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THINK-ISRAEL

MOSHE AMONG THE MORTARS

by Moshe Saperstein

17 November 2003. Today Rachel brought home a photographer doing a story on how we in Gush Katif cope with tension.

Actually she was described as a photo-journalist in a long e-mail we got prior to her arrival, and the winner of several prizes for her documentary on retarded Romanian mountain gorillas with AIDS who contracted tuberculosis in Russian jails.

The e-mail, which in all fairness I must say she didn't even know about, described her as "soulful" and "caring". These two words give me hives, and I was pre-disposed to be nasty when she arrived. But, though a bit on the scrawny side for my taste, she is pretty and clearly a nice person. So I more or less behaved myself. Still, though she seems genuinely sympathetic, she is not a tribe member and I couldn't help feeling that is basically clueless about us and why we're here.

Keep an eye out for her articles. She is on assignment for both PROCTOLOGY TODAY and LIPOSUCTION WEEKLY.

18.11 11pm. Two mortars fell minutes ago just as La P was complaining that it has been unusually quiet. Pretty close to us by the sound of them. And the loudspeaker is telling everybody to stay indoors.

Last night about this time a passel of mortars hit us and, after a pause, we got the all clear. Following which several loud thuds could be heard.

"Mortars again?" Rachel said, using that menacing tone meaning she is really annoyed and will pace up and back for hours muttering just loud enough to keep me awake. "Bags of cement" I said in a desperate attempt to distract her. "Bags of cement. The neighbors. Next door."

[The young Yemenite couple next door, new parents of twins, are - of necessity or by inclination - do-it-yourselfers. With their lawn as a workshop. All of last week he sawed and hammered and glued and shellacked.

Bookcases. This week's project - I haven't figured out yet if it's a carport, bird bath, bomb shelter or mikve - is much grander, requiring lots of cement and his father-in- law's assistance. They love working at night.]

19.11 1am. More explosions. Fortunately Rachel slept through it. I'm wondering if this isn't just Jewish paranoia, imagining we are under attack. Perhaps the explosions are just good, old fashioned Ramadan exuberance on the part of our neighbors.

The Jerusalem Post will apparently not print my letter about using enriched uranium to strengthen Jewish-Arab understanding. Just as well. Had they printed it I would likely end up with either cardiac arrest or house arrest.

If the Post has ignored me, an astonishing number of you haven't. The response to this short letter-to-the-editor was many times greater than the response to my usual massive missives. Perhaps the brevity kept you from falling into your accustomed stupor.

Before I tackle specific points raised I must express my disappointment that so many of you thought I was being facetious. Now,

A] Let me assure you that I am not now, nor have I ever, nor do I plan to, work on a Classics Illustrated Comics version of PROTOCOLS OF THE ELDERS OF ZION.

B] Let me assure you that I am not now, nor have I ever, nor do I plan to, send aphrodisiac-laced chewing gum to Egyptian nymphets. Considering that Egypt has the worlds highest birthrate, it would be `coals to Newcastle.'

C] Let me assure you that I am not now, nor have I ever, nor do I plan to, use Palestinian blood in baking Passover matzos. Clinical tests have proven that Palestinian blood has neither taste nor nutritional value. We import ours from the Far East.

later. Much to my surprise I just met the photo-journalist in town. Most of these people skedaddle out of here before dark but she is staying several days. Very impressive. Tomorrow morning she's having breakfast with Rachel then taking pictures at the Ulpana.

This next comes under the heading of the Saperstein family motto: NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED.

A few days ago Rachel and I were sitting on the living room couch immersed in a book (Rachel) and a tv movie guide (moi) when we heard something hit the window. We saw nothing. Clearly not a bullet. A stone? I stepped out on to the patio to see a small bird, black, ugly, lying stunned on the ground. Clearly its internal radar had failed and it had smashed into the window. As I stood there in my usual state of indecision I noticed our cats crouching in a semicircle. Stupidly I intervened in the natural order and called our neighbor, Phyllis, to rescue the bird. Which she did, taking the creature home. Where the feathered shitter soon recovered and is now flying around her house and leaving little `thank you' deposits in appreciation.

20.11. It is just after 2am. There was a loud noise but I'm not certain if it was a mortar or my alarm clock going off. At 3:15 I leave for Jerusalem, first to meet my brother before he leaves for shul at 5:40. My brother has some new wonder medication for me which I will not identify unless and until it works. Before 6, when he leaves for shul, I have to meet my old buddy Steve who returned from the States seven hours ago bearing cigars for me.

If this seems idiotic to you, I couldn't agree with you more. But it is the sort of idiocy I revel in. Empty highway, blinding cigar smoke, earwax-melting-volume music - a little bit of heaven on earth.

3pm The trip was wonderful. Thick fog, intermittent drizzle and, though there were few cars, huge trucks looming out of the mist. Though I wasn't driving slowly the trucks were passing me as if I were standing still.

I was at my brother's apartment in the Har Nof section at 4:45, fully a half hour sooner than planned. I didn't want to wake them so sat down on the hallway steps. The hallway light has to be pressed every forty-five seconds so I was like a yo-yo for a few minutes until I gave up and enjoyed a short snooze in the dark, being awakened by my brother as he left for shul. The feeling was dawning on me that my carefully-timed plans were not going to work out.

From my brother I headed to Steve in Bayit Vegan. He told me he would be in shul at 6, and I hoped to grab my cigars and escape before he left the house. I love Steve and there are few left with whom I enjoy schmoozing so much but all I could focus on was getting back to the safety of Neve Dekalim and home as quickly aspossible.

Unfortunately I didn't get to Steve until shortly after 6. The house was dark and I didn't want to wake his wife. My next appointment was downtown at 8:30 so I decided to await his return from shul.

Steve's apartment is in a cul de sac and the forecourt of his building has a wonderful view of southern Jerusalem, Kiryat Yovel and Gilo, with Bethlehem in the distance. I paced back and forth expelling clouds of smoke while reveling in the ground fog lifting before my eyes. Occasionally a resident of the apartment building would exit and give me the evil eye, but I ignored them. I was oblivious to how much time passed, and how many cigars were incinerated to destroy the ozone layer. Until a policeman approached. He looked as uncomfortable as I looked surprised.

"Do you live here?" he asked. I shook my head. "We received a report of a suspicious person loitering. What are you doing here?"

I was both flabbergasted and embarrassed. I am well aware that I make a most unappetizing figure, but even in my salad days when I was fully limbed and fingered, nobody would have suspected me of being a cat burglar, mugger or purse snatcher.

I started to explain. If my explanation sounded idiotic to me, I can well imagine how it sounded to him. When I got to the part of Steve returning from shul at 7 he informed it was already 7:15. I took out my cellphone. Steve's wife answered. I had awakened her. Steve was still fast asleep. I mumbled apologies and said I would return later. The policeman walked me to my car and watched as I drove off.

[A curiosity: Bayit Vegan is an ultra-orthodox neighborhood and the sidewalks and mailboxes were plastered with flyers for a restaurant, Mi-Tzu-Yan, offering a special: `Friday night 10pm to Saturday 2am. All you can eat. 40 shekels.' Was this a mistake by the kid distributing the flyers, or was it done to raise the residents blood pressure?]

Next stop, my bank in the center of town. Oshri, Tamar's husband, has to spend two weeks at Oxford and another library in England in February to complete his doctorate. We haven't been able to shnorr accommodations for him and everything is grotesquely expensive, so I'm taking out a small loan to help with his expenses. The girl I was seeing about the loan is a sweetheart, but she was out sick and having to deal with some kid I don't know put my nose out of joint. [yes, I could have waited, but I don't make the trip on a regular basis.] He was nice enough, and intelligent, but my bad mood boiled over when he asked the purpose of the loan.

"If I asked for the loan because my children were hungry, God forbid, and I had no income or prospect of paying it back you wouldn't give it to me. I'm getting it because I'm an old customer with a steady income. And most important, the bank makes a good profit. So don't bother me?"

He stared. Then, "Doesn't the Defense Ministry cover that?" He kept a straight face. He should go far.

"The Defense Ministry only pays if you have a brain to exchange. Because I'm brainless, according to them, there's nothing to exchange and they won't pay. So I need the loan."

That was that, and my good humor restored I returned to Steve and schmoozed and collected my cigars and drove home. And here I am.

21.11. Three busloads of Gush Katif residents, in addition to numerous people using their cars, took off for Shabbat in Hebron. This is the Torah portion CHAYE SARAH describing Abraham's purchase of the Machpelah Cave in Hebron and the place will be packed. Some of you may remember that we generally go. Unfortunately we are both wiped out and hoping for a quiet Shabbat at home.

Another miracle. Mortars fell last night, one exploding right next to a pre-fab. Two guys were sitting at a table inside, one reading a book, the other drinking a mug of coffee. All the windows were blown out, the walls riddled with holes, the book's binding blown apart, the mug shattered and the drinker left holding the handle. And neither of the guys sustained any injury, not as much as a scratch. Creepy in the extreme.

The peace partners did achieve something. Some guy going abroad had hauled his sailboat onto his lawn for safekeeping. The hull sustained a large hole.

Sunday morning we are off to the Terminally Ill Sea for five days of fishing for salted herrings. So you can enjoy at least a week without being harassed by me.

Moshe Saperstein lost an arm while fighting in the 1973 Yom Kippur War. A resident of Neve Dekalim in the Gush Katif area of the Gaza Strip, Moshe was wounded in a February 2002 incident when he drove his car into a terrorist who had just shot and killed a young mother traveling in the car in front of him.

He writes frequently of his physical and emotional struggles. His wife, Rachel (aka. La Passionara, La P.) published a booklet last year for families dealing with terror victims.