katif.

OPERATION ELEVEN!

Three o’clock in the morning. October 6, 1946.

The Yom Kippur fast had ended joyously at sunset, and by 3:00 am the country was dark and deadly silent. About 400 young men and women, almost all of them new immigrants, were working feverishly. From several different locations, they piled equipment into a few aged and well-traveled pickups, filling them with a plow, basic building supplies, ready-made walls, mattresses and tanks of water. It’s cold in the desert on October nights, and many of them shivered as they climbed into the overloaded vehicles and headed out into the wilderness.

Their plan was simple and way beyond audacious: they were going to save the Negev Desert for Israel.

In all, eleven sets of pioneers set out that night – 30 to 40 to a group -- determined to build eleven new settlements in the vast unpopulated Negev. They all knew and appreciated the danger involved in openly flaunting the law. Great Britain had strictly forbidden any Jew to live in Israel’s south. They knew that they could be severely punished if caught.

It wasn’t Great Britain alone who wanted to keep Jews out of Israel. Worldwide, there was little support for a Jewish State at that time, and even less for including the Negev desert within the boundaries if such a state should at some time be granted. In fact, the July 1946 Morrison Grady plan for the division of Palestine took the Negev out of the borders of any proposed State, which is why the British were forbidding Jews from living there then. In anticipation that the Negev would be given to the Arabs, they wanted to keep out troublesome Jews.

But just like now, there were gutsy Jews then, Jews who knew and understood what was happening to their families all across Europe, and who, at this point, weren’t much interested in obeying foreign rulers of any variety.

Back them, it wasn’t just individual Jews who were involved in the settlement plan. It was all the nascent Jewish organizations – the Jewish National Fund, the Jewish Agency for Palestine, the Haganah Defense Forces, and the Mekorot Water Company. They all banded together and decided to do their best to extend Jewish settlement in the Negev as far as they could. The goal was to create facts on the ground, existing settlements, to the end that the Negev would become part of any new Jewish State.

Everything had to be done in secret, but needed materials were scrounged from wherever they could be found, and on that one night, October 6, 1946, the pioneers created eleven new kibbutzim, eleven “Points of the Negev” as they came to be called:

Kedmah and Galon in the Lakish area, north and east of Beersheba;
Shoval and Mishmar ha-Negev a little further south but still to the east;
Nevatim and Hatzerim near Beersheba;
Urim to the west, near Gevulot;
And finally, four "Points" bordering Aza: Tekuma, Be'eri, Kefar Darom, and Nirim

As each group of pioneers arrived at their designated area, the first thing they did -- even before setting up their tents -- was to plow a furrow. Turkish law, in effect at the time, required that land, to be owned, be not only purchased, but that it must also be plowed. So first of all, the settlers plowed a furrow, thus completing the requirements of ownership.

And yes, if there are any doubters out there, the land they claimed was already owned by the Jewish Fund. Not a single Arab was driven from his home. Remember, this was still in the days that when you said “Palestinian” you were talking about a Jew. This was Jewish land, not only bought and paid for, but now, with the arrival of the pioneers and their plowing a furrow, it was fully claimed.

The news of the new settlements spread like prairie fire. The sheer audacity of the plan – not to mention the total success – astonished Jews the world over. As the story spread, it provided a much needed boost to lagging Jewish spirits. October of 1946 was one of the darkest times in Jewish history. Rarely had the fate of the whole Jewish nation been more endangered than it was at that moment. The brash and courageous creation of the new settlements offered a feeling of pride and hope at the moment when it was most desperately needed.

In the ensuing months, very little actual construction was done in any of the new settlements. Shortly after, the War of Independence broke out and the new settlers found themselves serving as the first line of defense against the Egyptian army.

But today, not only are all eleven communities still active and thriving, but it was largely thanks to them that the Negev -- where I live, so I take this very personally – was included within the State of Israel.

Today, once again, Israel finds itself seriously imperiled. This time the major protagonist isn’t Great Britain – although they’re certainly in the cheering section. This time, it’s the President of the United States who’s posing the most serious threat to Israel.

Here’s the thing: Israel’s biggest problem isn’t the Arabs, terrorists or otherwise. Israel can handle its Arab enemies just fine. What causes trouble is when the US throws its weight and support behind the Arab terrorists and their supporters. That constitutes a significant problem for Israel.

When the US funds terrorists, when it grants concessions to the countries that harbor them --- and then, at the same time -- ties Israel’s hands, refusing to allow us to defend ourselves, that’s when trouble sets in.

Today it’s the US that’s intent on cutting Israel down to size – literally. This time it’s not the Negev where our foreign “rulers” are refusing to allow us to live – this time it’s in the north and west, in Judea and Samaria, not to mention Jerusalem. Now we’re told that it’s Yesha that must be Judenrein in order to keep the Arabs happy.

But once again -- thank goodness -- we’ve got some gutsy Jews. You’ve probably seen it on the news elsewhere, but in direct defiance to the Community Organizer, as of today ELEVEN new settlements have been established in areas where he’s trying to forbid us to live.



The eleven are:

Inbalim (“bells”) – next to Maaleh Michmash in Binyamin
Oz Yonatan (“Jonathan’s Might”)– near Kochav Yaakov in Binyamin
Givat Egoz (“nut hill”) – near Talmon in Binyamin
Tzurya (“the Rock of G-d”) – near Avnei Hefetz in Samaria
Mitzpe Avichai (“Avichai’s lookout”) – near Kiryat Arba/Hevron
Netzer (“stem”) – near Efrat in Gush Etzion
Reches Sela (“boulder cliff”) – south of Shechem in Samaria
Gat Yosef (“Joseph’s winepress) – south of Shechem in Samaria
Nofei Yarden (“Jordan horizons”) – near Shilo in Samaria
Maalot Hevron (“Hevron heights”) – near Hevron
Havat HaRo'im (“shepherds' farm”) – near Susya in Judea

Today’s new settlements aren’t quite the same as those of 1946. Today, there’s no need to plow a furrow, so instead what the new pioneers do is to construct a building – any kind of building – and then occupy it.

Then, too, today’s pioneers don’t have quite the unified support the earlier pioneers had. Apparently to pacify the Community Organizer, the government has ordered the new settlements to be dismantled. The IDF has already pulled down two of the new settlements, which were immediately rebuilt, of course.

Interestingly enough, however, in some of the others – Tzurya and Avnei Hefetz – news reports say the IDF was preset but did nothing to stop the construction. At Tzurya, some 200 people of all ages were there to help build.

A flyer telling about the new settlements is posted all over the country. It reads:

“Just as then, so it is now. Building new communities throughout Judea and Samaria is the only way we can return the State of Israel to being independent, flourishing and growing, protect our national interests, and stand up to international pressure.”




At the same time as the building is going on, thousands more are in Jerusalem protesting the Community Organizer’s attempt to make himself the ruler of Israel as well as the United States.

Nothing changes so much as it remains the same.

The photo from 1946, above, is from the Kibbutz Galon website. A couple of years ago I wrote a longer piece on the history of Kibbutz Galon. Check here for the full story.

http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1181813030493&pagename=JPost%2FJPArticle%2FPrinter

AH! At last! It had to happen sooner or later, like having infinity of monkeys picking away at typewriters, until eventually one of them types out ‘Hamlet’.

What happened? The Arab George Mitchell, the Community Organizer’s man in the Middle East, spoke the truth.

Here’s what he said: “The US is determined to forge an agreement between Israel and the Arab world.”

You got it, George! “Forge” is precisely the right word. In spite of yourself, you spoke the truth.

One meaning of the word ‘forge’ is to create or build. But ‘forge’ has another meaning, too: to falsify, counterfeit or fake.

Crooks ‘forge’ checks, cheaters ‘forge’ documents – they fake copies, trying to fool the gullible into believing they have the real thing.

There won’t be any ‘peace’ with Syria for a long time – unless it’s of the ‘forged’ variety.

Don’t forget that Syria directly attacked Israel three times -- 1948, 1967 and 1973 –each time doing their utmost to wipe Israel off the face of the earth.

Between 1949 and 1967 – when Israel finally drove the Syrians out of the Golan -- Syria used the area to shoot and bomb civilian Jews going about their business farming and fishing. Since then, Syria has remained an active partner in the unholy triumvirate of Iran-Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, and Hamas group of terrorists. Syria has never accepted UN Security Council Resolution 242 recognizing Israel’s existence.

So when the Community Organizer & Co. sets out to “forge” an agreement between Israel and its long-time nemesis, what do you think he has in mind?

Could it be that the Community Organizer plans to ‘falsify, counterfeit or fake’ a peace agreement – ‘peace’ in terms of the lack of opposition? The ‘peace’ of the grave for Israel?

Methinks George Mitchell speaketh with a forked tongue.

When the dateline reads ‘Phuket’ what can you expect?

But three funny – or not so funny – things happened to Big Bird – oops, we mean Missus Bubba – in Phuketland yesterday, as she set out to meet the allegedly “friendless” North Koreans. (People who live in glass dwellings as do Missus Bubba and the Community Organizer should be careful about throwing such stones, but we’ll let that one pass for a moment.)

First of all, we weren’t the only ones to take exception to Big Bird’s perfectly dreadful outfit. Even the Nork’s Foreign Ministry – not noted for their sense of humor -- poked fun. "We cannot but regard Mrs. Clinton as a funny lady,” a spokesman said, adding some juicy tidbits about her lack of knowledge of international affairs before moving on to play the role of an Asian Mr. Blackwell.

"Sometimes she looks like a primary schoolgirl and sometimes like a pensioner going shopping."

Now I for one, on behalf of pensioners worldwide, take exception to that. Profound exception.

No ‘pensioner’ I know would consider even walking the dog in a Big Bird getup like Missus Bubba’s, let alone going shopping in it.

Draft a petition, someone! The North Koreans have egregiously insulted pensioners, and we demand an apology.

So Missus Bubba took a return swipe at the North Koreans, saying they were behaving like spoiled children or ‘unruly teenagers’, and she wasn’t going to give them the attention they wanted.

Y’know? Maybe Dr. Phil should have gone on this trip and let Missus Bubba stay home and tend to her elbow. We may have been better off if she had broken her larynx.

What on earth will this administration think of next? Fake barf? Whoopee cushions?

Eventually Missus Bubba decided that beating up on the North Koreans wasn’t all that much fun, so she moved on to a more interesting target. Israel.

Just a few minutes ago, Missus Bubba announced that the US is transferring $200 million tax dollars to “help ease the budget crisis in Palestinian Authority Prime Minister Salaam Fayad's government”.

Prime Minister Salaam Fayad’s government, of course, is controlled by the terrorist Fatah party, so what’s happening is that not only have the Community Organizer and Missus Bubba decided that the Arab terrorists need your (our) tax dollars more than you do, but that they’re pleased to be able to contribute to the terrorists’ drive to eliminate the State of Israel.

It’s this issue of synchronicity: On that same day the US was filling the terrorist’s coffers with your hard earned tax dollars, the terrorists made their own announcement.

Senior members of Fatah announced that their terrorist gang will never recognize Israel, and will continue to call for war against Israel. “Fatah does not recognize Israel's right to exist, nor have we ever asked others to do so,” said senior Fatah member Rafik Natsheh, a close associate of PA chairman Abu Mazen, according to a report in Israel National News.

Not only will Fatah never recognize Israel, but it will never end its call for armed struggle against Israel, he said. “Let those who are deluding themselves hear: this will never happen,” he said.

So now this makes me wonder: As the Obama Administration continues to chew on Israel, issuing dictates forbidding the birth of Jewish babies and ultimatums regarding where Jews can live in Jerusalem, is the timing of this transfer of cash just a coincidence?

After all, think of all the dastardly things a band of terrorists can do with a cool $200 million.

On the other hand, think of all the things struggling families in the US could do with just a tiny part of that sum.

Change, we need. The sooner the better.

Cinderella, Cinderella, Dressed in Yellow....

All together now. Go get your jump ropes!

Everybody ready??

Okay, here we go:

Cinderella Dressed in Yellow
Went to kiss a prince.
By mistake,
She kissed a snake!
How many doctors
Did it take?
Was it,
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Five?


"The United States is back," Missus Bubba declared with glee as she arrived in Bangkok on Tuesday. .She immediately left for Phuket – a most appropriately named place for a confab put together by the Community Organizer.

Missus Bubba’s stated intention is to “underscore the US commitment to Asia” which includes – just in case it slipped your mind – North Korea, which, back on July 4, fired seven ballistic missiles off its eastern Coast, violating a host of UN Resolutions and raising its cumilative middle finger to the US on Independence Day.




The missiles traveled some 300 miles, which meant they were easily capable of hitting either South Korea or Japan.

Thus it would appear, to a casual observer, that Missus Bubba in her Cinderella role – definitely the ugly stepsister to the tres glam Michelle – intends to kiss a prince, probably in the form of the North Korean Supreme Commander Kim Jong-il.

But what if he turned out to be a snake?

How many doctors will it take?

Or better yet, how many years, and how much turmoil, will the US have to endure to undo the damage the Community Organizer and his Cinderella-dressed-in-yellow are perpetrating both at home and all around the world?


Cozying up to mad dictators in Iran, in Venezuela or in North Korea is not a good idea.