Fwance is losing it completely!

Orr Heller
Maariv, June 14 2007 (from Paris)

Israel's hopes of strengthening ties with France once Mr. Sarkozy moved into the Elysee turned out to be exaggerated: the town of Pierrefitte, North of Paris, has to decided to adopt arch terrorist Marwan Barghouti and make him an honorary citizen. Former West Bank Tanzim commander, Barghouti is currently serving five life terms plus forty years in Israel on several counts of murder and attempted murder of Israeli civilians (and of a Greek monk) in terrorist attacks masterminded and sponsored by him during the second intifada. Two weeks ago, the Pierrefitte city council made this decision on the grounds that "Barghouti is being punished for his political convictions."
Jewish communities all over France were shocked by this decision and were quick to issue a harsh condemnation of the Pierrefitte city council and even demanded that the decision be reversed.

I suggest they simply adopt Barghouti and offer him residence in Pierrefitte so that he can spread his political conviction among the North African Arabs who aren't quite so pleased with their life in the douce France, and teach them a thing or two about intifada, not just rioting and burning cars, but the real staff - daily suicide bombings, road bombs, shooting ambushes. I mean if your heart bleeds for him, do something useful, for crying out loud!

Remember!

Dalia Mazouri
Maariv, April 15, 2007

Six survivors were chosen to light the six memorial beacons on this year's Holocaust Memorial Day. They were young when they parted with their parents and siblings and were left to deal alone with the Nazi war machine. They acted with great valor. These are their accounts:

David Gur was born to a family of four in Okany, Southeastern Hungary, in 1926. In 1938 the Hungarian regime began to implement anti-Jewish laws. Imbued with Zionist ideals, David decided to move to the Land of Israel. But first he had to travel to Budapest and learn a useful trade. He was apprenticed by a master builder and also became a member of the "Young Guard" (Hashomer Hatzair) underground movement.
In March 1944, Hungary was occupied by the Germans. David joined the underground movement and was put in charge of forging documents. One day he and his friends were caught by the Hungarian security services. They quickly swallowed the forged documents, but the equipment their were carrying gave them away. During the interrogation one of them died, and the rest were taken to a military prison in Budapest to be executed. However, instead of being march to the execution site, they were taken to the Swiss consulate where they were released. David discovered later that the resistance had bribed a senior officer in echange for their lives.
When the war ended, David found out that his father had been murdered in Auschwitz, but his mother and sister had survived. David resumed his activities for the Hashomer Hatzair. In 1949 the communist regime in Hungary outlawed the Zionist organization, so emigrated to Israel to smuggle Zionist youths into the State of Israel.
In 1985 David was one of the founders of the Association for the Research of Zionist Youth Movements in Hungary, and he is still an active member. He and his wife Naomi have three daughters and ten grandchildren.

Zanne Farbstein was born in Bardejov Slovakia in 1926. She was the seventh child of a religiously observant family. Her first memory of the war is of group of German soldiers breaking into her parents' home one Shabbat eve (Friday night). Her father's business was confiscated and her two older brothers were taken to a forced labor camp.
In March 1942 all girls below 25 years of age were ordered to report to the local school. Zanne and two of her sisters, Edith and Sarah showed up together with about one thousand other girls. Their father walked them to the school, and when they arrived, he burst into bitter tears and gave each one of his daughters a korona coin for luck. The three sisters were part of the first transport to Auschwitz. When they arrived, they were ordered to leave their possessions on the train, including their father's good-luck coins. After a few months in Auschwitz, they were taken to Birkenau for forced labor.
Thanks to her Aryan looks, Zanne survived several selektions and even managed to be assigned "desirable" jobs, such as clothes sorting or unloading luggage from the trains. One day she found her father's prayer shawl among the luggage she was unloading, and later she learned that he had been taken to the crematoria. The three sisters never missed a day's work, because they knew that the weak and the ill simply vanished without a trace. One day, Edith, the eldest, was weak and weary to go to work, and offered her good shoes in exchange for Zanne's worn out ones. The three of them knew what it meant. Edith was never seen again.
On January 18, 1945, Zanne and Sarah were forced to join the death march to Germany. But in one of the villages the German guards disappeared and the haeftlings were left on their own. Learning that the war was over, Zanne and Sarah went on to Prague and Bratislava, where they discovered that two of their brothers had also survived. They went back to their hometown for the emotional reunion of what was left of their family.
They remained in Bardejov and tried to go on with their lives. In 1949 the extended family was brought over to Israel aboard the Independence. Zanne is married to Moshe and they have two children and five grandchildren.

Yaakov Janek Hollander was born to a family of five in Krakow, Poland, in 1929. In 1942 the family was taken to the Krakow ghetto where Janek and his parents were separated from the other children.
The family was deported to a work camp and from here to Plaszow concentration camp. Janek remembers Plaszow as hell on hearth, because of the terror reigned on the inmates by camp commander, Amon Goeth, who was madly shooting at whomever he pleased. From Plaszow, Janek and Benek, one of brothers were taken to Starachowice and eventually to Auschwitz. There they survived a number of selektions, and were eventually taken to forced labor in a coal mine in Rideltau, where Benek severely hurt his leg. In March 1944 they were forced to march to Mauthausen. Benek could hardly walk because of his injured leg, but Janek begged him and urged him to go on. They reached the camp, but Benek didn't make it further. They were separated for the first time. Janek was assigned to a work detail and never saw Benek again.
In April 1945 the camp inmates were forced to march to Gunskirchen. Many died on the way. Rumors in the camp had it that the Germans had fled. Janek, weighing 33 kg (thirty three kilograms at age 16 !!!!!!!), barely able to stand or walk, managed to crawl outside the camp. He was found by the Red Cross and taken to the nearby hospital where he met soldiers of the Jewish Brigade and decided to join them and fight in Italy. But a group of Jewish war orphans was formed in Selvino, Italy, looked after by the Youth Aliyah in order to be relocated to Israel. One year later the children were put aboard the Catriel Hayaffe ship, but the British intercepted the ship and ordered her to Cyprus. In 1947 the children arrived at the Mishmar Hasharon kibbutz. Janek joined the Palmach Harel Brigade. He fought in the War of Independence and went on to found the Zeelim kibbutz in the Negev, together with other orphans he met in Italy.
After WWII, Janek learned that his father had been murdered in Auschwitz, his mother had been brought down by illness in Plaszow, his bother Dolek had been shot in Bergen-Belsen three days before the end of the war. In 1953 Janek married Dvora. They have two children and one granddaughter.

Yaakov (Jacki) Handeli was born into a wealthy family in Thessaloniki, Greece, in 1928. In 1941 German troops marched into Thessaloniki and established the Jewish ghetto in the Baron de Hirsch neighborhood. The Handeli were also forced into the ghetto, in a humiliating display of Nazi force. Two weeks later Jacki's family was deported to Poland. Over 80 persons were forced into each car and travelled without food or water. Jacki learned his first German words on the train: "You won't need this any more!"
One week later the train arrived in Auschwitz-Birkenau, and the passengers were thrown out of the cars and underwent their first selection. After the selection Jacki never saw his parents and sisters again. He and his brothers were assigned to different work details in the camp. In addition to the harsh living conditions, Jacki and his brothers along with the rest of the Thessaloniki Jews suffered from isolation, because they didn't speak German, Yiddish or Polish and therefore couldn't communicate with the Germans or with the other Jews in the camp.
After his brothers died, Jacki remained on his own, until Thessaloniki boxer Jaco Razon took
him under his wing and helped him get more food and survive the terrible conditions in the camp.
In January 1945 the prisoners were sent on a death march. Jacki recalls the snow-covered road stained red with the blood of those who had been shot on the long march to Gleiwiz camp and riding towards Dora Mittelbau in open coal cars in the freezing rain without food or water. The journey ended in Bergen-Belsen where they remained until their liberation by British troops.
Jacki came to the Land of Israel in 1947 aboard the Pan York carrying South African volunteers, and fought in the War of Independence. No other member of his family survived the Holocaust. Jacki and his wife Rachel have two children.

Manya Brodetzky-Titelman, an only child, was born in Zhabokcrich, Ukraine in 1932. In July 1941 German troops marched into her hometown, followed by Romanian troops. The Jews were ordered into five cellars, where Romanian soldiers opened fire on them. Manya passed out and when she regained consciousness, she saw that her mother had been killed in the massacre. Her father also fainted and fell to the ground before the shooting began, and was also saved. Manya and her father remained hidden among the corpses until it nightfall. Then they went back to their house only to discover the neighbors had looted everything. They fled to the woods where they hid, hungry and thirsty, in the rain and the cold for a week. Eventually they decided to go back to their house.
A week later they were sent to the ghetto where they shared an apartment with several other families. They were hungry and cold all the time. There they found out that the bodies of their massacred relatives and friends were decomposing in the cellars where they had been shot. The local police ordered a number of adults and children to carry the bodies out of the cellars and bury them in mass graves. Manya recalls how she identified her mother's body by the red boots she had been wearing. She and her father hid the body and buried it near their home.
Towards the end of the war, the Romanian soldiers took all the Jews to the main square of the town to shoot them, but the German troops arrived unexpectedly and warned the Romanians that Russian troops were coming. The Romanians fled and everybody was surprised to find out that the German troops were in fact partisans in disguise.
After the war Manya went back to school and remained with her father in her hometown. The family immigrated to Israel in 1980. In 2003 Manya was part of a group of survivors who erected a memorial tombstone on the mass grave in her home town. Manya was widowed last month. Her husband, Boris, was also a Holocaust survivor and a Red Army veteran. Manya has two daughters, five grandchildren and a great-granddaughter.

Mordechai (Motke) Wiesel and his twin brother were born to a Haredi family of eight, in Szatmar (Satu Mare), Transylvania, in 1929. Nazi racial laws were enforced as soon as Germany invaded Hungary in 1944. Fearing for his childrens' lives, Motke's father sent three of his sons including Motke to work on a farm. A few weeks later the three brothers were sent to the town ghetto where they were reunited with their parents. Motke's family was part of the second transport to Auschwitz. He and his twin brother Meir managed to sneak close to a crack where they could breathe. They arrived at the camp on their 15th birthday. He remembers asking his mother why there were women along the tracks and what they were doing dressed in striped jackets and with their hair shaved off. She replied: "This must be a lunatic asylum sort of place."
During he first selektion Motke and Meir were separated from their parents and siblings whom they never saw again. When they went through the gate and read the "Arbeit macht frei" sign, Meir asked candidly: "How long do you figure we have to work here to be freed?" A week later the twins were dispatched to Krakow-Plaszow, to work on Schindler's pig farm and as
apprentice builders.
Later they were transferred to Gross-Rosen and from there to Langenbilau Sportschule near Reichenbach. Motke was burning with fever and barely made it to the train. On May 8, 1945, a Russian tank found its way into the camp. Motke and his brother moved into a vacated house in Reichenbach and stayed there until they regained their strength.
When they returned to their home town, they discovered that only their eldest brother had survived. The "Hagana" organization helped them flee to Italy via Austria, where they waited to be smuggled into the Land of Israel. In 1946 Motke boarded a ship, but it was intercepted by the British and forced to sail to Cyprus. He reached Israel in 1947, and joined his brother Meir who was waiting for him in kibbutz Sde-Nahum.
Motke joined the army and was wounded in the battles to open a route to Makor Haim. Later he fulfilled his dream to become an officer in the Jewish army. In 1952 Motke married Esther and they have two children and eight grandchildren.

July 1942

Ruth Avraham, a Jewish woman from Berlin, is among tens of Holocaust survivors whose story of survival made their way into books. These are excerpts from "Ruth and Maria", by Raya and Al Sokoloff, an outspoken chilling account of Jewish life during the Nazi regime, describing how Ruth parted with her parents.

Every night we prayed for the Allies' to defeat the Nazis and save us. Every day we waited with mixed emotions for the bombings and the shelling they were delivering to Germany. On the one hand we feared we might be killed, on the other hand we praying for salvation.
I cannot figure out why I insisted on having a baby. Walter thought I lost my mind. He thought this idea would be the death of us all and wouldn't even hear of it. We had heard of Jews cruelly murdered, others had disappeared, and as for ourselves, there was no way we could escape the horrors. But I wouldn't give up: I felt I had to bring new Jewish life into the world, despite the monstrosity surrounding us. The desire and the need to have a child kept me sane and gave me a reason to live.
"How will we manage with a baby?" Walter kept asking. "Have you thought it over? What if we die?" I had no answers for the questions he kept asking, but I didn't give up. I had never let anybody talk me out of doing something that I really wanted to do. Eventually, when he could no longer stand my supplications, Walter gave in, and I became pregnant in the spring of 1942. I was still doing forced labor, so I had the necessary documents for traveling on the tramway. I was not allowed to sit down, however, so I had to stand for the entire commute. Sometimes, as I was standing with the yellow star pinned on my coat, a fellow passenger would take pity on me and slip an apple or a piece of bread into my purse.
Walter and I made preparations for the birth of our baby. As a forced laborer I enjoyed a few privileges, such as 5 grams of coffee per day, and the choice to have a midwife deliver me at home or go to the Jewish Hospital in Berlin. Walter and I had already decided for a midwife, because of the rumors that the Nazis were doing terrible things to Jewish babies born in the Jewish hospital. While we were busy planning, we tried no to think about the daily routine of aerial attacks and running to the shelter.

In the first weeks of pregnancy I started bleeding. Dr. Emil Cohen, who was 84-years-old, was very worried and instructed me to lie in bed for at least six weeks if I wanted to keep the baby. So I lay in bed for six weeks, because I was desperate to have the baby. Luckily, my parents lived close by. My mother, who was 62 years old at the time, was working in an arms factory. My 70-year-old father was too old and weak to work. So he took care of me while I had to lie in bed. He would fix me meals and I ate in bed. My parents were delighted that I was going to have a baby. A grandchild is something wonderful to look forward to even when the world around you is collapsing.
And then, in July 1942 my parents received the order to prepare for deportation in two weeks' time. We knew that deportation meant death. My mother understood, she had no illusions.
Walter and I had decided to go into hiding, but my parents were too old for this. My mother was almost blind, and my father was very weak. My mother knew where they were going, but she was ready to face her destiny: "I'd rather have a horrible end than an unending horror", she used to say. So we went on with our lives as if a miracle was about to happen any moment.
During those two weeks I went to see my parents every day. I was going to give my father a non-rust watch – an expensive item in the reality of those days. I had bought it on impulse several months earlier, but after the ominous letter I decided to give it to my father as a good-bye gift.
The most dreadful day arrived all too soon. It was a Tuesday, July 22, 1942. I hadn't been able to sleep all night. I forget what I said at work, perhaps I asked for a day off, because I wasn't going to wrap Aspirin pills for the Nazis that day.
Even though it could have harmed my unborn baby, I couldn't eat a thing. The air was heavy with fear and horror. At dawn I went to my parents' house to help them pack. But they were already packed. My father recited the morning prayers, as usual, and then put his prayer shawl and phylacteries in his bag. That morning his prayers took longer than ever.
My parents were too weak to carry heavy cases, that's why they put on several layers of clothes, as many as they could, considering the heat of July.
Waiting was a nightmare. Of all their children I was the only one to see them off. Edith was in England, Anna in the United States, Betty in Palestine, and Ella, fearful for her own family had stayed at home. It seemed to me that I was in Germany for a very special reason – to provide comfort and strength for my elderly parents.
Suddenly there was a heavy knock on the door and we were startled although we knew it was coming. That was it. That which we had feared most had materialized. Two SS troops came in. One last look, one last hug. "Keep believing, we'll pray for a miracle", I said to them.
The soldiers started shouting their orders. I helped my parents with the luggage down the stairs. A truck was already there and the building was surrounded by armed guards with assault dogs. There was nobody on the truck yet, my parents' names were the first on the list. We went around the truck carrying the heavy parcels. Our neighbors had gathered in the street to witness the event. I couldn't help myself and I climbed into the truck together with my parents, and sat with them. We hugged, and cried and prayed. I wanted to return the love they had heaped on me all my life. My being on the truck was infuriating the guards. They yelled at me that I could join my parents on the transport if I wanted. It was hard to resist the temptation. I couldn't bear the feeling that I was abandoning them. As soon as I jumped off the truck it started rolling. I followed it like a mourner walking behind a casket. Then I ran around a long block in order to get ahead of it, but I was too late.
I turned around and walked home. I was very weak because I hadn't eaten anything since the night before, so I lay in bed. Suddenly I remembered that I hadn't given my father his watch.
I knew the truck was heading for the Jewish Community Center on Gross Hamburger Street. That building, which had once been the center of a vibrant community, had become a place of death and ruin. By day, day trucks would arrive and unload their cargo of helpless Jews. At night, while the rest of the Berliners were asleep, train would pick up the hapless cargo and lead them to their last destination: death.
I got out of bed and ran to the center without putting on my yellow star. When I got there, I lowered my head. I felt as if the entire world was watching me and could see and hear my heart pounding in my chest. I forced myself to calm down. I examined the building and found an easy way in. I took it as a sign that God was watching over me.
The room I entered looked like a picture from hell. Hundreds of human beings crammed together, children crying, mothers breastfeeding their babies, some men were praying loudly, others were whispering. Then I saw my parents, they were close to the door, as if expecting me. We embraced again. My father was in a state of shock. My mother told me that on the very same morning the Nazis had questioned my father about his bank account and forced him to sign his possessions over to them, in order to pay for his ticket to Theresienstadt, on the outskirts of Prague.
My mother signaled to me not to say something that might upset my father even more. So I pulled out the watch and gave it to him. My father couldn't believe his eyes. He lift it up in the air for a better look and examined it carefully and kept smiling all along.
This is how I remember him, enjoying the treasure that had just landed in his lap, the last happy moment of his life.
My eyes never left the door. My mother understood my anxiety and signaled to me leave. We hugged again, we prayed together – "Hear, oh Israel, the Lord our God is one God" and I left. I made my way out of the building by the same unguarded door.
That night, Walter and I sat together silent with grief. We had that night only to remember, one single night to sit shiva and mourn my parents. We had a plan and we had to act without delay. For if we didn't, both of us and our unborn child would share my parents' fate.
The following night we ignored the curfew and headed towards my parents' house. The swastika seal was already on the door, meaning that the occupants of the house had been taken to their final destination. Nobody ever touched those seals. They were like the markings on a fresh grave. I removed the seal carefully. Walter opened the door.
The apartment looked exactly as it did the day before, except now it was empty and quiet. I thought I was going to be sick. The furniture, the beautiful dishes reminded me of the Shabbat and holiday meals we had had together. But there was no time to throw up. Our plan was to take every piece of furniture we could carry and sell it. We had to focus on staying alive and keeping the baby. And for that we needed money. My parents' furniture would provide us with that money. It wasn't antique furniture, but it was still fashionable. Lots of houses had been bombed and destroyed in Berlin, and furniture was not easy to find those days. That's why we were certain we would find buyers.
We took only the smallest and prettiest items that could fetch the best prices. The next day we snuck in again, and then again the following night. Each time we removed the seal and then pasted it back again carefully. Walter had several old friends dating back to the days he was in the furniture business. They helped us every night, putting their own lives at risk. One of them loaded all the furniture in his truck and then others helped sell it on the black market. I myself managed to ferry some of the lighter pieces using a simple hand trolley. Our hearts pounding in our chests, frightened to death that someone might spot us from some window and denounce us to the Nazis, we pushed my parents' furniture through the streets of Berlin. Miraculously, we managed to sell every single piece without getting caught.
I forget how many Reich marks we made selling the furniture, but it was the last present my parents gave me. They wouldn't know it, but this is how we managed to stay strong and survive. The following year, when we decided to go into hiding, we had enough money for bribes and for purchasing goods on the black market. I hid the money and the birthday greeting from my mother, which turned out to be her last letter, in a secret pocket underneath my clothes.

(I translated the Hebrew translation of the English version. I hope I didn't stray too far off the original).

photographs: Ruth and Walter Avraham, spring 1939.

Ruth's parents, Frieda and Meir Frum, 1941 (?)

Mourning over a lost sister

I have lived in Israel for 23 years now, i.e. twenty-three Holocaust Remembrance Days. Twenty-three times I read and heard survivor accounts, stories of murdered relatives and friends, shattered communities, mass murder and genocide.
Anti-Semitism is raising its monstrous head once again. Most Europeans would like to bury their part in wiping out European Jewry by giving blind support to the Arab propaganda that would make even Goebbels proud. Therefore I have decided to dedicate part of this blog to testimonies of crimes committed against the Jews of Europe during WWII as they are published in Israeli newspapers. This is the story of Esther Weiner, by Avraham Tirosh.
(The Weiners, Esther seated in the middle, her brother Joseph standing behind her).

My aunt Esther waited for three years for her permission to join her two brothers in Palestine, until she was deported to Treblinka. My father never forgave himself for failing obtain the certificate that would have saved her life. This is what he wote sixty years ago: "I had but one sister, sweet and pure, but she did not have wings, and I couldn't save her."

Although I was born before WWII in mandatory Palestine, I sometimes define myself as a Holocaust survivor, no offense to those who have "earned" this title in earnest. I was pulled at the very last moment from that "Valley of Death".
My late mother came to the Land of Israel in 1930 at the age of 21. She rebelled against her non-Zionist ultra-Orthodox family and persuaded her equally Hassidic uncle, who was less opposed to the Zionist idea to pay for her ticket in utmost secrecy. Six years later, in Palestine, she married my father, Joseph Weiner (Tirosh). I am their first born son.
I was almost two years old at the beginning of summer 1939 and my mother decided to travel to her native Bialystok, to proudly introduce me, the Land-of-Israel grandson to her parents. We were ready to leave in August, but due to the imminent war my mother decided to put off the voyage. Luckily! War broke out on September 1st. Other Land-of-Israel mothers, I don't know how many, who wanted to show off their children, were stuck in Poland. Some managed to flee, others perished.
But this is not what this story is about. Neither is this story about my family solely, although so it might seem. All of my mother's family perished in the Shoah, except one of her sisters who followed her to the Land of Israel. On my father's side, his brother was here, and they both helped their widowed mother to travel to Palestine. Only Esther, their younger sister stayed behind and was murdered together with her husband and infant son in Treblinka, in all likelihood.
My late father was involved with bringing legal and illegal immigrants to Palestine/Land of Israel, but despite being well-connected, he couldn't obtain the necessary "certificate", the immigration visa from the British Mandate officials, so Esther had to stay behind. My father never got over his tragic failure and he never forgave himself.
During the 1940's and 1950' my father was writing for "The Tzofeh" (The Onlooker) under his nom de plume J. Tirosh (although his name was still Weiner). This newspaper had a large Zionist-religious audience. Although being a young child at the time, I remember the "celebs" among them. But I was taken by surprise when I found out what had happened to my aunt.
My father passed away eleven years ago. Among his belongings we found a number of articles and letters, most already published by different newspapers and magazines. A few months ago, I went through his papers once again, and found an old edition of the newspaper, and among its yellow pages the following article, published 60 years ago, on February 28, 1947. This was my broken-hearted father grieving over his younger sister's death and agonizing over his own inability to save her.

This is the article "I Had One Sister":
I had one sister, sweet and small, my beautiful young sister. But she didn't have wings, she didn't know how to fly. We grew up as two soft chicks in the loving nest of a pair of lovebirds: mother and father.
I grew up and became a man. I grew wings and I thought I had to fly away from the nest, far far away, to the land of the sun and the azure. My younger sister pleaded with me and begged: please take me with on your wings. Wherever you shall fly, I shall fly. Wherever you shall dwell, I shall dwell. How shall I eat and breathe alone, on my own, with no-one beside me, when your soul is my soul?
I encouraged her, I promised to take her with me later on: wherever I shall go, you shall go. But I didn't keep my promise. With God as my witness, accursed evil stopped me and stood in my way. The gate was locked behind me. High walls stopped me in my tracks and wouldn't let me pass. My powers failed me.
I sent her messages to comfort and encourage her: I will bring you over, I will help you leave. Tomorrow we shall receive the good sign. I will build a paper bridge for you. I will send you your "certificate". It will allow you safe passage to me, to the land of sun and azure, and you shall find peace.
I had this sister, my one and only sister. But she didn't have wings, she couldn't fly away. She stood by her window every evening, looking into the twilight, waiting for the letter man. She stood there wishing him to come, waiting for the sign, for the paper bridge. She stood there for one year, two years, three years, but the sign didn't come. Yet she didn't despair. She grew up, became a woman, a few gray hairs found their way among her curls. She got married and still she waited, wished for the sign.
My wings were severed, there was no wind beneath them. I had no power to send her an eagle. I had no power to bring her to the promised land, close to me, to my home, to the safe nest. The wind didn't help her, she had no power to fly like a dove, to fly far away. To find refuge from the coming storm. She was waiting for me, for a sign from me. She was hoping I could save her. Even though the sign was long in coming, she kept on waiting.
Treblinka was not far away. In fact it was very close, in place and time. Too close. She could almost see and feel it. About one hour away from her home. There sat my fragile sister, lonely
and forlorn, so close to Treblinka, swallowing her tears and waiting. Humming a soft tune and waiting. Eating her bread in sorrow and lying in her bed in grief. She was so sad, so sad, but she waited. She sat in her home, but she did not despair. She looked out the window and waited, tapping on the window sill and wondering: "Why is the postman late? Why is he always late?"
She waited one year, two years, three years. She sat there feeling sad and abandoned, but she didn't despair. She was still waiting for a miracle. Still praying. Until the man from Treblinka came for her and took her away, along with the rest of the children of Israel, and led them to the fires of Treblinka, which sucked her bone marrow and smashed her bones, until she and the baby in her arms were no more.
And still she laughs, hope hovers on her scorched lips: a paper bridge will be built and salvation is near. Very near. It is nearing my house, it is by the gate.
But alas, I had but one sister, fragile and pure. She didn't have wings. And I couldn't lift her to fly on my wings. Let her soul, holy and untainted, rest on the wings of heavenly angels. Glorified and sanctified be the great name of the Lord (mourning prayer).
When is my sister's yearly commemoration (juhrzeit)? When is your sister's commemoration, or that of your brother, your mother or father? Even this "pleasure" has been denied us. My sister died without a name, without a date. She left nothing behind and nothing remains of her. Not even the day, not even the month. Alas!"

As I said, this is not only the story of my family. I am sure many Jews in wartime Palestine were grieving and agonizing over the fate of their helpless families, over the unsuccessful attempts to bring them over to Palestine and save their lives. Instead, those left behind in Europe went up in the smoke of the crematoria. The scars in their hearts must have never healed, just as my father's heart bled to his very last day.
All that is left of my aunt Esther, my father's younger sister, is a tiny book-shaped tombstone that my father left on his father's grave, dedicated to the memory of Esther and Ephraim Ditkowsky, her husband, and their infant son Avraham Shmuel, named for our grandfather, just like me. Except I have no idea how old he was or what he looked like when the murderers took his young innocent life.

My grandfather, Solomon Katz

This is my grandfather Solomon Katz. I never met him. He was murdered by the Nazis long before I was born. My mother hardly knew him, she was barely five years old on that accursed day when Nazi troops marched into Lvov, lined him up against a wall and shot him, along with other prominent members of the Jewish community and university professors. One can clearly see how dangerous he must have been to the Third Reich. This is the only picture I have of him, the only picture I have ever seen. I don't even know how old he was in 1932 or when he died. At the bottom of the picture my mother, his daughter, wrote in her own hand: "Daddy in Gubalowce, 1932", in Polish. It is nothing short of a miracle that this photograph has survived 75 years and perhaps a dozen house moves.
This year, on Holocaust Remembrance Day, for the first time in my life I was overcome by the need to wear a new pair of shoes and to perform the blessing "who has given us life": Blessed art thou, our Lord, our God, who has given us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this day," although this blessing is customarily offered on Passover, Feast of Weeks, Jewish New Year, Yom Kippur, Tabernacles, and Rejoicing of the Torah. But I needed to let my grandfather know that I am alive, his only grandchild, and that my two sons, his great-grandchildren, are alive. One of them is getting married soon, and hopefully great-great-grandchildren will be born.
I wanted to let him know that his smile goes on, my mother had it, I have it, one of my sons has it...
I also wanted to ask him to keep an eye on us and on the children of Israel who are once again threatened with annihilation, so that the smiles of the six million murdered 62 years ago are not forgotten forever.

The Stockholm Syndrome

Even before it is out, Burg's book is making headlines. I wish I could call it names, but I haven't read it, and I probably never will. It might be a good read, I admit, but the fact that it was picked up by almost every possible anti-Jewish anti-Zionsit sites puts me off. Besides I saw Burg's interview with London and Kirschenbaum and he wasn't able to provide proper answers to their probing questions (no attacks, no provocations, just musings) and in fact endorse his claims by anything other than the ramblings of his burning mind and vivid imagination. He went on whining in his monotonous voice, reciting a well-prepared well-rehearsed speech, totally oblivious of the anchors' questions. He invoked his dead father (who is probably turning over in his grave) and went on to explore his gut feelings that he is welcome to keep for himself as far as I am concerned. For me, he is just another example of a self-hating intellectual Jew trying to make a living maligning his fellow Israelis, as soon as his career petered out, just like Uri Avneri. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you well. .

Arik Bachar
Ma'ariv. June 10, 2007

With a coveted EU passport in his pocket, with a yearning for the Diaspora that spat his father out, Avrum Burg is free to go to France and leave the feeling of disgust to us.

They say that the people residing in the Land of Israel is so stupid that it cannot elect its leaders. Avrum Burg is the ultimate proof of the stupidity put forth by this thesis, proof that the filters of the Israeli electorate do a better job than most believe.
This is the man who would have been our PM, the one with two passports and a multitude of faces. The one who came to the conclusion that Zionism is not so great only after his retirement conditions were revised. Not to mention the police inquiry into his shady business enterprises. Only after he hit the glass ceiling did he realize that his meteoric light was dimming and started to search the depths of his tormented soul for proof that perhaps the Jewish presence of Israel is misplaced and that in fact we were at our best while in exile.
In his wonderful interview with Arik Shavit for the Ha'aretz (available on the net, mostly on Zionist-bashing, Jewish-blood-sucking sites, in case you have had too much to eat and cannot puke), Burg is taking the Stockholm Syndrome to incredible heights: the loyalty displayed by the average hostage towards the goals of his abductors pales next the Burg's burning adoration of the same Diaspora that spat out (and on) his ancestors and devoured all those who lacked the foresight to run for their lives before it was too late.
Last week I returned from a visit I to those places that make up Burg's love and desire: Auschwitz-Birkenau, the Lodz ghetto, places Burg himself must have visited while wearing elegant suits provided for him and paid for by the Jewish people. Since he confessed to Shavit that the ideas he put down in his soon to be published book had been on his mind for quite some time, one can assume that Burg came up with profound realization that "Israeli society is afraid, ... [experiencing] this utmost fear, the ancestral fear of the six million Jews murdered during the Holocaust" while searching for it in those very locations. And what is the amazing observation that this retired genius who purported to be the great hope of Zionist politics brought back from Poland? That the people subjected to the ultimate genocide is not always behaving in a rational manner. Really, Burg! You mean we should no longer be wary 60 short years after the terrible trauma?
You are talking about the belligerent Israeli society and the disproportionate use of force against explicit threats to complete that genocide? Go to Rwanda, Burg, and observe the behavior of those who survived an extermination attempt 13 years ago. Then perhaps you will appreciate how restrained Israel actually is. Go to your beloved America, the center of your coveted exile, where you claim that that Jews can attain their their utmost glory, and count the number of human lives exacted in response to the 3,000 WTC victims.
However, in spite of everything, Burg is one more example of the vitality of the Jewish people. He managed to find in the Shoah the exact opposite of what most Israeli have learned: namely that the Jews believed and hoped up to the very last moment, when they were pushed into the gas chambers. But 60 years ago, as they stepped over the threshold of the phony showers built for them on the soil of the continent that Burg's heart goes out to, they must have thought, every last one of them, that perhaps moving to Palestine in the mid 1930's might not have been an entirely bad idea.
So now Burg holds a EU passport that entitles him to vote, work and reside as a proud Jew in France. Congratulations, Mr. Burg, but when you take up lodgings over there, remember to cover your head with a see-through skullcap, just to be on the safe side. And you can let us deal with the disgust on our own, and to drink from the well into which you chose not only to piss, but also to throw up.

Burg's Passport
Ar'el Segal
Maariv May 19, 2007
(not that holding a foreign passport is amoral, criminal, or even illegal, no such thing. But one who served as Knesset Speaker and Director of the Jewish Agency - "President of the Jewish people" - is in no position to urge Israelis to acquire a second passport and clear out of the country that is not only their homeland, but that they also love, cherish, build and sometimes even die for. And die young, too.)
Several days ago a Jerusalem Court rejected the appeal of French citizen and former Jewish Agency director (1995-1999), Monsieur de Bourg, who insisted that the Jewish Agency keep on covering the costs of a private driver for his private jeep, to the tune of 22,000 NIS/month (~ 5,500 USD). Justice Sara Shdior explained that "Burg failed to list all pertinent details to his claim, such as the fact that the Jewish Agency is not the only or the main sponsor of Burg's vehicle, as he is entitled to funding from the Knesset, as former Knesset speaker. He also failed to mention that the fact that he sometimes uses said jeep for purposes connected to his activities as a private businessman.
During the Gaza disengagement I sat next to Mr. Burg as guests of Nissim Mishal's talk show. When I was done talking, Burg looked at me with arrogance and disdain, and proceeded to regurgitate the corny cliches of the articulate left, the so-called voice of sanity. I was not impressed. I had always considered Burg a self-content megalomaniac pompous ass. As a matter of principle I'd rather not share in other people's flatulence. I even make it a point to restrict my own to "under the blanket" situations. But I must confess that I had shared the general opinion defining Burg's public figure as an honest politician, a man of principles. Yet the fact that the former Jewish Agency Director and Knesset Speaker bends over backwards for a foreign passport is quite metaphoric - one more indicator of the decomposing political leadership which justifies the rapidly spreading feeling of despair. If a former chairman of the official body in charge of bringing Jews to Israel uses his wife's birthright to obtain a French passport, where does it leave the others?
And perhaps Burg's appeal (which was rejected in court) to obtain funding for his private driver from the Jewish Agency is one more proof of Mr. Burg's principles - unfathomable impudence and great sense of humor: one more attempt at cracking jokes at our expense.

Gilad Shalit has a French passport, because his mother is French. What good did it do him?

New Toys for British Army in Iraq and Lessons in Ethics

Israeli Drones over Iraq
Felix Frish
Ma'ariv June 6, 2007

While the British academia (cacademia) is pushing for a boycott of Israeli goods, Her Majesty's Army is purchasing Israeli drones.

One day after PM Blair's attempt to reassure his Israeli counterpart by opposing the academic boycott, the British Army signals its willingness to cooperate with Elbit Systems and places an important 110 million USD order for Hermes 405 drones to be used in Iraq operations.

These UAV's are also being employed by the IAF and according to foreign military analysts, they have the capability to launch missiles against different targets. According to Elbit Systems, its British subsidiary, Tacs-U will be in charge of the production along with French Thales. According to the contract, British ground crews will also be trained to use this sophisticated tool. Yossi Ackerman, President and Director General of Elbit: "The Hermes 405 has gained worldwide recognition among UAV users."

And now for something that really blew my mind: British army officers travel to Israel to learn about training the next generation of officers and military ethics . Once again: while the British academia calls for boycott, British and Israeli military come closer.

A large international delegation consisting of Army officers from the UK, US, Germany, Finland and other countries, attended a congress on military ethics organized by the Center of Ethics in Jerusalem and learned from Israeli officers how to instill the military ethics principles into younger generations of officers. The delegations also visited the dividing wall.

(adapted from Felix Frish and Yuval Lidor, Ma'ariv June 8, 2007)

Stupidity

Ar'el Segal
Ma'ariv, June 9, 2007

40 years, 4000 years, does it matter?
"Citizens, in the name of honor, in the name of our heroic Arab fatherland, in the name of history, past and future: we are entering today a battle for freedom, valor, honor and salvation. We shall stand before the Israeli aggressor and we shall wipe him out, in order to remove the stain of the imperialist Zionist entity. Brothers, free fighters from Gaza, Sinai and Sharm-al-Shech, brothers, heroes from the Lebanon and Syria, start marching on Tel-Aviv." This is how the Egyptian radio station began its broadcast to the Arab world on June 5, 1967, the day the Six-Day-War broke out.
This week, as I was leafing through an American magazine, I stumbled upon the best ever definition for "politically correct", a vile notion that corrupts dialogue and thought. "Political Correctness is a doctrine fostered by a delusional, illogical liberal minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."
I need this definition when the Iranian president declares that the days of Israel are numbered. One week ago the British academia decided to call for a boycott against Israel, which doesn't take me by surprise. Nor does it surprise me that members of Israeli academia acted as catalysts. Samuel Johnson said that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Yes, and humanism is the last refuge of a traitor. Ironically, the first blood libel incident against the Jews documented in the Christian world took place in Norwich, England. Norwich Jews were accused of murdering 11-year-old William. One of the main characters in the story was unsurprisingly a converted Jew, Theobald of Cambridge.
The blood accusation later spread to the continent and the persecutions started. The passage of time left no mark either on the perpetrators or the renegade Jews. During the Defensive Shield operation, members of the Israeli academia signed a petition calling on the world to intervene and stop the ethnic cleaning of the Palestinians by Israel. It is not by chance that at the very same time Israeli PM Ariel Sharon was sipping Arab children blood in an Egyptian TV series. When Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak was kindly asked to take that program off the air, he replied: "Not all Jews are the same." Jewish self-hate is undoubtedly a very deep and unprecedented psycho-historical phenomenon.

The root of self-hatred
German Jewish philosopher Theodore Lessing published The Jewish Self-Hatred (Der Judische Selbsthass) in the 1930's. He was murdered by the Nazis in 1933. Lessing claims that the highly developed Jewish sense of morality is the key to the pathological self-loathing. An individual is not interested only in knowing the reason behind the disaster that strikes, they want to know why. Most humans will shift the blame onto someone else, usually the enemy. The Jew accepts his own guilt because he perceives every misfortune as punishment which brings him closer to salvation.
This self-blame is the result of thousands of years of persecution. The claim is supported by Masechet Shabbat (13,72): "Pray tell, rabbis, who wrote the book of fasting? They answered: Hanania ben Hizkiyahu and his followers who loved misfortunes (meaning misfortunes that can be atoned for, as well as the miracles for which they can praise the blessed Lord). Then said Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel: We also love our misfortunes, but what to do, for if we were to write them down, we would not have the time (Rashi comment: because they were aplenty)."
An additional reason for self-loathing is the gentile background. Victim demonizing is a frequent psychological process useful for overcoming conscience qualms over trespasses. The individual seeks a reason to justify his misfortunes (e.g. the attitude towards the expelled Gush Katiff residents). Two thousand years of Christian love must have done something to the Jewish soul, else why would the Jews themselves believe that they deserve their persecution. In Lessing's words: "In order to turn a man into a dog it is enough to repeat calling him 'You, dog'!".

This week marks the 40th anniversary of the Six-Day War, but the public atmosphere dictated by the media swings between lament and grief. At times it seems that the Israeli elite regret our victory. Any person in their right mind would ask: "Are they sane? What would have happened to us if we hadn't crushed our enemies? Where would we have been had the intentions of our Arab enemies materialized, as expressed by Egyptian president Nasser in 1965, during his speech in Hilwan: "Our goal is the destruction of Israel. During the first summit we set two objectives. The immediate one – to complete the unification of the Arab forces, and the national objective – to annihilate Israel."

The tale of stupidity and ignorance
My TV set is tuned to channel 10 broadcasting "What we lost in the Six Day War". I go ballistic. Some of us, the "older ones", remember the battle cries of the crowds rallying in the main squares of Cairo and Damascus, days before the war broke out and liberated parts of our land. PLO leader at the time Ahmad Shukairi coined the phrase "Men to the sea, women to us". This became the legitimate, public chant of the blood thirsty Arab mobs, a battle cry of the tribal Arabs who used to slaughter all males and enslave all women. This barbaric cry is still popular with the Palestinians, both within and without the Green Line (remember the October riots?): "Haibar, Haibar, ya yahood, Jaish Muhammad Sawfa ya'ud", meaning "Haibar, Haibar, oh Jew, Muhammad's Army is coming for you." (Haibar was an oasis inhabitant by independent Jewish tribes until Muhammad treacherously attacked them, slaughtered all the men and enslaved all women and children).
How better to conclude this discourse on stupidity and ignorance than by mentioning a painful episode from our more recent history: remember the Fager rockets landing in Afula, Beit Shean and Haifa during the second Lebanon? What did the Hezbollah call them? Haibar rockets.

Jerusalem the Golden
On the eve of the Six Day War, Naomi Shemer wrote her "Jerusalem the Golden" classic, one of the finest examples of renewed Hebrew song. Well, during many a conversation with educated people, I was surprised to find out how few of them knew what inspired this beautiful anthem. Masechet Avot de Rabbi Nathan describes how Rabbi Akiva rewards his wife Rachel for her faithfulness and support through thick and thin, with a beautiful piece of jewelry named Jerusalem the Golden, an engraving of the city of Jerusalem, ruined and deserted by her Jewish residents. The gorgeous engraving was a memento of the city's lost grandeur and an expression of the hope for deliverance. And to complete the puzzle, in the Midrash Rabba Eicha, we read how Rabbi Akiva and the sages traveled (climbed) to Jerusalem and spotted a fox in the ruins of the Holy of Holies. While the sages wept, Rabbi Akiva burst into laughter. The sages were bewildered, but Rabbi Akiva explained: "As long as the prophecy of ruin was fulfilled, so shall the prophecy of salvation be fulfilled."

And behold, Naomi Shemer was composing her beautiful song during the Six Day War waiting period without the slightest suspicion that Jerusalem was soon to be liberated. Those whining today about our victory in the battle field are the same ones that criticized Naomi's lyrics, mostly "the dry water wells, the empty market place". Amos Oz, the one with the beautiful bangs and pure soul reprimanded: "What does she mean by the dry water wells and empty market place? It was full of Arabs. What does she mean no-one was going to the Dead Sea? With my own eyes I saw Arab women heading for the Dead Sea all the time." Naomi Shemer replied in the documentary produced in her honor: "This claim is really infuriating and offending. As if a man who misses his beloved should seek comfort with this psychiatrist, Amos Oz, who would reassure him: Don’t worry, your beloved is not alone, she is in bed with another man. For me, a Judenrein world is a dead planet, and the Land of Israel without Jews is empty and deserted."
(illustrations: Jerusalem and East Jerusalem painted in 1842 by British artist David , of all names, Roberts)

From Independence to Suicide

Ben-Dror Yemini
Ma'ariv, April 25, 2007

"Jaffa" is a documentary about the orange and the brand, the story of Palestinian oppression by the Zionist capitalism and colonialism. This is a story of the Engineering Corps bulldozers committing more than the habitual war crimes. The film takes us to a higher level. Now the bulldozers are destroying Palestinian orchards without anything do with terror or suicide attacks, but only to satisfy Israeli greed: bulldozers in the service of capitalism. This film is not just about the orange and the brand. This film is the story of Zionism crimes: the Zionist colonial-capitalist plot about to be exposed.
Who wrote the screenplay, Protocols of the Elders of Zion fans? German neo-Nazi groups? The Islamic Jihad propaganda service? Or is it perhaps the Israeli cultural institutions that have chosen this film to mark the 60th anniversary of Israel independence?
The State is Israel is losing its will to live. She despises those who love her and honors those who hate her. And this is nothing new. This has been going on for some time now and is threatening our very existence. Perhaps not our physical existence in the near future. But this is the trend, the purpose, the fashion.

Suicidal democracy
Three public institutions, Israeli Channel 8, the Jerusalem Cinematheque and the Rabinovich Foundation have decided recently to fund ex-pat Eyal Sivan, a known hater of Israel, for the making of an anti-Israeli, anti-Semitic movie to mark the celebration of Israel's 60th birthday anniversary.
The Israeli democracy is and should be able to suffer all. Even pathological phenomena such as Eyal Sivan. The problem, however, are the commissars who have the gall to select this evil man and his screenplay. And it is not Ahmadinejad who will fund the movie, but we, the Israeli tax-payers, if we choose to keep our mouths shut.
The problem is the national strength failure syndrome that is taking hold of Israel. The problem is that the majority, left and right, all of us have become a doormat for everyone. Everybody is allowed to spit on us. So we will pay this Sivan person a fortune to make an anti-Semitic movie for us to watch on our next Yom ha-Atzmaut. This man has for years been part of the propaganda aimed at putting an end to the "Zionist enterprise". He has expressed his despicable ideas in films, lectures and publications. Only a few weeks ago he was behind the "Apartheid Week" organized in Britain by a bunch of organizations seeking the destruction of the State of Israel. A petty servant in the agitprop machine busy demonizing the State of Israel.
The list of evils committed by this man is a long one. A previous film churned out by Sivan's anti-Semitic production line earned Sivan the label "anti-Semitic Jew" from the usually indifferent Alain Finkielkraut. Sivan filed suit against Finkielkraut. Intellectuals from left rather than from the right side of the political spectrum testified and proved that Sivan was indeed an anti-Semitic Jew. The French court rejected Sivan's lawsuit. And this is not the only instance. One of the most prestigious cultural establishments in France, the Pompidou Center, cancelled the film screening. But in Israel there are those who have not had enough of Sivan and they want to pay him to come up with more. We have lost all shame.

Gang rape
And if this was not enough, immediately after his suit was rejected, the man made public his intentions of embarking on a public campaign against the "dangers of diseased philosemitism hiding behind European support for Israel". "Diseased philosemitism" indeed! It is perhaps wrong to assume that the man is part of the new anti-Semitism, because even the old kind of anti-Semitism couldn't have come up with something better.
Sivan even hit the bottom with his rendition of the Eichmann trial. He made a laughing stock of prosecutor Gideon Hausner and of testifying Holocaust survivors. He inserted out-of- context answers. Tammy Raveh-Hausner, the attorney's daughter, spoke of students who after watching the film had no idea why and for what offense Eichmann was standing trial at all. This is the result of a Holocaust movie made by a Jew thinks that Israel is walking in the footsteps of Nazi Germany.
And now, this man, who is rightfully thought by many to be anti-Semitic, has been chosen by Israeli public institutions to make a film for Israel's 60th anniversary. Have we lost all measure of self-respect?
The bleeding hearts will jump and claim that this is democracy at its best. True, suicidal democracy. Has Britain given any funding to any treacherous lord for propaganda? Is this freedom of speech?
The response of all those involved is predictable: it is none of our business, it is beyond our control, we cannot interfere, this is freedom of speech and freedom of creation. The response of shunning responsibility. The response of institutionalized spitting on the collective face of the absolute majority of the citizens of the State of Israel. The Rabinovich Foundation claimed that two professional bodies – the lecturers and the Advisory Professional Board - chose Sivan's film, but the decision had not yet been ratified by the Board of Directors.

Symbol of Oppression
This evil man is no stranger to those who chose him. They know exactly who he is and what the stands for. They didn't choose him despite his hatred for Israel, but rather because of his hatred for Israel. As a supporter of the boycott against Israel, Sivan wrote in his proposal: "The orange imported from Israel is boycotted just as the orange imported from apartheid South-Africa, or from Franco's fascist Spain, or from Pinochet's Chile. The orange becomes a symbol of oppression or justice."
Sivan concludes his proposal stating that by "clearing ground in the guise of security reasons, the Israeli engineering corps" implements economical agreements that stifle the Palestinians. Sivan is totally oblivious of suicide bombings and terrorist activities. And he is not satisfied with accusing Israel of war crimes. He goes up one notch: he has found the reason – capitalist Zionist greed.
Just as the Eichmann film ridiculed the prosecutor and the Holocaust survivors, the Jaffa orange makes no secret of its conclusion: a call to terminate this greedy, criminal country. Yes, this is the commissars' birthday present for our 60th year of independence as a Jewish state.
Those who chose the film read the proposal. They knew exactly whom and what they were opting for. And now they want it to happen at our expense.
This cancer is infecting not only the man himself. This cancer is at the heart of the anti-Zionist clique, representing perhaps 0.5% of the Israeli public, but holding the power and calling the shots in the Israeli cultural institutions. They have the nerve to hide behind "freedom of speech and freedom of creation" and hand out taxpayer money to sponsor the gang rape perpetrated on the Israeli public.
We are entering into the 60th year of the State of Israel without independence, sovereignty or democracy. What we have is a severe syndrome of national strength failure mixed with anti-Zionism and anti-Israel feelings laced with anti-Semitism. Unless a loud outcry is heard from the left and from the right of the political spectrum, this strength failure will become another milestone towards the demise of the State of Israel. We have to put an end to this disgrace.

It appears however that the decision has been reversed and acclaimed artist Eyal Sivan made a fool of himself during the Knesset hearing.
And the funny thing is that the first large scale growers and exporters of Jaffa oranges were the German Templers who settled in Palestine in the 19th century. And who do you think turned citrus cultivation into a form of art?
"The cultivation of the orange, introduced by the Arabs before the commencement of Jewish settlement, has developed to a very great extent in consequence of that settlement. There is no doubt that the pitch of perfection to which the technique of plantation and cultivation of the orange and grape-fruit have been brought in Palestine is due to the scientific methods of the Jewish agriculturist." (the Hope Simpson Royal Commission Report of 1930)

World Cancer

Ben-Dror Yemini
Ma'ariv, May 25, 2007


Many a newspaper editor around the world is having a hard time trying to figure out how to present the images pouring in from the Middle East. How to explain the "heavy shelling of militant strongholds". How to explain the dismal reality revealed by every picture: thousands of Palestinian refugees - yes, they are refugees once again - fleeing their refugee camp because of the bombardment. This is a very difficult task, because the same sentence, the same headline, the same news piece, must justify somehow these "hard measures" taken again the inhabitants of those refugee camps, i.e. turning homes into piles of rubble and forcing men and women to pack their belongings and run for their lives.

I have no doubt that the legions of enlightened leftist liberal editors are facing a difficult task these days. Up until a few days ago everything was neatly black and white. If there are piles of rubble as a result of shelling, and if the Palestinians are moaning and groaning, there's the habitual culprit: Israel. Only Israel, always Israel. Except a few days ago, the International Herald Tribune front page sported the usual picture of a Palestinian woman weeping inside the remains of her Palestinian home after it was destroyed by a wicked Israeli attack (much like this one). Yes, the favorite deceiving picture. Those who failed to read the small font caption, and I guess the majority of readers did fail, will never know that in fact the woman was weeping due to the reaction to a Qassam salvo. A reaction to the Israeli homes that have been reduced to piles of rubble. A reaction to the thousands of Israelis who have become refugees. Their photographs - people and homes - never make any page of the major newspapers. Only the Israeli reaction gets published. Just like the spontaneous generation, Israelis suddenly fancy destroying Palestinian homes. A peculiar kind of delight favored by a state that is gradually being perceived by most Westerners as "the greatest danger to peace on earth". Except this perception has been generated by an industry of lies, not by reality.

Except now the plot is getting thicker. The long rows of refugees seen during the past days and weeks and the scores of bodies they left behind are Palestinians alright. But they are not from Gaza. And now this is becoming really confusing. Because at long last, on prime time, money time, the Palestinians are involved in two conflicts: in Gaza and in Naher-el-Bared, a refugee camp close to Tripoli, Lebanon. In both instances, messengers of the islamist cancer are the cause of continuous suffering. In both cases those who get hurt must react. Therefore, surprise, surprise! Despite the incessant rocket salvos raining on Israel, despite thousands of Israeli refugees, our response is moderate and restrained. Very restrained, even. In Lebanon, on the other hand, where there are no Lebanese refugees, where state sovereignty is not being threatened, where there is no damage to write home about, in Lebanon the response is brutal. Civilian centers are being shelled just because a handful of terrorists have taken refuge inside. Many pay the price for the crimes of few. Houses turn to dust. Civilians become refugees.

We feel no pleasure seeing so many Palestinians suffer. But we have the right to remind everyone that this the islamist cancer at work, a cancer that cancer knows no boundaries. Let us not forget that the vast majority of victims of this islamist cancer are Muslims themselves.

And the West? The industry of lies will keep pointing its finger at Israel. Israel must be scapegoated somehow. Once it was the Jew responsible for all the evils in the world. Now the onus is on the State of Israel. Does it matter that radical islam preceded Zionism and is in no way connected to Israel? Make no mistake, anti-semites never let facts get in their way. Neither do those who want to destroy Israel.

It cannot be empahsized strongly enough: Muslims are the majority of victims caused by the islamist cancer. Most Muslims, according to every conceivable study, oppose radical islam. But they tend to understand its reasons, an even justify its actions sometimes. Just like their friends in the academia, deceiving mass media and industry of lies, both in the Arab world and in the West. Take for instance the Muslim communities across the USA - their live better than any other Muslims in the world. They have integrated, they have good incomes, yet 60% of them don't believe that Muslims were behind 9/11. And if not Muslims, then it is not hard to guess whodunit. Needless to say how these crazy opinions are born.

The industry of lies can be proud of itself, no doubt. The enlightened liberal media may not have been prepared for this result, but they are responsible for it. They are the wheels that set it in motion.

Hypocrites

By Ben-Dror Yemini
Ma'ariv, May 31, 2007

The British academics know the truth. At least they should. They know that in Chechnya, e.g., Putin's Russian army whacked Muslims in the tens, if not hundreds of thousands in order to regain control of the rebellious region. They know that there can be no comparison between the Russian army and the IDF in terms in humaneness. They also know that in Srebrenica, in the heart of Europe, more Muslims were massacred in just one week than have been killed in of 40 years of Israeli occupation. They also know that British troops who control Basra, southern Iraq, as well as US troops controlling Baghdad and other areas in Iraq, treat the locals more brutally than the IDF troops treats Arabs in Gaza and the West Bank. They know that the Syrian regime is brutally oppressing its Kurdish minority and jails each and every intellectual who dares speak out against the regime. Still the British academics never call to boycott Russia, Britain, the USA or Syria – and this is just a sample of the potential list. No, they decide to single out Israel.
Why? How is it that the Jews, - no, sorry, citizens of the Jewish collective – are once again singled out for boycott, despite the fact that they have committed no crimes against humanity, neither 78 years ago, nor now, if we take into consideration what the rest of the states on this planet do, among them Britain itself, versus Israel's actions in the territories. Why? Why are witnessing once again these repeated condemnations that are both bewildering and annoying? Why is there a different and unique standard for Israel, unless it is a racist standard, in order to ostracize us from the rest of the world?
No, it's not the morality. No-one is foolish enough to think that the Brits' morality glands are secreting overtime. Hypocrisy and morality don't mix. Boycotting Israel instead of Russia or Syria is taking British hypocrisy, not British morality, to new records. If only human rights and human lives were what the Brits were all about, then they would have invested much more effort and energy into the Darfur situation instead of Gaza and the West Bank.
It is quite unbelievable, but the answer is oil. A conflict in this part of the world threatens the oil market stability. And thus, the British lecturers foolishly believe that scapegoating Israel will appease the Islamic threat. And so they grovel at the feet of those who control world petroleum. They would never boycott women's oppression in Saudi Arabia that is much more severe than the oppression of Palestinians. They would never boycott any other miserable oil-producing Islamic dictatorships. Why, they wouldn't dare.
True, the main reason is brainwashing. The TV screen is showing the Brits, and not only them, many more images from Beit Hanoun in Gaza than from Chechnya or Darfur. What more can one say about Darfur? Muslim Arabs are massacring Muslim blacks, and I mean genocide. Hundreds of thousands are dead, while millions have become refugees. But that is perfectly alright since British academic hypocrisy does not react to anything that does not emanate from a TV screen. And TV screens show only what is easy to attack, not what needs to be attacked.
The good news is we can keep things in perspective. Two weeks ago I attended some lectures during the "Apartheid Week" that actually called for the destruction of the State of Israel. Water-well poisoners such as Itzhak Lior and Eyal Sivan, Israelis who loathe the Jews' right to a state of their own, were also there. But, lo and behold, the lecture halls were almost empty. Attending were mostly Palestinian students, a few Israel-hating Jewish activists and a marginal gathering of radicals from the sleep-walking leftist fringe.
The majority of Brits know that occupied Palestine is not the problem. The problem is Londonistan which is being conquered by Islamists who are not ashamed to declare loud and clear their intention to hoist the green banner over London. That is why the lecturers' decision in favor of boycott points to the decline and decay of their academia. I wish I could say that were the case over there, but the disease is here as well.
Read in Hebrew (http://www.nrg.co.il/online/1/ART1/589/110.html)
And for a better idea of what the British elite thinks about us, read here.

The Nakba Hoax: Aggressor Posing as Victim

Shaul Rosenfeld
May 15, 2007
Ynet Opinion

How did the Zionists, who had the gall not to put their heads through the meat grinder, turn into an "occupying entity", who forcibly expelled the original inhabitants of the land?

“This will be a war of extermination, and a momentous massacre that will be spoken of like the Mongolian massacre and Crusades” boasted Arab League Secretary General Abed-el-Rahman Azzam on the eve of the Arab armies invasion of Israel, May 14th, 1948. Except the secretary wasn't so lucky and instead of seeing the entire Zionist entity butchered and robbed of all possessions, he and his flock earned themselves Nakba day, marked by the Palestinians lamenting their misfortune on May 15th, one day after Israel's Independence Day, the same day that Azzam's false prophecy slapped them in the face.

Over the years, Azzam's rantings turned into false propaganda, fuelled by the works of several Jewish historians and fertilized by vivid oriental imagination, and finally begot the proliferating Palestinian Arab narrative. At the core of the narrative lay the atrocities committed by the Zionist forces in 1948 and ever since. Sorely missing from the narrative is their own responsibility for their fate. They forget to mention their rejection of even modest and restricted Jewish settlement of the meager areas promised either by the Balfour Declaration or by the Peel Report in 1937. They never recognized the UN-endorsed 1947 partition. So they decided to wage war in order to terrify the "foreign entity".

When their dreams and plans of annihilating the Zionists failed miserably despite repeated attempts to butcher and massacre the Jewish population, when their own deeds failed to help their wishes materialize, they found themselves even not even remotely close to their aspirations (some even found themselves far away from their homes) and came up with the role-reversal plot: the aggressor who failed to implement his program, became a pure and innocent victim overnight. He never did anybody any harm. The Zionists who had the nerve to resist the meat grinder became the "evil occupier that drove them out of their homes". According to this logic, Palestinians and Israeli Arabs rally on May 15 to denounce the "atrocities perpetrated against them and their forefathers ", and even more than that - to promote the necessity of letting the refugees back and the restoration of their rights. (Funny, though, this Nakba day isn't even ten years old, as it was first invented and marked in 1998, at Arafat's behest, said Arafat being in fact an Egyptian).

The gatherings, processions and rallies attract many a good Jew, whose tormented soul bleeds due to the inability to contain the "shame". The Nakba day is an example of how Palestinians in Israel and abroad have become experts of mending the "Zionist evil", in real life as well as in history and school books.

But "there's the rub", because the cheapest price demanded by the Nakba implies in fact the destruction of the Jewish state. Even the minutest reparation of the evil from the perspective of one side cannot but severely hurt the interests of the other side. The Palestinians demand the implementation of UN 194 resolution to solve the Palestinian problem, and this is more than Israel can afford.

And if that didn't suffice, there is many a good Jew advocating the idea that two states for two peoples would bring the long desired reconciliation and peace in the Middle East. Except Israeli Arabs do not share in this idyllic vision. Several organizations, such as Adala (Arabic for "justice") - have drawn up documents that put forward an entirely different concept for their future:

- the annulment of theJewish right of return; the return of all the refugees to their homes and immediate granting of Israeli citizenship; citizenship rights for other Arab refugees; automatic Israeli citizenship for all offspring born to a citizen within or without Israel and for anyone marrying an Israeli citizen; changing the definition of Israel from the "Jewish state" to a "multi-cultural state" (multi-crappy-culti); the annulment of all laws contradictory to the Palestinian constitution (Israel isn't mentioned even once in this spuhlendid document, Jerusalem is their capital, and all legislation is to be based on Sharia). All of the above plus the restitution of all lands "stolen" from the Palestinians since 1967 represent just the tip of the iceberg. This is what the moderate Israeli Arabs demand, starting with Azmi Bishara and his supporters including several Jews.

Few Israeli Spring of the Nations believers, and even fewer Arabs, bother to stop for a second and enlighten us ignorants, i.e. those of us who do not share their views, that these demands are not meant only as a challenge, they are meant to put an end to the State of Israel. Those people are not bothered by the implications of such a program, but those of us who are not in favor of a Jewish Nakba, should apply the old Jewish principle "honor and suspect them, but above all - reject them".

Saturday night and Sunday morning

Thirty-six-year old computer technician Oshri Oz died Sunday, May 27, 2007. His car was hit by a Qassam rocket while he was driving to work. His two-year-old daughter is now an orphan and his pregnant wife a widow.
Saturday, May 26, 2007, two Israelis, Border Police officer Issam Abu-Rish (obviously not a Jew) and a security guard (as I gathered from the TV coverage of the incident) not Jewish either (and here I have to commend once again these heroes for their valor and to acknowledge them once again as our blood brothers). Although shot in the back (please once again notice how brave the terrorists are), Issam turned around and shot his assailants.
Now for the two terrorists: 23-year-old Arabs from Jabel Mukaber, both carrying Israeli ID's (Israeli citizens). Both were shouting Allahu Akbar (Allahu Fuckbar for me). A Hizbullah-affiliated al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades cell claimed responsibility for the attack. Except that this terrorist group is also affiliated with the PLO (Abu-Mazen). Shouldn't the little Holocaust denier be condemning the attack? No, because it suits his purpose - the annihilation of the Jewish State.

The criteria for granting Israeli citizenship should be revised asap. Perhaps Israel should aslo consider stripping some hostile Arabs of theirs. No need to nurture serpents around our necks.

Pogrom in the Holy Land

There are nights when I just can't sleep. So I read, watch tv (in search of a good movie) or just wander about the net. Every now and then I strike gold. Take this account for instance. Palestine was part of the Ottoman Empire. Jews and Arabs living side by side. No love lost between them.

Alexander William Kinglake
Eothen (1898)

CHAPTER XXVI - THE PROPHET DAMOOR
For some hours I passed along the shores of the fair lake of Galilee; then turning a little to the westward, I struck into a mountainous tract, and as I advanced thenceforward, the lie of the country kept growing more and more bold. At length I drew near to the city of Safed. It sits as proud as a fortress upon the summit of a craggy height; yet because of its minarets and stately trees, the place looks happy and beautiful. It is one of the holy cities of the Talmud, and according to this authority, the Messiah will reign there for forty years before He takes possession of Sion. The sanctity and historical importance thus attributed to the city by anticipation render it a favourite place of retirement for Israelites, of whom it contains, they say, about four thousand, a number nearly balancing that of the Mahometan inhabitants. I knew by my experience of Tabarieh that a “holy city” was sure to have a population of vermin somewhat proportionate to the number of its Israelites, and I therefore caused my tent to be pitched upon a green spot of ground at a respectful distance from the walls of the town.
When it had become quite dark (for there was no moon that night) I was informed that several Jews had secretly come from the city in the hope of obtaining some assistance from me in circumstances of imminent danger; I was also informed that they claimed my aid upon the ground that some of their number were British subjects. It was arranged that the two principal men of the party should speak for the rest, and these were accordingly admitted into my tent. One of the two called himself the British vice-consul, and he had with him his consular cap, but he frankly said that he could not have dared to assume this emblem of his dignity in the daytime, and that nothing but the extreme darkness of the night rendered it safe for him to put it on upon this occasion. The other of the spokesmen was a Jew of Gibraltar, a tolerably well-bred person, who spoke English very fluently.
These men informed me that the Jews of the place, who were exceedingly wealthy, had lived peaceably in their retirement until the insurrection which took place in 1834, but about the beginning of that year a highly religious Mussulman called Mohammed Damoor went forth into the market-place, crying with a loud voice, and prophesying that on the fifteenth of the following June the true Believers would rise up in just wrath against the Jews, and despoil them of their gold and their silver and their jewels. The earnestness of the prophet produced some impression at the time, but all went on as usual, until at last the fifteenth of June arrived. When that day dawned the whole Mussulman population of the place assembled in the streets that they might see the result of the prophecy. Suddenly Mohammed Damoor rushed furious into the crowd, and the fierce shout of the prophet soon ensured the fulfilment of his prophecy. Some of the Jews fled and some remained, but they who fled and they who remained, alike, and unresistingly, left their property to the hands of the spoilers. The most odious of all outrages, that of searching the women for the base purpose of discovering such things as gold and silver concealed about their persons, was perpetrated without shame. The poor Jews were so stricken with terror, that they submitted to their fate even where resistance would have been easy. In several instances a young Mussulman boy, not more than ten or twelve years of age, walked straight into the house of a Jew and stripped him of his property before his face, and in the presence of his whole family. 43 When the insurrection was put down some of the Mussulmans (most probably those who had got no spoil wherewith they might buy immunity) were punished, but the greater part of them escaped. None of the booty was restored, and the pecuniary redress which the Pasha had undertaken to enforce for them had been hitherto so carefully delayed, that the hope of ever obtaining it had grown very faint. A new Governor had been appointed to the command of the place, with stringent orders to ascertain the real extent of the losses, and to discover the spoilers, with a view of compelling them to make restitution. It was found that, notwithstanding the urgency of the instructions which the Governor had received, he did not push on the affair with the vigour that had been expected. The Jews complained, and either by the protection of the British consul at Damascus, or by some other means, had influence enough to induce the appointment of a special commissioner - they called him “the Modeer” - whose duty it was to watch for and prevent anything like connivance on the part of the Governor, and to push on the investigation with vigour and impartiality.
Such were the instructions with which some few weeks since the Modeer came charged. The result was that the investigation had made no practical advance, and that the Modeer as well as the Governor was living upon terms of affectionate friendship with Mohammed Damoor and the rest of the principal spoilers.
Thus stood the chance of redress for the past, but the cause of the agonising excitement under which the Jews of the place now laboured was recent and justly alarming. Mohammed Damoor had again gone forth into the market-place, and lifted up his voice and prophesied a second spoliation of the Israelites. This was grave matter; the words of such a practical man as Mohammed Damoor were not to be despised. I fear I must have smiled visibly, for I was greatly amused and even, I think, gratified at the account of this second prophecy. Nevertheless, my heart warmed towards the poor oppressed Israelites, and I was flattered, too, in the point of my national vanity at the notion of the far-reaching link by which a Jew in Syria, who had been born on the rock of Gibraltar, was able to claim me as his fellow-countryman. If I hesitated at all between the “impropriety” of interfering in a matter which was no business of mine and the “infernal shame” of refusing my aid at such a conjecture, I soon came to a very ungentlemanly decision, namely, that I would be guilty of the “impropriety,” and not of the “infernal shame.” It seemed to me that the immediate arrest of Mohammed Damoor was the one thing needful to the safety of the Jews, and I felt confident (for reasons which I have already mentioned in speaking of the Nablus affair) that I should be able to obtain this result by making a formal application to the Governor. I told my applicants that I would take this step on the following morning. They were very grateful, and were, for a moment, much pleased at the prospect of safety which might thus be opened to them, but the deliberation of a minute entirely altered their views, and filled them with new terror. They declared that any attempt, or pretended attempt, on the part of the Governor to arrest Mohammed Damoor would certainly produce an immediate movement of the whole Mussulman population, and a consequent massacre and robbery of the Israelites. My visitors went out, and remained I know not how long consulting with their brethren, but all at last agreed that their present perilous and painful position was better than a certain and immediate attack, and that if Mohammed Damoor was seized, their second estate would be worse than their first. I myself did not think that this would be the case, but I could not of course force my aid upon the people against their will; and, moreover, the day fixed for the fulfilment of this second prophecy was not very close at hand. A little delay, therefore, in providing against the impending danger would not necessarily be fatal. The men now confessed that although they had come with so much mystery and, as they thought, at so great a risk to ask my assistance, they were unable to suggest any mode in which I could aid them, except indeed by mentioning their grievances to the consul-general at Damascus. This I promised to do, and this I did.
My visitors were very thankful to me for the readiness which I had shown to intermeddle in their affairs, and the grateful wives of the principal Jews sent to me many compliments, with choice wines and elaborate sweetmeats.
The course of my travels soon drew me so far from Safed, that I never heard how the dreadful day passed off which had been fixed for the accomplishment of the second prophecy. If the predicted spoliation was prevented, poor Mohammed Damoor must have been forced, I suppose, to say that he had prophesied in a metaphorical sense. This would be a sad falling off from the brilliant and substantial success of the first experiment.
43 It was after the interview which I am talking of, and not from the Jews themselves, that I learnt this fact.