Jerusalem being too quiet, what with the near-riots and all, I am going backpacking through Jordan and Egypt.
It should go something like this: North through Israel to Beit Shean, cross at the border and work my way south through Jordan to Wadi Rum, then west to Aqaba, crash back in Israel, in Eilat, then west across the Sinai to Cairo and south along the Nile to Luxor and Aswan. Then I'll work my way back, see a lot of Cairo, the Delta, and Sinai. Hoping for a nightime climb up Mount Sinai, as well...divine revelation remains a possibility.
Should all take about two-ish weeks.
All this is a long way of saying: I'll be out of touch for a while, but with good reason. There may or may not be occasional posts.
Don't miss me too much, now.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Keeping the Peace in the Holy City
The Gay Pride Parade, Part II
The parade was an anticlimax. Other than one counter-demonstrator holding signs wishing the marchers a complete recovery (presumably from their perversion) and pointing out that there was, in fact, “NO PRIDE IN SHAME!!” the religious opponents of the parade were absent. Actually, 'parade' is kind of a misnomer—it was more like a semi-directed rainbow mob. There was no organization—marchers milled around for a full half hour after the event was supposed to start. Finally, the police told them to start moving already, so they demonstrators marched haphazardly down a mile or so of King David Street, finishing finally in front of the King Solomon hotel. That was it.
It was an intensely depressing experience, for a couple of reasons. First, because the parade was super lame. Second, and more importantly, because it was so quiet.
Now, let me clarify that. Despite my desire to see burning cars, I can acknowledge that it's a good thing no one died. I may have been, as several ex-girlfriends will happily confirm, born without a heart, but I can agree that people dying is, generally, a bad thing. Even people getting rocks thrown at them is a bad thing. This said, two questions need to be asked. First: Why, exactly, did no one die? And second: What did it all prove?
Here's why it was quiet. When I was writing my first piece on this yesterday morning, right next to where the parade would finish, the street was already filled with uniformed police, their riot gear laying out on the sidewalk. When I was downtown, far from where the parade would start, at around two, far beforehand, there were dozens more. And when I say police, I don't just mean your normal blue-shirted, cop-on-the-beat variety, although they were there too. There were also heavily armed riot police, in full armor, with shields, billy clubs, and assault rifles. Some rode horses, the better to break up a riot. And riding around on motorcycles were members of Israel's SWAT equivalent, trained to roll off a motorcycle at 60 kph while firing an M4. Which sounds more like a Bad Boys movie than a workable system of law enforcement, but then I kind of suspect there are some things that the Israeli military trains its people do just, you know, because they're cool.
The point, however, is that the Jerusalem municipality took no chances. It deployed 8000 police, MPs, and border guards to lock down the downtown area. (Just to understand the resources this involved, the Israeli Army has, on active duty, something like 10,000 combat infantry). They closed off the streets with roadblocks, parked buses sideways to create choke points, screened every person who walked onto King David street for weapons. Beards, too—I saw a few haredim turned away from the entrance by the police.
You begin to see, I hope, why this is so depressing. Because there are really only two possibilities here, neither good. One, is that all of the manpower, the time, the expense—13 million NIS, or $3.25 million—was, as some Jerusalemites say, a big waste of the city and national government's scant funds. The other is that it wasn't. That the only thing that kept the parade from degenerating into an orgy of violence and blood was 8000 heavily armed cops.
I don't know which is true. I do know this: despite everything, the police arrested more than two dozen haredim who tried to “disrupt the parade,” through means ranging from throwing eggs to—in one case—attempting to smuggle in a bomb. One was arrested for trying to get in “dressed as a homosexual,” to uncertain purpose. I'm not entirely sure what this means, or what he was trying to do, but I'd kind of like to see a picture.
I would like to believe that the fact that it came off quietly was a result of enlightened progressivism on the part of the city's religious. I would like to believe that it shows that Jerusalem is not a city totally gone mad. I would like to believe the parade proved something.
At least, I would like to believe it proved something beyond this: when people in Jerusalem don't like each other, there can still be peace—as long as you have roadblocks, and soldiers, and cops. But at the end of the day, nothing was proven. Not that the city needs to learn a lesson about tolerance, not that the government can stop freaking out over the idea of a gay pride parade here.
I don't want to say that it would be better if the police hadn't been there and the parade come to its natural, bloody conclusion. I don't want to say it would have been better if it had been canceled. But after all the argument, all the demonstrations, all the money spent, the city is the same as if it had never happened. And it's not in any way clear what the hell the point was.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Precursor to a riot?
Jerusalem Gay Pride Parade, Part I:
I should start by saying that Jerusalem is not like other cities. In other cities, gay pride parades happen and no one, this no longer being the 70s, takes them seriously. They're just sort of an even, and the only people who care are the participants and the most hardcore of homophobes. In Jerusalem...well, I'm sitting on the side of King David Street, waiting for my editor to email me back, and I can count, from here, about 25 uniformed, heavily armed policeman and soldiers with riot gear. They are setting up roadblocks.
Mind, the parade doesn't start for six hours. But gay pride parades in Jerusalem have a history of causing trouble. Two years ago, a haredi, or ultra-Orthodox, man stabbed three marchers; one died. Last year, bowing to combined pressure from Orthodox Jewish, Muslim, and Christian leaders--it's good that bigotry can bring together people who agree on nothing else--the city cancelled it, citing 'safety concerns.' The 'parade' was held in the convention center. This year, though, it's back on the street.
And no one really knows what's going to happen. On Sunday, 10,000 haredim demonstrated peacefully against the parade, although, in this city, 'peacefully' includes 'burning trash cans.' Friends of mine were there, and at some point it got so out of hand that the police broke it up with firehoses. In Mea Sharim, the city's best known Hasidic/Orthodox neighborhood, people are blocking the roads and spreading trash so the marchers won't go there. On the other hand, the demonstration was supposed to bring out 100,000, and I have heard--this is purely anecdotal--that a lot of haredim are saying now that it creates more division and hurts the children more to make a big deal about the parade than it does to ignore it.
Me, I'm expecting it to be a riot.
So we'll see. Part of me hopes that peace, love, and understanding will triumph, and part of me--the part that kinda wishes it had been in Paris, circa August 2005--wants to see some rocks and burning cars. I think the latter part is stronger and, in this city, more likely.
It does all bring some interesting issues to the fore, though. In a sense, the parade is the failure of democracy, or more accurately, the defeat of a tyranny of the majority. Most people in Jerusalem--I don't have the actual statistic, but it's like 60%--oppose the parade, some violently. So I think it's a good thing that someone take a stand for individual liberties and against religious bigotry.
However--and this is a big however--it bothers me that the marchers insist on going through religious neighborhoods. True, you can't throw a stone in this city without it landing in a religious neighborhood, and true, the religious really ought to respect gays' rights to be gay--but the fact is, it isn't respectful to march through their neighborhoods. It will win no one over. And, for that matter, it isn't respectful. True, the religious don't respect gays either, but I must point out:
I should start by saying that Jerusalem is not like other cities. In other cities, gay pride parades happen and no one, this no longer being the 70s, takes them seriously. They're just sort of an even, and the only people who care are the participants and the most hardcore of homophobes. In Jerusalem...well, I'm sitting on the side of King David Street, waiting for my editor to email me back, and I can count, from here, about 25 uniformed, heavily armed policeman and soldiers with riot gear. They are setting up roadblocks.
Mind, the parade doesn't start for six hours. But gay pride parades in Jerusalem have a history of causing trouble. Two years ago, a haredi, or ultra-Orthodox, man stabbed three marchers; one died. Last year, bowing to combined pressure from Orthodox Jewish, Muslim, and Christian leaders--it's good that bigotry can bring together people who agree on nothing else--the city cancelled it, citing 'safety concerns.' The 'parade' was held in the convention center. This year, though, it's back on the street.
And no one really knows what's going to happen. On Sunday, 10,000 haredim demonstrated peacefully against the parade, although, in this city, 'peacefully' includes 'burning trash cans.' Friends of mine were there, and at some point it got so out of hand that the police broke it up with firehoses. In Mea Sharim, the city's best known Hasidic/Orthodox neighborhood, people are blocking the roads and spreading trash so the marchers won't go there. On the other hand, the demonstration was supposed to bring out 100,000, and I have heard--this is purely anecdotal--that a lot of haredim are saying now that it creates more division and hurts the children more to make a big deal about the parade than it does to ignore it.
Me, I'm expecting it to be a riot.
So we'll see. Part of me hopes that peace, love, and understanding will triumph, and part of me--the part that kinda wishes it had been in Paris, circa August 2005--wants to see some rocks and burning cars. I think the latter part is stronger and, in this city, more likely.
It does all bring some interesting issues to the fore, though. In a sense, the parade is the failure of democracy, or more accurately, the defeat of a tyranny of the majority. Most people in Jerusalem--I don't have the actual statistic, but it's like 60%--oppose the parade, some violently. So I think it's a good thing that someone take a stand for individual liberties and against religious bigotry.
However--and this is a big however--it bothers me that the marchers insist on going through religious neighborhoods. True, you can't throw a stone in this city without it landing in a religious neighborhood, and true, the religious really ought to respect gays' rights to be gay--but the fact is, it isn't respectful to march through their neighborhoods. It will win no one over. And, for that matter, it isn't respectful. True, the religious don't respect gays either, but I must point out:
- They have their lives too. They stay in their neighborhoods. Yes, they are obnoxiously homophobic but they--mostly--don't go to Tel Aviv to march against 'alternative lifestyles.' It sucks to have to respect someone's right to hate you and everything you stand for, but, folks, this is, more ore less, a democracy and, more importantly
- Practically speaking, gays in Jerusalem live in Jerusalem, which means they have to live with the Muslims and haredim. Failing a Messianic Redemption, the best that they will ever be able to hope for is a cautious live-and-let-live attitude on the part of the city's religious--something that parading through their neighborhoods will not help. Yes, that's kowtowing to their prejudices, but this may not be the best place to abandon practicality for principle.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Eilat and Petra
So it's been two weeks since I've posted, which, given what I said at the beginning, apparently means I'm dead. Which—I'm sure you've figured out by now—I don't happen to be. So sorry, Samira, you don't get my Hebrew-English Dictionary, and Nicole, same goes for the Life Application Bible and, Lisa, while I'll take your demand for my signs as your way of making sure I'm okay, the answer is still no. Save that for when I actually am dead. But take heart: given the trip I'm planning to Jordan in a couple of weeks and Egypt after that, it could still happen. Then you explain to my parents why you're ruthlessly looting my still-cooling corpse, and maybe you'll get something.
So here's what I've been up to while, you know, not dying: I've been busting my ass for the Jerusalem Post, which lures you into a false sense of security with its relaxed hours (I go in at 11 on an early day) and atmosphere, then sucks the life out of you. It's been good, though. I've published three stories so far (here, here, and here, if you are interested), the editors are happy with me—which directly translates into 'Give me more work'—and I have, so far, managed to avoid spending a single minute working in the archive room. All good things. Then weekends usually find me at the beach in Tel Aviv, which I vastly prefer to actually practicing my religion, although I do that too.
So you see, gentle people, why I have not been updating you on the vagaries of my Israeli life. However, I realize that this blog is, for many of you, the only sign that I am still among the living, and that my stuff is still not—I say this most emphatically—up for grabs. So here goes:
I spent most of last week slaving for the Post, then took off Wednesday night and headed down south with some friends to Eilat, which--for those not in the know--is a resort town on the Red Sea, known mostly for beaches, diving, and the Exodus. Because my friends are, ah, Jewish, they decided to take the midnight bus to Eilat and spend the night, or more accurately morning, on the beach. So we took a five hour ride through the desert, then watched the sun rise over Jordan, less because we wanted to than because we really had no place else to go. We slept for a few hours on the beach, went swimming--the usual, except really crazy tired.
Really, the only thing less interesting than actually being on a beach is writing about being on a beach, and I imagine reading about it is even worse. So I won't subject you to that. Suffice to say, we got a hostel, established that we would be going to visit Petra, in southwest Jordan, at seven the next morning, then proceeded to make a series of bad decisions.
Seeing as how my parents, as well as possible employers, may someday read this, I will not subject you to what those were. But it may or may not have involved some Israeli soldier girls, a bunch of Argentines, some Palestinians teenagers and several bottles of very cheap vodka. Use your imagination.
But the end result was that we didn't get up at seven--nine found us groggily moving in the direction of the border, where we found the Israeli guards to be surprisingly incompetent. As we were paying our exit visa, one guard's desk calculator ran out of paper, so we had to wait for--I wish, oh I wish I were making this up--half an hour while she figured out how to replace it. But, eventually, we made it across into Jordan, into the beneficent gaze of King Abdullah, who, I might add, was everywhere.
Jordan was my first chance to be in an authoritarian state, and I have to say, I was impressed by the ubiquity of the royal family. I mean, windshields, restaurants, really creepy big two-sided portraits--everywhere. Another difference: the Israeli side was run by twenty-year old women, presumably army conscripts. The Jordanian side was populated swarthy soldiers with mustaches and large cups of tea. There were no women in sight.
Anyhow, we got a cab from the crossing to Aqaba, then from Aqaba into Petra. The cabbie ripped us off, but, luckily, getting ripped off in Jordan is kind of like being charged normal prices in America. So we rode off through the Jordanian desert, when E, who was a little sick from the previous night's festivities, decided we needed to stop. So we told our cab driver, Mahmud, to pull into the nearest market, which happened to be a one room concrete shack filled with the best American imported candy and soft drinks (Arabic Coke, anyone?), where the Bedouin owner pushed Turkish coffee on us, insisted it was free, and then charged us for it.
(Side note: one obnoxious thing about the Middle East in general is that even when people rip you off, things are still inexpensive. For example, three cups of good coffee cost two dollars. Now, this is partially a good thing, but it really makes it hard to argue with the person ripping you off. Because I mean, the Bedouin will do more with those two dollars than I will. They need it more than I do. So I can be an asshole to get money I don't need, or I can be taken advantage of. Usually, I try to strike a balance, but it's a problem.)
Other than his insistence on making pit stops at establishments run by his friends, though, Mahmud seemed like a pretty nice guy. He didn't speak much English, but still tried to tell us everything we were passing, which was all right, because the names weren't English either. Then we got to Petra.
It seems like a cop-out to say this, but Petra was indescribably awesome. Not literally--I could describe it, and I may another time--but indescribable as in it will save us both time if you just look at the pictures, and then I'll write something to supplement that. You can do so here.
So that's all for the moment. My friend's birthday is tonight, so I'm heading home to put on real clothes (JPost is very, very lax on dress code...I do not choose to elaborate on that statement).
From Jerusalem, Saul Elbein.
So here's what I've been up to while, you know, not dying: I've been busting my ass for the Jerusalem Post, which lures you into a false sense of security with its relaxed hours (I go in at 11 on an early day) and atmosphere, then sucks the life out of you. It's been good, though. I've published three stories so far (here, here, and here, if you are interested), the editors are happy with me—which directly translates into 'Give me more work'—and I have, so far, managed to avoid spending a single minute working in the archive room. All good things. Then weekends usually find me at the beach in Tel Aviv, which I vastly prefer to actually practicing my religion, although I do that too.
So you see, gentle people, why I have not been updating you on the vagaries of my Israeli life. However, I realize that this blog is, for many of you, the only sign that I am still among the living, and that my stuff is still not—I say this most emphatically—up for grabs. So here goes:
I spent most of last week slaving for the Post, then took off Wednesday night and headed down south with some friends to Eilat, which--for those not in the know--is a resort town on the Red Sea, known mostly for beaches, diving, and the Exodus. Because my friends are, ah, Jewish, they decided to take the midnight bus to Eilat and spend the night, or more accurately morning, on the beach. So we took a five hour ride through the desert, then watched the sun rise over Jordan, less because we wanted to than because we really had no place else to go. We slept for a few hours on the beach, went swimming--the usual, except really crazy tired.
Really, the only thing less interesting than actually being on a beach is writing about being on a beach, and I imagine reading about it is even worse. So I won't subject you to that. Suffice to say, we got a hostel, established that we would be going to visit Petra, in southwest Jordan, at seven the next morning, then proceeded to make a series of bad decisions.
Seeing as how my parents, as well as possible employers, may someday read this, I will not subject you to what those were. But it may or may not have involved some Israeli soldier girls, a bunch of Argentines, some Palestinians teenagers and several bottles of very cheap vodka. Use your imagination.
But the end result was that we didn't get up at seven--nine found us groggily moving in the direction of the border, where we found the Israeli guards to be surprisingly incompetent. As we were paying our exit visa, one guard's desk calculator ran out of paper, so we had to wait for--I wish, oh I wish I were making this up--half an hour while she figured out how to replace it. But, eventually, we made it across into Jordan, into the beneficent gaze of King Abdullah, who, I might add, was everywhere.
Jordan was my first chance to be in an authoritarian state, and I have to say, I was impressed by the ubiquity of the royal family. I mean, windshields, restaurants, really creepy big two-sided portraits--everywhere. Another difference: the Israeli side was run by twenty-year old women, presumably army conscripts. The Jordanian side was populated swarthy soldiers with mustaches and large cups of tea. There were no women in sight.
Anyhow, we got a cab from the crossing to Aqaba, then from Aqaba into Petra. The cabbie ripped us off, but, luckily, getting ripped off in Jordan is kind of like being charged normal prices in America. So we rode off through the Jordanian desert, when E, who was a little sick from the previous night's festivities, decided we needed to stop. So we told our cab driver, Mahmud, to pull into the nearest market, which happened to be a one room concrete shack filled with the best American imported candy and soft drinks (Arabic Coke, anyone?), where the Bedouin owner pushed Turkish coffee on us, insisted it was free, and then charged us for it.
(Side note: one obnoxious thing about the Middle East in general is that even when people rip you off, things are still inexpensive. For example, three cups of good coffee cost two dollars. Now, this is partially a good thing, but it really makes it hard to argue with the person ripping you off. Because I mean, the Bedouin will do more with those two dollars than I will. They need it more than I do. So I can be an asshole to get money I don't need, or I can be taken advantage of. Usually, I try to strike a balance, but it's a problem.)
Other than his insistence on making pit stops at establishments run by his friends, though, Mahmud seemed like a pretty nice guy. He didn't speak much English, but still tried to tell us everything we were passing, which was all right, because the names weren't English either. Then we got to Petra.
It seems like a cop-out to say this, but Petra was indescribably awesome. Not literally--I could describe it, and I may another time--but indescribable as in it will save us both time if you just look at the pictures, and then I'll write something to supplement that. You can do so here.
So that's all for the moment. My friend's birthday is tonight, so I'm heading home to put on real clothes (JPost is very, very lax on dress code...I do not choose to elaborate on that statement).
From Jerusalem, Saul Elbein.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Way I Live Now
It is kind of a sobering thought that Israel puts new immigrants in better housing than UT puts college students. Not much better, granted--Beit Canada is about equivalent to the University Towers, with fewer Jews--but better. On the one hand, my room has a small kitchen (with a sink!), as well as its own bathroom; on the other, it doesn't have air conditioning. On yet another hand (this is the third hand, which I'm borrowing from another table), I'm not sure Blanton did either, and at least Jerusalem cools off at night.
Actually, though, BC reminds me of nothing more than a college dorm, minus a college, plus several families with children, and with stray cats running around. Like Blanton, there are lots of rules for interns--no alcohol in rooms, you can't leave for more than a few days, no non-BC people allowed past 10 without special permission, no loud noise past 10--which, if violated, will lead to your expulsion from the Center. Also like Blanton, these rules are uniformly ignored. Also--I'm not sure how this fits in, but it does--the Frenchies on the floor below me routinely throw trance parites at 4 am.
Oh, the Frenchies. Don't let the name fool you: they are a distinct group from 'the French.' That is, all Frenchies are French immigrants, but not vice versa. There are three main groups in Beit Canada: the Frenchies, mostly part of an aliya group and mostly from Paris; the Latin Americans, who come from all over; and everyone else, which mostly means English speakers but also includes Germans and any French people who are sufficiently cool to have avoided the label of 'Frenchy.' In a center of a few hundred, there are about five. Otherwise, the French are not well liked.
(The Parisian French, I have determined, are much like Latin Americans in that they will party vigorously and heartily at odd hours, and that, if asked to shut up because it's four in the morning, will not. However, unlike Latins, they will not then invite you into the party and offer you a beer, unless of course you, too, are Parisian French. Non-Parisian French, by contrast, seem to be lovely people.)
The center is pretty empty now, though--olim (new immigrants) can only stay for a year, so most are moving out to more permanent housing or going back home. Soon, though, all of the summer interns will show up and the place will be full of college kids from all over the world. For the moment, I have a two bedroom apartment to myself, which is very nice, but in a week I get a roommate and a week after that another. Both are American, which does not thrill me, but neither is Parisian, which does.
Unrelatedly--or semi-relatedly--I awoke yesterday morning to what sounded like automatic weapons fire coming from East Jerusalem. This did not immediately alarm me, because there had been fireworks the night before for the end of the Israel Festival. However, at this moment it was 7:30 am, so I assumed it was not fireworks. Which meant that either:
Actually, though, BC reminds me of nothing more than a college dorm, minus a college, plus several families with children, and with stray cats running around. Like Blanton, there are lots of rules for interns--no alcohol in rooms, you can't leave for more than a few days, no non-BC people allowed past 10 without special permission, no loud noise past 10--which, if violated, will lead to your expulsion from the Center. Also like Blanton, these rules are uniformly ignored. Also--I'm not sure how this fits in, but it does--the Frenchies on the floor below me routinely throw trance parites at 4 am.
Oh, the Frenchies. Don't let the name fool you: they are a distinct group from 'the French.' That is, all Frenchies are French immigrants, but not vice versa. There are three main groups in Beit Canada: the Frenchies, mostly part of an aliya group and mostly from Paris; the Latin Americans, who come from all over; and everyone else, which mostly means English speakers but also includes Germans and any French people who are sufficiently cool to have avoided the label of 'Frenchy.' In a center of a few hundred, there are about five. Otherwise, the French are not well liked.
(The Parisian French, I have determined, are much like Latin Americans in that they will party vigorously and heartily at odd hours, and that, if asked to shut up because it's four in the morning, will not. However, unlike Latins, they will not then invite you into the party and offer you a beer, unless of course you, too, are Parisian French. Non-Parisian French, by contrast, seem to be lovely people.)
The center is pretty empty now, though--olim (new immigrants) can only stay for a year, so most are moving out to more permanent housing or going back home. Soon, though, all of the summer interns will show up and the place will be full of college kids from all over the world. For the moment, I have a two bedroom apartment to myself, which is very nice, but in a week I get a roommate and a week after that another. Both are American, which does not thrill me, but neither is Parisian, which does.
Unrelatedly--or semi-relatedly--I awoke yesterday morning to what sounded like automatic weapons fire coming from East Jerusalem. This did not immediately alarm me, because there had been fireworks the night before for the end of the Israel Festival. However, at this moment it was 7:30 am, so I assumed it was not fireworks. Which meant that either:
- the Frenchies were at it again with a surprisingly powerful and staccato bass, or
- the Syrians were invading.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
The Most Dangerous Movie in the Middle East
The greatest threat to the fragile peace between Israel and Syria is not the latter's support for Hezbollah. It is not Syrian meddling in Lebanon, nor even—directly—Israeli control of the Golan Heights. No, the one thing most likely to cause another Syrian invasion is a tourist video at the Qesem HaGolan (Magic of the Golan) information center in Qazrin, largest city in the Heights.
Mind, this is not just any video. Most tourist videos are dull, shoddy affairs, with bored- sounding narrators regaling the viewer with all the things they can do in the area, seeing has how they have already bothered to leave their hotels. Not so the 'Magic of the Golan,' which is was not so much a video as a particularly intense acid trip. By the end, I was not only ready to visit the Golan. I was ready to spend my life sitting on Mount Hermon communing with nature, along with all the other happy people who seemed to be living there.
It is difficult to describe the video in words, for it had only a few. The audience was bidden to 'See,' 'Hear,' 'Feel,' and 'Smell' the Golan, but that was all. There was no plot, no narrator, no description of sites. Instead, we saw a sequence of short scenes, shot in the hightest of high definition, of the Golan in spring. A few images stick in my mind like remnants from a beautiful dream. Tanned, fit Israelis practicing Tai Chi before soaring windmills. Tall green grass bending under a spring breeze. Snowmelt pouring down the slopes Mount Harmon. Rain pouring over flowered hillsides, combined with mist falling from the ceiling. Dew beading on rich purple grapes. Water cascading down Nahal Devorah. All of this to soaring, majestic music. I left wondering what cruel twist of fate had conspired to keep me from the Golan, and how I could manage to stay. I wanted to sink down and become one with the earth, drink Golani wine, ride the wild herds of horses down to the Jordan.
Mind, this was last week. It was almost summer. The Golan was still beautiful, but it was also hot and dry and infested with flies. It bore more resemblance to the Hill Country than Eden. And for that matter, I have never seen a horse running wild over the heights, and I know for a fact that, if Israeli wine doesn't exactly suck, it's also not too great. But no matter. I was a man bewitched.
If there is another war with Syria, here is how it will start: Bashir Assad will come to Israel for some reason, perhaps for peace talks, perhaps to get a decent bagel. On his way home, he will stop in Qazrin, and on a whim, he will visit Qesem HaGolan. As he watches the video, he will tense up. His eyes will fill with tears as he realizes what Syria has lost. The bagel will turn to ashes in his mouth. All of a sudden, the three-quarters of the Golan that Syria already owns will mean nothing to him. He will have seen the magic of the Golan, and he will want it back. Assad will storm out, his fists clenched, and an hour later the Syrian army will surge again toward Qazrin. Because they too will want to See, and Hear, and Feel.
So I beg you, Israeli Ministry of Tourism, turn back from this path of folly. Fire whatever ad agency designed the Magic of the Golan. They are clearly brilliant, but brilliance like that is something Israel does not need. Remove the video and destroy all copies. Then find a bad narrator, preferably with a stuffy British accent, and give him a grainy, budget camera and inexperienced crew. Send them to the Golan in winter, when things are safely dead, or summer, when they are covered in flies. Replace the video in Qazrin at once. Then, perhaps, if it is not too late, war can be averted.
Mind, this is not just any video. Most tourist videos are dull, shoddy affairs, with bored- sounding narrators regaling the viewer with all the things they can do in the area, seeing has how they have already bothered to leave their hotels. Not so the 'Magic of the Golan,' which is was not so much a video as a particularly intense acid trip. By the end, I was not only ready to visit the Golan. I was ready to spend my life sitting on Mount Hermon communing with nature, along with all the other happy people who seemed to be living there.
It is difficult to describe the video in words, for it had only a few. The audience was bidden to 'See,' 'Hear,' 'Feel,' and 'Smell' the Golan, but that was all. There was no plot, no narrator, no description of sites. Instead, we saw a sequence of short scenes, shot in the hightest of high definition, of the Golan in spring. A few images stick in my mind like remnants from a beautiful dream. Tanned, fit Israelis practicing Tai Chi before soaring windmills. Tall green grass bending under a spring breeze. Snowmelt pouring down the slopes Mount Harmon. Rain pouring over flowered hillsides, combined with mist falling from the ceiling. Dew beading on rich purple grapes. Water cascading down Nahal Devorah. All of this to soaring, majestic music. I left wondering what cruel twist of fate had conspired to keep me from the Golan, and how I could manage to stay. I wanted to sink down and become one with the earth, drink Golani wine, ride the wild herds of horses down to the Jordan.
Mind, this was last week. It was almost summer. The Golan was still beautiful, but it was also hot and dry and infested with flies. It bore more resemblance to the Hill Country than Eden. And for that matter, I have never seen a horse running wild over the heights, and I know for a fact that, if Israeli wine doesn't exactly suck, it's also not too great. But no matter. I was a man bewitched.
If there is another war with Syria, here is how it will start: Bashir Assad will come to Israel for some reason, perhaps for peace talks, perhaps to get a decent bagel. On his way home, he will stop in Qazrin, and on a whim, he will visit Qesem HaGolan. As he watches the video, he will tense up. His eyes will fill with tears as he realizes what Syria has lost. The bagel will turn to ashes in his mouth. All of a sudden, the three-quarters of the Golan that Syria already owns will mean nothing to him. He will have seen the magic of the Golan, and he will want it back. Assad will storm out, his fists clenched, and an hour later the Syrian army will surge again toward Qazrin. Because they too will want to See, and Hear, and Feel.
So I beg you, Israeli Ministry of Tourism, turn back from this path of folly. Fire whatever ad agency designed the Magic of the Golan. They are clearly brilliant, but brilliance like that is something Israel does not need. Remove the video and destroy all copies. Then find a bad narrator, preferably with a stuffy British accent, and give him a grainy, budget camera and inexperienced crew. Send them to the Golan in winter, when things are safely dead, or summer, when they are covered in flies. Replace the video in Qazrin at once. Then, perhaps, if it is not too late, war can be averted.
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