Writer Etc.

#WhyIDidntReport

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 23 Sep 2018 03:04:00 +0000

President Trump comments yesterday, and the now well-publicized CNN interview with some Republican women who prematurely reject Professor Christine Blasey Ford’s accusation against Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh because she had not reported his alleged sexual assault of her, boils my blood.

Have you, your daughter, sister, mother, friend, ever been sexually abused or raped?” Surely, have you or anyone close to you suffered such brutality you would know why most survivors had been reluctant to report such violent attacks, especially before the anti sexual harassment movement #MeToo arose in 2017, with the publicity of Harvey Weinstein’s and other celebrities’ sexual offenses (the phrase Me Too was coined in 2006 by Tarana Burke as part of her drive to empower women of color who have experienced sexual abuse).

When a man who had been as close to me as a brother raped me, I was eleven years older than Christine Margaret Blasey was when she was apparently sexually assaulted.

Physically sickened by the experience I isolated myself for two weeks in my tiny New York City apartment. Like Professor Ford and other women who had suffered similar experiences I felt dirty and shamed. Like many of them I told only a handful of people, the ones closest to me, what had happened. Like them I did not report the crime because I was certain that I would be blamed; that I would not be believed; that I would be raped once again and go through hell in a court room; that I would break my parents’ hearts; and that the rapist, who had a powerful position in the Israeli military, would smear my name or even threaten my life.

It took me twenty-six years to begin to investigate whether I could still press charges against my rapist. I soon learned that by that time he was terminally ill. He died shortly after. It took me much longer to be able to talk about my rape publically, which I normally do in my capacity as a lecturer, a public speaker, and a memoirist.

I know why Professor Ford has not reported her alleged sexual assault thirty-six years ago when she was fifteen, and so should you.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 04 Jul 2018 22:34:00 +0000

July 4^th signifies for me both sadness and renewal. It was on this day 42 years ago in Israel - on American bicentennial - that my father passed away. After seventeen years of suffering a serious heart disease he succumbed to excitement when he saw on TV the bold Israeli rescue operation in Entebbe, Uganda. I was in Washington DC that day, unbeknownst to my family in Israel, and therefore unreachable. When my sister finally reached me the next evening, it was too late for me to fly to his funeral: The Israeli orthodox burial society, which is controlled by the Israeli Rabbinate that is in turn controlled by the Religious Ministry, refused to wait for me because I was a daughter not a son. Had I been a son, expected under Jewish orthodox law to recite the Kadish prayer for the dead - a right that is denied under Jewish orthodoxy to women – they would have delayed my father’s funeral until my arrival. Heartbroken and outrageous, I mourned with my American husband and young daughter in New York.

Seven years earlier I was an activist in Israel, demanding rights for certain Israeli war widows, of which I was one. When in 1969 the Israeli government offered me a two-year position in New York, wanting most likely to send me away before I activate my threat to take my case to the Israeli High Court of Justice (equivalent to the American Supreme Court), I hesitated. “Go, it can be the chance of your life,” my father encouraged me, though it was hard for him to part from me. He was the only one in my family to persuade me, and I took his advice.

I have done well in America. I remarried an American man with whom I had hoped to return to Israel, but that did not work out. I gave birth to a lovely daughter, earned a PhD in Political Science, became a college lecturer, a neutralized citizen, a Fulbright scholar, a writer, a grandmother and a memoirist. My father’s foresight was prescient.

The America I arrived in was not a unified country. Division over the Viet Nam war enhanced political partisanship, and anti-war demonstrations were met by state-sponsored violence, like the shocking Kent State killings. Richard Nixon, who was at the onset of his presidency when I arrived, had to resign five years later over his scandalous abuse of power. But the bi-partisanship in America was not the polarization America is experiencing under the Trump administration. And though Nixon acted criminally, taking advantage of American values and politics, he certainly understood them:

Unlike President Trump, who shuns non-Norwegian migrants, cages and separates families of illegal immigrants who seek a better life in America, in 1971 Nixon submitted legislation to the 92^nd congress that is diametrically different. He proposed to “improve our immigration laws and to enlarge upon our national tradition as an open nation and an open society, which would, among other reforms, provide:
--A higher percentage of immigrant visas for professionals, needed workers and refugees.
--Additional visas for the Western hemisphere, with special provisions for our nearest neighbors, Mexico and Canada.”

Unlike President Trump, who has no well-defined foreign policy and lacks strategic skills, Nixon understood foreign policy, and was a brilliant strategist. He would not have given Jerusalem to the Israelis without using that gift as a strategic asset to promote peace in the Middle East. Like other US presidents succeeding him, he would not have met the North Korean leader without receiving something in return, and undoubtedly would not have canceled military exercises with South Korea, tarnishing American credibility.

No American president would have planned to meet his Russian counterpart, the master manipulator Vladimir Putin with out preparatory negotiations. And no US president would plan to meet Putin alone. Likewise, no US president would offend his country’s NATO allies, partners to US global strategy since the end of WWII.

And I have yet to address the genuine threat to women’s reproduction rights under the current reactionary administration.

Surely some readers would say: “if she doesn’t like it here, let her go back to where she came from.” But America is my country and I value its principles and ethics. I wish my grandchildren and their generation will be living in the America I had known.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!

THE SILENCE AT THE MILITARY CEMETARY

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 01 Jul 2018 18:56:00 +0000

My blog with the above title was published last Sunday in the Times of Israel. To read please go to

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-silence-at-the-military-cemetary/

WHY I DIDN’T TALK ABOUT MY RAPE FOR THREE DECADES

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 24 Dec 2017 22:57:00 +0000

As a rape survivor decades ago — and as a lecturer in Political Science, who concentrates on global affairs — to me the most remarkable development of 2017, is not the ascendance of Vladimir Putin to the most powerful men in the world, the North Korean or Syrian debacles, or Donald Trump’s alarming isolationist doctrine. Surely, these are important issues, which I do not minimize. But no development this year impressed me as mush as the expansion of the #MeToo movement and its success: No longer will powerful men in any industry will use their authority to sexually abuse their subordinates without thinking about the consequences of their deeds.

And yet, in spite of the movement’s accomplishments people will continue to ask, as they have been doing from Anita Hill to the #MeToo accusers: why has a victim of rape or another act of sexual misconduct waited for years or decades to tell her or his story? By posing this question they are deliberately raising doubt about the accuracy of the accusation or the character of the accuser. Worse yet, in many cases the victim is afraid to be blamed for her or his own rape. This is why they may still hesitate to come forward. I know that from my own experience:

Aaron, a high-ranking military man, had been my fallen husband’s best friend. He and his wife, Rachel, became my trusted friends too, and I saw in our closeness the stuff that makes everlasting friendships. After my husband was killed in the Arab-Israeli Six Day war, short of my sister and her husband, Aaron and Rachel were the couple closest to me.

Nearly two-and-a-half years into my widowhood I was living in New York City, working for the Israeli government. Just then, invigorated with my determination to rebuild my life, I was numbed by another blow.

Aaron arrived in New York, part of a group that accompanied then Israel’s Defense Minister Moshe Dayan. Assigned to be Aaron’s interpreter on a trip to upstate New York, arranged for him by a well-known Jewish organization, I found it natural to accept Aaron’s suggestion that I sleep in a spare room in his spacious suite at the Carlyle Hotel. The following morning we were to be picked up early, and doing so would save time.

After spending part of the evening in an official outing with the group I arrived alone at the hotel and went to sleep in one of the bedrooms. But at two in the morning I was awakened by Aaron’s banging on the suite’s door. He was supposed to have his own key. When I opened the door after changing back into my day cloths, Aaron was angered by the long time it took me to open the door. Had that happened years later, with my acquired experience I would have left the hotel right then. Better yet, I would have never agreed to sleep there. But I had trusted Aaron as if he were my brother.

When I went back to my room, he followed close behind me and stopped the door with his foot. There was a strange smile on his face, of a sort I had never seen before.

“Aaron, what are you doing?” I asked, pretending to be calm, though my heart was pounding with fear.

“I’m coming to your bed to sleep with you,” he said. He pushed me into the room and then onto the bed and started to kiss me.

He did not pay heed to my pleas or my screams, and I tried to push him off with all the strength I had. But he fought back like a vicious animal. He was a tall, strong man who weighed twice as much as I, and my violent struggle seemed only to arouse him more. Cruel and terrifying, he was a rapist like all other rapists, whether in hotel rooms or in dark alleys.

“Rachel — what about Rachel?” I cried frantically when none of my tactics worked.

“She said that with you it was all right.”

“Yigal, remember Yigal. He was your best friend!” I pleaded, as if my departed husband were in the next room. As if I were calling him to save me from his friend, who had turned into a beast.

“He’s dead,” I heard the devil say.

My husband was dead, and I was a piece of meat, no longer his widow but merchandise that exchanged hands. Beastly hands. Inhuman hands.

I did consider charging Aaron with rape but refrained from doing so, fearing that I would be accused of provoking my own rape. No one would believe me, I thought in panic. What was I doing in his hotel room to begin with, they would ask.

I was also concern that the publicity of the case would crush my parents, and that they would not survive the knowledge of what had happened to me after the unimaginable losses I had suffered already. Not only was I widowed, but traumatized by seeing my husband burnt beyond recognition and hearing his deafening last breaths, I lost our unborn baby.

I was also certain that Aaron, holding a high position in the military and defense establishments in Israel, would abuse his power even further. Nothing was beneath him, I assumed, my mind running wild imagining an army of false witnesses he would be able to recruit, who would assassinate my character in court.

Only my sister and her husband and a handful of close friends knew about the rape. It took me nearly thirty years to be able to talk openly and publicly about that experience. When I was finally ready to acquire whether I could still press charges against Aaron, he was dying of a dreadful disease.

Because of changes in the attitudes toward rape and other sexual harassment, thanks to brave women and men who did not hesitate to openly declare, “We have been victimized and we will be wronged no more,” survivors are speaking up. But many more still fear what I had dreaded: Being blamed for my own rape and being smeared.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 08 Dec 2017 22:25:00 +0000

This post appeared in the Forward On Nov. 1 2017. Please read.

https://forward.com/life/family/386636/i-was-a-pregnant-military-widow-i-feel-myeshia-johnsons-pain-and-her-need-f/

My Memoir

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Jul 2017 18:25:00 +0000

It's finally out. After a decade of writing and rewriting, editing and re-editing with the help of recommended qualified editor; after doubts and reassurances, and after translating the book into Hebrew and publishing it in Israel (under the title No Laughter In Winter) two years before its final English version was completed, on June 29, I published my memoir in its original English language, in the US.

Completing the book was an incredible journey of hard work, despair and delight, tears and laughter. But mostly it was a journey of rediscovery and pride.

I am proud of being the granddaughter of my ultra orthodox grandmother, who was a feminist and an activist decades before these words were recognized in her community; proud of being the daughter of my parents, and a member of two extraordinary families; proud of taking part in building my nation-state of Israel; proud of enduring unthinkable losses and challenges; proud of being able to love deeply, to hope in the midst of darkness, to fight for what I believed was right, to rebuild my life, and to acquire a strong sense of self.

I poured my guts out, putting on paper my most intimate experiences for strangers to read. I did it not for sensationalism – I would have revealed the names of a few famous characters who were intimately involved in my life if scandal and melodrama were what I sought in order to sell my book. Rather, I did it out of candor. I had a story to tell and I could only do it openly and honestly.

I hope that my story inspires you.

Available in English on www.amazon.com in the US, Canada, Europe, Australia, and elsewhere

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Tribute to My Mother on Mother's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 14 May 2017 16:54:00 +0000

This post is taken from my forthcoming book WAR WIDOW

***

My mother Khaya, the fifth among eight siblings, was born to the Sher family on January 17, 1915. In her youth, my mother’s beauty was legendary among those who had known her, and tales of her looks traveled beyond her hometown. When she approached the bank of the river that runs through town, men would whistle and stop to watch her crossing the bridge. Seventy-five years after my mother left Plunge I walked on that bridge. Though it was far smaller than I had envisioned, it registered as huge in my mind.

When my mother was seventeen she was arrested on that bridge after she had bent to retie a loosened shoelace. Apparently the policeman who detained her suspected she was making a signal of some sort to members of the banned Communist party. Her brother Yitzhak bailed my mother out, vouching that she was not a Communist.

But she was a Zionist, planning her immigration to Palestine to take part in building the Jewish state that was yet to come. In 1933, when she was eighteen, my mother left Lithuania for Palestine. Leaving her family behind at the age of eighteen took courage, determination, and a commitment to the Zionist cause. But in Palestine, her bravery gave way to depression and despair. No one who had known my mother in her youth could have imagined how that stunning, energetic, blossoming young woman would fade like a wilted flower in the darkening chill of winter, rising like a phoenix in the sun-warmed days of each summer.

Years went by and seasons changed. I was a married woman and a mother myself. Her green eyes fixed on me, with sadness, she asked: “Tell me, Ziva. Was I a good mother?”

“Yes, you were,” I answered, remembering that when she was healthy, safe from the dark days of winter when her laughter sank in the despair that consumed her, she was a caring, devoted mother.

Few things made me more proud than my mother’s involvement in the Parent Teacher Association, appearing in school looking as beautiful as she had in our summers outings, being loved and admired by teachers and fellow parents alike.

She was a loving mother who sheltered her two daughters. I felt loved and secure when she wrapped me with tenderness and watched me as if I were the precious apple of her eye.

This was the mother who took me as a child to my favorite restaurant—a rare outing in the semi-socialist society in which I grew up—and watched me eat the food I liked, ordering nothing for herself. She fought to place me in a better grammar school than the one in which I was enrolled, and she went to school to defend me when necessary. She made me the most beautiful Purim costumes, for most of which I won first prizes. She was the mother who arrived by cab at midnight at the home of my Uncle Yaakov and his wife, Esther, when I was seven or so, because she presumed that I would cry that first night I slept away from home. She was the mother who took me for my first bra when I did not yet need one, because she wanted me to have pretty breasts when I grew up. She was the mother who took me to the dermatologist to prevent acne and to the gynecologist when my menstruation was irregular. She was the mother who made sure that my sister and I wore the finest clothes and ate the best food available. She did all that and more in her good days, and sometimes even when she was ill.

I don’t know the exact date of my parents’ marriage. They were probably wed by a private rabbi, before such unions were recorded. They were married by 1936, about the time this photograph was taken

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The Security Council, Jewish Settlements and Kerry's Speech

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 01 Jan 2017 15:56:00 +0000

I support wholeheartedly Jewish self-determination in the ancient homeland of the Jewish People, with equal rights to all citizens.

I am not more nor less of a nationalist than any other member of a group who seeks the right of statehood. And because I recognize the right of others to self-determination, I have supported the creation of a viable Palestinian state to exist alongside Israel in a relationship of mutual respect and recognition.

But with the continuous expansion of Jewish settlements in the West Bank, like many others, I am concerned about the possible transformation of the State of Israel into a bi-national state with a Jewish minority.

40% of the West Bank, most of which had been designated as the future Palestinian state (along with the Gaza Strip), is already under the control of Jewish settlers. With their settlements dotting the West Bank, or Judea and Samaria, it is virtually impossible to create a contiguous state for the Palestinians who live there and for Palestinian refugees who would be absorbed there as citizens in lieu of their demand of the right of return to Israel. That is why in his December 29 speech Secretary of State John Kerry criticized the Netanyahu government and called for the distinction between pre and post 1967 Israel.

For many Jews in Israel and abroad, Kerry’s sharp condemnation of the Israeli settlements in the territories that Israel had won in the Six Day war is nothing short of a betrayal, even though he did not spare the Palestinian Authority from criticism for its incitement and glorification of terrorism.

Those who welcomed Kerry’s speech thought it was delivered too late in the life of the administration. They recall that President Obama has been one of the most pro-Israeli presidents from security and political aspects.

That Kerry delivered his speech a week after the Obama Administration deviated from its previous policy by not blocking Security Council Resolution 2334, angered those who condemn President Obama as Israel’s worst enemy in the White House. The resolution states that Israel′s settlement activity in the occupied territories, including East Jerusalem, violates the Fourth Geneva Convention, and constitutes a "flagrant violation" of international law.

Most analysts agree that the settlements are indeed a violation of international law. If so, Israel has managed to evade it by defining the lands it controls since 1967 as disputed rather than occupied territories.

Obama is not the first American president to oppose the settlements. In fact, since 1968 every American administration has done the same and either abstained from or voted for Security Council resolutions concerning the settlements or the changed status of Jerusalem without negotiations. The plan Kerry outlined for an Israeli-Palestinian agreement was not new either. President Clinton had set its parameters in 2000, and those principles have since served other negotiators.

Still, why has the Obama Administration chosen to single out Israel when, as Prime Minster Netanyahu complained, other areas in the Middle East are on fire?

The first answer must be Israel’s domestic politics. Kerry did not exaggerate when he stated that Israel’s cabinet is the most right–wing the state has ever had. What alarmed him and the White House - along with those who voted for the SC resolution - was the Legalization Bill, which was introduced by The Jewish Home Party. Should it become a law, the bill would retroactively legalize 55 unlawful outposts and 4,000 housing units in existing Jewish settlements. On December 8 the Knesset passed the bill’s first reading.

Equally distressing is the fact that Naftali Bennett, head of The Jewish Home, and two other top ministers of his party have been calling for the annexation of area C (the Oslo accord divided the West Bank into three areas: Area A was to be controlled by the Palestinian Authority; B was to be jointly controlled by Israel and the PA; C by Israel only).

To preserve both his Likud Party leadership and his coalition, Prime Minister Netanyahu, who is far from being a dove, has become hostage of the more radical faction of his own party, The Jewish Home and other nationalist parties, and Yesha, the Jewish Settlements Council.

The second answer must rest in the Obama Administration’s desire to leave office with a blue print it can call its own, especially in view of president elect Donald Trump’s likely support of settlements and possibly annexation, as it appears from his tweets and his nominee for US ambassador to Israel. Whether reality allows the incoming administration to reverse five decades of US policy on the Israelis-Palestinian conflict remains to be seen.

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On Sexual Entitlement

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 17 Oct 2016 03:53:00 +0000

Yesterday I visited the Clark Museum in Williamstown, MA. I had been there many times before. Each time, I saw Jean-Léon Gérome’s 1866 magnificent painting “Slave Market.” Each time, it touched me deeply. But in lieu of the subjectivization of women by Donald Trump in the now infamous 2005 Access Hollywood video, and the way the Republican presidential candidate - innocent till proven guilty -has responded to the accusations of sexual misconduct by several women, I found the painting extremely relevant.

Mesmerized, as if I was seeing it for the first time, I could not move away from the painting. The way the stripped young woman, a girl really, is presented by a slave trader to her potential male buyers; the way they examine her; her graceful tilted head; her powerlessness, all broke my heart.

I feel as if I know that girl. You might have heard of her too. She’s one of the Korean “comfort women,” forced into prostitution by Japanese soldiers in World War II. She’s an Asian teen sex slave, forced into sex tourism or into the porno industry. She’s a young Eastern European woman, trafficked and forced into a life of prostitution in the Middle East or elsewhere. She’s one of the 276 Nigerian schoolgirls captured and enslaved by Boko Haram in 2014, 21 of whom have been released last week. Fifty-seven of them were able to escape sometime after being captured. She’s one of the Yazidi sex slaves taken by ISIS. The list is long.

I am familiar with how it feels to be subjectivized as a woman. Year ago, as a young war widow, I knew what it felt like to be treated as if I were a piece of meat sought by men for sexual pleasure. That experience culminated when my fallen husband’s best friend, whom I had trusted like a brother, raped me (the story of my rape appears in one of the posts in this blog). That is why I am so taken by the painting each time I see it.

Perhaps something positive will come out of the scandalous Trump video: an honest debate of the way men in positions of power feel sexually entitled to women.

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A Woman President

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 30 Jul 2016 20:14:00 +0000

The cynic in me sneered at the excitement over nominating a woman as a presidential candidate in a country as advanced as America. After all, women have ruled powerful monarchies at least since the 16^th century. More recently women had been elected heads of state in Brazil, England, Iceland, India, Indonesia, Ireland, Israel, Latvia and Lithuania, Nicaragua, Norway, Pakistan, the Philippines, and more.

But the woman in me - a naturalized American citizen, the mother of a daughter, and the grandmother of an eleven-year-old granddaughter (and an eight-year-old-grandson), was extremely proud and emotional when Hillary Clinton accepted her party’s nomination on Thursday night; as emotional as I was eight years ago when an African-American won the Democratic Party presidential nomination in a country with a shameful racist history.

When Chelsea spoke about her mother, few mothers who listened to her, I believe, did not think about their relationship with their own daughters, and few daughters did not think about their relationship with their mothers. For all who watched or listened the occasion was certainly momentous. Whether Hillary will win the presidential elections or not – and I hope she will – she paved the way for future generations of women to follow her path. Either way, the prospect of a first American female president is an exciting premise.

While the media has been covering the presidential elections incessantly, it has failed to press Donald Trump on various issues, the list of which is too long to include here. Just read the now classic work of Allison Graham, The Essence of Decision, or Michael Brecher’s numerous studies of decision making, from Decision in Crisis to Crises in World Politics, to understand the complexities of the decision-making process, especially in times of turmoil. Even with the best of advisers a head of state or commander-in-chief must have a keen understand of the intricacies of the world around them, all of it, including the global, regional and domestic environments, past, present and predictable. They must have that knowledge from political, military, economic, social and cultural aspects, all at once. Only with that wisdom, along with the finest advisers, they can choose the best among alternative approaches. A “gut” decision can never do on vital foreign policy issues.

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The New Buzz in Israel

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 23 Jun 2016 01:23:00 +0000

If you want to know the populist sentiment in Israelis about the country’s politics, talk to cab drivers. Since the mid 1990s, when I traveled in Israel with a Fulbright scholarship working on my post doctorate, my conversations with taxi drivers have been a useful tool in determining the prevailing attitude about the “situation,” a key term Israelis use to refer to the ongoing conflict with the Palestinians.

I have just returned from a two-week stay in Israel. I had arrived there only hours before two Palestinian terrorists murdered four Israelis in a popular Tel Aviv café. I learned about the vicious attack while sitting in an outdoor beach restaurant, enjoying a crisp, sweet watermelon when concerned relatives called to ask where I was. Naturally, there was sadness and anger in the city that never sleeps, but not fear. Life went on and cab drivers continued to echo the country’s mood.

So when a day or two later, one of the drivers expressed to me his dissatisfaction with the country’s leadership, I wondered whether he preferred a far-right government, more extreme than the one currently headed by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. It is the most right wing government Israel has ever had in its history, reflecting the radicalization the country has been undergoing. But when the driver told me that the recent designating of Avigdor Lieberman as Defense Minister was a too dangerous threshold, and that he did not want his son in the army under the leadership of the new defense minister, I sensed that the political atmosphere of the State may be shifting. Incrementally perhaps, but a change may be possible.

Soon after, when I entered a taxi in which the radio was tuned to a talk show about the danger Israel’s democracy is facing when the freedom of the State’s civil society is curbed and the Supreme Court is unreasonably under attack, I smiled with satisfaction. No because I knew the driver agreed with what he heard, but because he was listening intensely.

Yet again, when another driver told me that the time for a two state solution with the Palestinians is now, I felt a sliver of hope, even though I didn’t get into a discussion with him about what kind of a Palestinian state he had in mind. Was it a state with a meaningful sovereign status, or a mini dependent state that can hardly exist on its own, the one PM Netanyahu has had in mind since his first round in office in 1996.

Then, on June 17, Ehud Barak, former prime minster and defense minster, and Moshe Yaalon, the defense minister who Netanyahu had just replaced with Libernman, attacked the sitting prime minster in a way no other politicians has had. And the buzz began.

“There’s change in the air,” you hear people saying wherever you go. Most sound hopeful.

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Open Mic

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 24 May 2016 16:11:00 +0000

Last night, New York City Women’s National Book Association (WNBA-NYC) held its annual Open Mic at the charming Cornelia Street Café. Talented writers read from their novels, non-fiction creative writing, essays, and poetry. Each had seven minutes to present her writing. Lucky to be among them, I read excerpts from Chapter Fifteen of my upcoming memoir NO LAUGHYER IN WINTER, which got its name from my mother’s seasonal depressions, but it tells a great deal more. This is what I read:

…Our farewell was swift and painful. Yigal got in the Jeep that came to pick him up and quickly drove away. I blamed the nausea that came over me on my pregnancy rather than fear. A few hours later the phone rang.

“Hi Zivonet,” Yigal said cheerfully, adding a note of affection to my name, as if to let me know that he was well. “What’s up?”

“All is well, Yigal,” I said.

“And the young one?”

I put my hand on my stomach, as if I could touch the life that was sprouting within me. “We’ll wait for you. What’s going on with you?”

He laughed, trying to turn a blunder into something amusing. “You won’t believe it,” he said. “I forgot my Uzi at home.”

“You’re joking!”

“It’s a fact. I know it sounds silly…”

He asked me to deliver the weapon to a nearby intersection, where his unit would be passing through on its way south.

“I’ll be there,” I promised, sincerely happy to have another chance to see him before he left for the front.

What a sight I must have been: a young, pregnant woman (all-be-it not yet showing), climbing out of a white Studebaker to wait for a military vehicle full of soldiers, holding an Uzi in my hands.

Yigal looked composed and attractive as he jumped out of the military truck wearing his field uniform. Once again we said our good-byes, this time more intensely. While the truck was waiting, we hugged and kissed, glued to one another for a long time, unwilling to separate. He put his hand on my stomach and held it there as if he wanted to protect his unborn child. I was stirred.

“Don’t worry, girl,” he said to me, with his reassuring smile. “Everything will be OK.”

Was he as anxious and frightened as I was, in spite of his calm appearance? Did he feel, as I did, the looming sensation that perhaps his soft touch on my belly would be sealed in our memory as the last sane moment before the earth started to tremble beneath us? I felt that it was not my heart alone that beat louder and faster when he whispered in my ear, “You’ll always be my one and only.”

No one on the truck complained or rushed us, but it was time for him to go.

I stood motionless for a long time, watching the truck become smaller and smaller and finally disappearing in the distance. I felt as if I were shrinking rather than the departing truck, that I was withering while the distance between us was widening. I thought I heard an animal howling in the distance. It was a frightening sound in the middle of a bright sunny day. I still wonder whether what I felt was a premonition or ordinary fear under extraordinary circumstances.

… In the early morning of June 5, 1967, what would come to be called the Six Day War broke out, with an Israeli preemptive air attack that instantly changed the balance of forces that Israel’s Arab neighbors had sought. Suddenly, the siege on Israel ended; the army now focused on its enemies’ ground forces. As soldiers fought soldiers and steel battled steel, the rest of us, worried about our loved ones at the frontlines, fretfully followed every scrap of news from the bloody battlefields.

… As the country rejoiced I waited to hear from Yigal. Like other civilians who were left in the rear, out of contact with their loved ones, I was terrified about his situation. But I was also hopeful: that a Herculean man like Yigal could not be hurt; that our life would resume the way we had planned it; that my pregnancy would develop without complications; that we would raise our child together. For that, Yigal had to return home, whole or wounded. I pictured him missing a limb, or two. But I did not care, as long as he was alive.

When on Friday, the fifth day of the war, I still had not heard from him, I called his brigade headquarters. If I was anxious before the call, the hesitation I detected in the voice of the secretary after she heard my name alarmed me even more.

“Please hold,” she said. “I’ll check where he is.”

I could hardly breathe. Think about the baby, I reminded myself. Breathe, breathe.

“According to the information we have, Captain Yigal Goren is fine,” she said when she returned, after what seemed to me an eternity. But she barely convinced me.

“Are you sure?” I asked her, over and over. The nagging feeling I had had ever since Yigal and I said our second good-bye crept over me again, beginning with the thought that there had to be a reason we had been given that chance to see each other once more. I sensed that even if the war were to end triumphantly, not everyone would rejoice. That one of those excluded would be me. That I would never see Yigal again.

The secretary tried to ease my mind. “You know, it’s not unusual in wartime to be unable to communicate. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”

She was right. A few hours after that conversation my Aunt Esther called me. Her husband, Yaakov, my father’s youngest brother, had bumped into Yigal a day earlier in the Sinai Desert. Each promised to call home if they could and send the other’s regards.

My aunt transmitted his message. “Yigal wants you to know that he’s doing well and that you needn’t worry about him. Just take care of yourself. He thinks of you and the baby.”

“You know, Esther,” I said, a bit calmer than I had been before her call. “Till now I had no idea where Yigal’s brigade was situated.”

“Yaki said Yigal looks well,” my aunt continued.

Her call lifted my mood. But by the time I had received it, unbeknownst to my aunt or me, Yigal no longer looked well.

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On Books and Fear

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 01 Apr 2016 22:51:00 +0000

The subject of how should America treat its Muslim population has been manipulated not only by the bigoted Republican candidates Donald Trump and Ted Cruz, but also by the media. Either way, in that discussion it is easy to forget that that particular segment of the rich multicultural mix that makes the American population – Muslims, whether American born or naturalized citizens – is composed mostly of ordinary human beings. They leave home for work to support the families they raise and return at the end of the day to live their ordinary lives and dream their ordinary dreams about their children’s education, their health, and their success if life.

Surely, among them there are those few, overtaken by an extremist ideology and posing a threat to other Americans, including members of their own religious and ethnic groups. Surely, most terrorist acts in many parts of the world originate in the Islamic Middle East. Surely, the U.S. and the world have to deal with the scourge of Islamic terrorism and fascism.

But we also have to look into the eyes of ordinary Muslims and tell them that we recognize their fear living in a society that stereotypes them and often blames them for the loud, cruel and unacceptable deeds of the few amongst them.

In my classes at college I have numerous Muslim students, some of whom are too shy or too uneasy to share their anxiety with their fellow students. Others are willing to engage in an open discussion on what bothers them about being singled out in the election campaign.

When I asked them in a class on the Middle East whether they mind to share their feelings about Ted Cruz’s idea to monitor Muslim neighborhoods, some were eager to talk.

“My mother threw this book in the garbage, the minute she saw it,” one student told us, referring to a book on ISIS, “she was scramming and howling.”

“Mom, I need it for class,” the student told us she had told her mother when she retrieved the book from the garbage can.

“I don’t care. I don’t want it here. Get read of it.”

The mother was too scared to have the book at home, lest her family will be “caught” and blamed for being sympathetic to ISIS, or worse.

Once what concerned me when I chose books for my courses was their high cost. Never did it enter my mind that a student may be fearful to own one.

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On Rape

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 09 Mar 2016 01:56:00 +0000

International Women's Day 2016 is not over yet. This post, which is my rape story from my upcoming memoir NO LAUGHTER IN WINTER, is dedicated to women around the world who suffered sexual harassment in any shape or form. Feel no shame. Speak up.

... It was time to mend my life and move on, meet a serious single man, and build a family. My father’s words—“Go, it might be the chance of your life”—echoed in my mind with both encouragement and hope. Just then, when a new vitality shot through me with invigorating strength, I was numbed by another blow.

Aaron had been Yigal’s best friend, and he and his wife, Rachel, became my trusted friends. Aside from the relationship between our husbands, Rachel and I became dear to one another, and I saw in our closeness the stuff that makes everlasting friendships.

Aaron and Rachel were the first couple to whom Yigal had proudly introduced me: “Meet Ziva, the woman I chose.” Throughout our courtship and marriage, we saw them at least once every week. After Aaron had been relocated and with his family had left Tel Aviv, we spent nearly all our weekends together, alternately staying in each other’s homes.

I remember with both pain and melancholy a particular Friday evening the four of us spent at the ballroom of the Dan Hotel in the mountainous area that overlooked Haifa’s glittering bay. I sat at our table with Aaron, watching Rachel and Yigal dance. When the singer started in on Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night,” Yigal stopped dancing with Rachel and fetched me to the dance floor. After Yigal’s death, Rachel reminded me often of that night in Haifa. With tears in her eyes, she used to repeat Yigal’s words to her: “Forgive me Rachel, but this dance is Ziva’s. This is her song.” The song still moves me, in spite of its shallowness.

Soon Aaron was promoted, and he and his family moved back to the suburbs of Tel Aviv, and we saw each other even more. Loyal friends that they were, Aaron and Rachel were distraught over Yigal’s death. Before I left for the United States, I spent countless evenings in their home, and we mourned Yigal together. Short my sister and brother in law, they were the couple closest to me. Aaron treated me the way a brother would and was consistently kind and respectful. Once I accepted the offer from the Defense Ministry to move to New York, he was instrumental in helping me secure the terms I desired.

***

Defense Minister Moshe Dayan came to New York for a visit in October 1970, and Aaron, who by then had a high position in the defense establishment, joined Dayan’s team. We arranged that after dinner with Dayan’s group, I would sleep in a spare room in Aaron’s spacious suite at the Carlyle Hotel, for the following morning we were to be picked up very early for a trip arranged for him by the United Jewish Appeal. I was to be his interpreter.

I felt it was natural for Bundy, the head of the Defense Ministry mission in New York, to invite me to be part of the small group that joined Dayan for dinner, especially after he had asked me to rush to a nearby store to buy ties for Dayan, who had no proper attire, informal man that he was. It seemed to me just as natural for Bundy, who was aware of our familial relationship, to ask me to be Aaron’s translator.

The evening with Dayan was extraordinary and memorable. Following dinner, Bundy had arranged for the group to see the new Broadway musical The Rothschilds. For security reasons, we arrived at the theater a bit late, when the musical was already in motion. As we quickly took our seats, a whisper passed through the theater like a wave. When the word had spread that Moshe Dayan, the legendary general with the eye patch, was among the latecomers, the entire audience stood up and together with the actors on stage began to sing the Israeli national anthem, “Hatikva.”

Israel’s stunning victory in the Six Day War three years earlier was still a source of great pride for world Jewry in general and American Jews in particular, for it was the United States that had become the Jewish State’s main ally after that war. Never before had so many mainstream Diaspora Jews identified so deeply with the State of Israel, which was still caught in the midst of the War of Attrition waged against it by Egypt and Syria. Dayan, the admired hero, was at the peak of his glory.

To this day I can hardly describe the rush of emotions that overtook everyone in our group. I was completely captivated during those enchanting moments at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, and did not even bother to wipe the tears off my face. Somehow able to compartmentalize that experience from what followed that night, I still marvel at that embracing audience and cast.

We left the theater early, once more for security reasons. On the way out, Aaron whispered to me that Dayan had asked him who I was, and that my story had moved the general. Aaron then told me that he did not know what time he and Dayan would be back at the hotel, emphasizing Dayan’s unpredictability, and suggested that I go to sleep, for we had a long day ahead of us.

My friend Michael walked me to the hotel. “This plan doesn’t sound good to me,” he said. “It’s a foolish decision that could end badly.” Because I had reason to believe Michael was jealous, I did not listen to him. With a key to Aaron’s suite in my possession, I entered one of the bedrooms at half past eleven, locked its door, and got ready to go to sleep.

At two in the morning, I was awakened by Aaron’s banging on the suite door. Apparently he had not collected the extra key at the reception desk. When I finally opened the door he was angered by the long time it had taken me to do so. Sleepy, I went back to my room, but Aaron followed close behind me and stopped the door with his foot. There was a strange smile on his face, of a sort I had never seen before.

This cannot happen, I thought, Michael’s warning hitting me with full force. I decided to act decisively and demonstrate complete self-control.

“Aaron, what are you doing?” I asked, pretending to be calm, though my heart was pounding with fear.

“You know,” he said, blocking the door with his tall body.

“Please let go of the door,” I said, “and let me close it. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

My appeal to his common sense did not work.

“I’m coming to your bed to sleep with you,” he said.

Stay cool, I told myself, terrified. Perhaps he is drunk, unaware of what he is doing. I will order some coffee for him. But he pushed me into the room and then onto the bed and started to kiss me.

“Stop it!” I screamed. I struggled to get away, but he kept at it.

“I want you,” he moaned, in a voice I had never heard him use before.

Please, God, I pleaded. Answer my prayers now. Do not let this happen. But God had nothing to do with what followed.

“Get off me,” I shrieked. “You’re hurting me.”

He did not heed my cries. I tried to push him off with all the strength I had, but he fought back like a vicious animal.

“I must have you,” he panted, in his eerie voice. With the sound of my heartbeat thrashing in my ears, I screamed, hoping that my shrieks would penetrate his head before he did something he would regret for the rest of his life. But he continued, and so did I, hitting him with my fists and kicking as hard as I could. He was a tall, strong man who weighed twice as much as I, and my violent struggle seemed only to arouse him more. He managed to pull his pants down with one hand while holding me down with the other. Cruel and terrifying, he was a rapist like all other rapists, whether in hotel rooms or in dark alleys.

“No,” I screamed, repeatedly, at the top of my lungs, hoping someone would hear me and call for help. Perhaps he would finally hear. But he was brutal.

Change strategy, I thought. Plead with him; maybe he will come to his senses.

“Rachel—what about Rachel?” I cried frantically.

“She said that with you it was all right.”

“Yigal, remember Yigal. He was your best friend!” I pleaded, as if Yigal were in the next room. As if I were calling him to save me from his friend, who had turned into a beast.

“He’s dead,” I heard the devil say.

At that moment the reality of Yigal’s death became crueler than ever before. It was as if he died all over again, and his death had left me dangerously vulnerable. He was dead, and I was a piece of meat, no longer his widow but merchandise that exchanged hands. Beastly hands. Inhuman hands.

I could hardly breathe, but I continued to fight until he suddenly let go of me. He had climaxed, only partially penetrated inside of me. I managed to push him off and ran to the bathroom. More than anything I felt dirty. I washed frantically, sobbing.

When I came out of the bathroom fully dressed I saw my rapist sleeping peacefully, as if nothing had happened, while I was shattered into pieces. All I wanted was to leave the room, to get away from the place I would never forget. New York City taxis were on strike, and I walked home in a daze, caring very little whether anything happened to me. My world had crumbled.

I arrived at my apartment at dawn, mentally and physically exhausted, my body aching from my fight with the villain. In the entranceway to my tiny apartment, Yigal’s framed photograph glanced at me, and I hated him with all my heart. A scary hatred. One I had not felt before. I hated him for leaving me alone and for having the friends that he did. I smashed his picture into the wall with as much force as I had used fighting Aaron a short while earlier. The glass on the frame shattered into as many pieces as my broken heart, but that was insufficient. I also tore the photo into small pieces, as many as I could. I then fell on my bed and began to cry.

Not trusting myself to be alone, I called my friend Nira, but I could not utter a word. Only strange sounds, those of a wounded animal, came out of my throat. Nira, thinking there was a pervert on the other side of the line, kept hanging up her telephone each time I called, until I managed to whisper, in a voice that did not belong to me, “He raped me.”

“Ziva, is that you?” she screamed, not recognizing my voice. It did not take long for her to get to my apartment. We stood together for a long time, silent except for the sound of my sobs.

Before seven my telephone rang. “Where are you? Why aren’t you here?” Aaron asked, as if nothing had happened. I hung up, and he did not call again.

For the following two weeks, I isolated myself at home. Apparently Bundy was looking for me on that Monday. When I returned to work he did not ask questions, but he never asked me again to usher visitors around the city.

I considered charging Aaron with rape but refrained from doing so. My first concern was that the publicity of the case would crush my parents, and that they would not survive the knowledge of what had happened to me. And the whole idea frightened me. Like other rape survivors, I feared that I would be accused of provoking my own rape. No one would believe me, I thought in panic. What was I doing in his hotel room to begin with, they would ask.

I was also certain that Aaron, holding a high position in the military and defense establishments, would abuse his power even further. Nothing was beneath him, I assumed, my mind running wild imagining an army of false witnesses he would be able to recruit, who would assassinate my character. I feared he might know about my past relationship with Mano and would use it against me in a trial. If I had had an affair with one married man, people would suppose I had slept with him, too.

My fears were not irrational. It was not until the late 1970s and early 1980s that so-called rape shield laws were adopted by various jurisdictions in the United States, appropriately limiting the ability of defense attorneys to cross-examine rape complainants about their past sexual behavior.

I was also thinking of Rachel and her children. Tormented, I would look at the latest photos of the children she had sent me, asking myself not how their father could do what he had done to me, but what my pressing charges would do to them.

Four months after the rape, after a visit to Israel, I received a letter from Aaron in which he reprimanded me for the pain I had caused Rachel by avoiding her during my stay. She had learned about my visit from a mutual friend.

The cynicism notwithstanding, I felt awkward about hurting Rachel and wrote her a letter, explaining that I had come to Israel at the spur of the moment to be with my sister while my brother-in-law had undergone an operation. Rachel understood. We met a year later, but I could pretend no more and stopped all contact with her. Another year passed, and on a visit to New York she reached out to me. I could bear my silence no longer. In the privacy of her hotel room, I explained to her why I had severed our relations. It mattered little to me that she did not believe me. It mattered even less a few weeks later when, calling me from Israel, she related to me his version of events: I was waiting for him, naked, in his bed, seducing him.

I refused to lower myself to that level of discussion or dignify his accusation with an answer. It made no difference to me whose version Rachel believed, and I did not expect to hear from her again. But a few weeks later she called.

“Ziva,” she said, “I know you told me the truth.” My wounds remained so deep that I cared little about how she had discovered that truth. It was the last time we spoke, though I think of her often.

Nearly thirty years later, when attitudes toward sexual harassment and rape had changed, I was able at last to talk openly and publicly about that experience within the framework of my lectures on women and war. I looked into whether I could still press criminal charges against Aaron, but he soon died a dreadful death from cancer.

Changes in sexual harassment laws and attitudes have transformed the lives of American women, and to my satisfaction Israel’s Knesset too passed a law making sexual harassment a criminal offense. For decades, rumors had been circulating in the country about the commonality of sex offenses carried out by high-level officials and military officers, but the truth had always been swept under the rug, and none of the offenders were openly accused. That changed in 1999, when the new law passed. Since then numerous officials have been sent to jail for rape and sexual harassment, including high officers in the military and the police force, cabinet ministers, and a president. Support for victimized women grew considerably. The changes in this area have been made to a large extent because of brave women who did not hesitate to openly declare, “We have been victimized and we will be wronged no more.”

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Four Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 01 Feb 2016 06:11:00 +0000

In Saturday’s New York Times, there were four stories that affected me more than others. The first was the coverage of the latest attempt of Israel’s nationalist camp to strangulate the country’s democracy by silencing the voices of those who do not agree with its ideology. This time it was the far right group Im Tirtzu (If You Will) attack on cultural Israeli icons in the fields of literature, theatre, music, and more. In a true form of McCarthyism, the group accused their targets of being “moles in culture.” Though the organization has since apologized amid criticism from leaders who belong to both the left and right camps of the political spectrum, the group has no intention to cease its attacks on the Israeli left, or what is left of it. I have always praised Israel’s democracy – however imperfect - proud of, among other things, the country’s free elections, its merciless free press, and its active civil society. But decades of continued occupation, the radicalization of a religious minority, and an atmosphere that was created by the current government – the most right wing ideological cabinet the country has had – seriously threaten the survival of that democracy.

The second story, albeit short, is about France’s recent announcement that it intends to organize an international peace conference in an attempt to solve the Israel-Palestinian conflict. I wish France much luck. In the past similar attempts, even during more favorable regional conditions that exist today, had failed. It looks as if France will sooner than later recognize the Palestinian Authority as a state, conforming to Paris’s threat in case the conference would fail.

The third piece reported the abuse by United Nations peacekeepers in the Central African Republic. According to the report, soldiers of a European Union peacekeeping contingent had raped two teenage girls and paid a 7-year-old boy and a 9-year-old girl for sex. This was only the latest report of such abuses. Rape and sexual exploitation by UN peacekeepers have created an endemic problem, which Secretary General Ban Ki-moon must confront with more serious steps than appointing an independent panel investigation these cases.

Lastly, there was a piece of Philippine sex slaves (known as “comfort women”). Along with Chines and Korean women, the Japanese army used them as sex slaves during World War II. Their story touched me most, as that subject always does. The effect of war and its aftermath on women is an issue that is closest to my heart, perhaps because of my own personal experiences, which I tell in my memoir No Laughter in Winter. Its English version is currently being edited.

According to the Times, there are 80,000-200,000 estimated “comfort women,” some of whom are still alive. After years of their activism, Japan has recently extended an apology and monetary compensation to Korean sex slaves. But it did not offer the same to other groups. It is heartening that the elderly victims who are still alive got the courage to tell their stories after decades of shame and silence. Let the Japanese government learn from these women and get the same courage to admit to their war crimes against women and do the right thing by them.

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On Giving Thanks

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 29 Nov 2015 21:21:00 +0000

“When was the last time you wrote a blog?” my ten-year-old granddaughter asked me lately.

“A long time ago,” I told her.

“You can’t do that, your followers will forget you!” she said, and I explained to her how busy I have been, after I returned to teaching following my sabbatical year and finishing up the last version of my manuscript, sending it to an editor to get it ready for literary agents. Besides, I run out of subjects, I told her, which is the furthest think from the truth.

I could write about ISIS bombing the Russian Metrojet Flight 9268 in Sinai on November 7, killing 224 victims. Or the Paris attack by ISIS two weeks ago. I could write about the steps the international community, if there is one, needs to take to minimize the danger of that pseudo state.

I could write of the immigration issue and the way it is dealt by some of the Republican candidates - particularly after the Paris attack - from Jed Bush’s proposal that the US would only allow Syrian refugees that can prove they’re Christian, to the idea that Muslims should be required to carry special identification cards or badges, attributed to Donald Trump, but denied in some media outlets that he has said that.

I could write about the deteriorating conditions in the Middle East, with Turkey’s downing the Russian fighter jet over Turkish or Syrian airspace. And I could try to refute that the coalition’s war against ISIS is a war between the Western and the Islamic civilizations, as Samuel Huntington theorized in the early 1990s.

Of course, I could write about the wave of stabbings in Israel and the West Bank, carried out against Israelis by Palestinian individuals, mostly young, who are either desperate, or are poisoned by incitement on social media, taught how to kill efficiently; and I could scream, that no, incitement to kill is not free speech, not by any standards, ethics or law.

But there’s nothing new I could add to the analyses that are widely available on these issues. Besides, I deal with these subjects in my classrooms repeatedly.

Surely I could write of the terrorist attack this past Friday on the Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado Springs, shouting that this too is the result of incitement – part of the politization of abortion rights by those reactionists who want to do away with Roe V. Wade.

Instead, I want to write about the things I am thankful for in this holiday of giving thanks.

I our traditional Thanksgiving dinner, we do not go around the table for everyone to state what they are thankful for. It doesn’t suite my personal taste. Only my two young grandchildren did.

My tragic life when I was young taught me to take nothing for granted and feel fortunate every day: For being able to see and breathe and touch, to smell and taste. For having the capacity to speak out and teach. To give and accept. To love and to abhor. To do the best I can.

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Beit El, Jerusalem and Kefar Duma

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 02 Aug 2015 05:38:00 +0000

I am waiting for an Israeli Charles de Gaulle. A leader who’ll have the courage to tell his or her countrymen that the enemies from within – the Jewish extremists - are more dangerous to the stability of their country and to its democracy than their external enemies.

I am waiting for an Israeli Charles de Gaulle, who’ll have the courage to declare outright that he or she are going to lead their country to a territorial compromise because it’s good for Israel. Like de Gaulle did when he decided to swiftly take France out of Algeria, responding to his own generals’ putsch in 1961 and to the French right-wing opposition to an independent Algeria.

Nearly twenty-five years ago I researched in depth the reasons for the stubborn rejection of successive Likud governments to an international peace conference under UN auspices. When I began to investigate whether the UN could serve as an acceptable framework for an Arab-Israeli peace, I found out that it was the power of the settlement movement and that of the Israeli political right that prevented peace negotiations, not the UN framework. That influence has only strengthened since my research, and Jewish extremists who have taken matters in their own hand to torment the lives of ordinary Palestinians have been let off the hook too easily.

Since the process of religionization that began in Israel in the aftermath of the 1967 Six Day War, many Israeli observers have voiced their concerns that the cavalier way in which their governments treat crimes against Palestinians committed by Israelis, would erode the state of law in Israel. Their concerns fell on deaf ears. Until today. When thousands of Israelis across the country protested the heinous crimes committed at the end of the week by Israeli terrorists.

It didn’t start this week: First came their arson attack on a church in northern Israel, on June 18. On July 29 they violently resistance the demolition of two houses in Beit El, Jerusalem, that had been built illegally. The demolition was an implementation of a ruling made by Israel’s High Court of Justice, the bastion of Israel’s democracy. That same day, an Israeli right-wing MP called for the bulldozing of the hight court, while other right-wingers threatened its justices.

On July 30 an ultra orthodox Jew stabbed 6 participants in a gay pride parade in Jerusalem. One of his victims, a 16 year old girl died. The attacker was released from jail only three weeks ago, after serving a ten-year sentence for committing the same crime. The next day Jewish settlers torched a house in Kefar Duma in the West Bank, killing a toddler and gravely injuring his parents and brother. Israel’s security organizations are now examining whether there is a connection between the demolition in Beit El and the arson attack in Kefar Duma.

True, Arab terrorists commit horrific acts against Israelis, and Imams call openly for the slaughtering of Israelis and other Jews. And we have yet to see Arabs demonstrate against these acts, as do Israelis in similar situations . But Israel prides itself for being a state ruled by law, and rule of law must guide it. Equal for all. That cannot happen under nearly 50 years of occupation. Will an Israeli de Gaulle arrive any time soon?

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Nurit

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 16 May 2015 22:14:00 +0000

On Tuesday I posted a shorter version of this story on Facebook. In addition to the many satisfying responses I have received, I was urged to turn the piece into a blog, because “this is blog material.”

A day earlier I called an unfamiliar Israeli number from where someone tried to reach me twice during the weekend. To my surprise, the person on the other end was a 75-year-old woman name Nurit, whose first husband fell in an Israeli military action in 1964. She read my new book and called the publisher for my telephone number. She had to talk to me she said, because suddenly, after all those years, someone wrote her story. She too was a 23-year-old military widow. Unlike me, she wasn’t taken to see her husband, though she wanted to. She was better off, I told her. It’s bad enough to be told that your husband is dead. It’s much worse to see his destroyed face and body and hear his last choking breaths; to scream from the bottom of your lungs that the person you were looking at and couldn’t recognize was not your husband; to be haunted by that horrible sight for the rest of your life.

Like me, she has built a new life for herself. She is blessed with a loving husband, four children and eight grand children. She had borrowed the book from the library and then ran to buy it as a gift to her husband, so he'll understand what she could never put in words. And he did.

In spite of the painful subject matter, it was an elating long conversation. It reminded me of the many phone calls I received in 1968 from Israeli war widows of all ages, when I fought the government's decision at the time to end monthly death compensations to childless war widows. None of the women was interested in joining the fight. Instead they sought my emotional support after they had read in a woman’s magazine an article about my fight. Nurit was not one of the women who called me. Emotionally spent she did what the government suggested childless war widows do: She moved back with her parents and siblings.

Our conversation reminded me too of the heartrending stories I heard in 1995-6, when I interviewed 33 Israeli woman bereaved by war and terrorism. As my post doctorate project, unfortunately, it was published only as an article and a book chapter, so their evocative tales were not yet heard. I hope they find voice in mine. And I hope that like Nurit, they too call. I'm still listening.

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On Tel Aviv's Promenade this Passover

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 09 Apr 2015 17:03:00 +0000

It’s Thursday morning and I’m taking my brisk walk on Tel Aviv’s promenade, internalizing my journey to Israel with my family – my husband, daughter, son-in-law and my two grandchildren, who had flown back home to New York early this morning. Aside from the trips to Jerusalem - the new and the ancient, the Dead Sea and Masada, two personal events characterized this trip. The first was the launching of my book No Laughter in Winter, which I just published here in Hebrew; the second was celebrating Passover with my large extended family. Both were awesome.

More than sixty guests attended the book launching in a small hall in a beautiful historic building near Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Boulevard. They were childhood friends and friends from latter periods of my life, and lots of family. There was a moderator, three speakers, and much love and warmth in the room. But for me, the highlight of the evening was when my seven year old grandson, who had been seating quietly in the audience, suddenly asked if I could mention his name. Not speaking Hebrew, the language that dominated the evening, he recognized his mother’s and sister’s names, and wanted to be mentioned too. When I invited him and his sister to the stage I felt utterly fulfilled. Both by my side, it was a rare moment for me in the city of my birth, me talking about a book that describes not just my life, but the life of an ordinary Israeli family that tell the story of the country.

Then came the Passover Seder at my cousin’s house. We were close to forty people, like we had been at my grandparents home. Though my last time at a Passover Seder with my family in Israel was almost thirty years ago, it felt as if time stood still, except for the younger faces: the third, fourth and fifth generations of my elders. And it felt warm and natural to be there, like in years past. And like in years past, my daughter asked me how I could leave all that love and warmth and move to another country. And like years past I told her that sometimes life takes us to places we had not planned to be, and force upon us decisions we never thought we would have to make.

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Paris

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 11 Jan 2015 17:40:00 +0000

Today could be a historic day if world leaders and civil society will continue to stand united against religious extremism in general and radical political Islam in particular, the branch of Islam that has been responsible for many terrorist attacks in the Middle East, Africa, Europe and the United States.

That the French have finally awakened to the curse of global terrorism because their values have been attacked may raise cynicism, perhaps rightfully so. So does the overrated participation of both the Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and the Palestinian Authority President Mahmud Abbas in the Paris rally: The first was surely motivated by the brutal terrorist attacks in Paris, particularly the murder of fellow Jews in a Kosher market, as likely as he was by the upcoming elections in Israel; the latter needs international support for his attempt to create the Palestinian state through unilateral means.

But that Muslim leaders gathered with Christians, Jews and followers of other religions to reject radical Islam is encouraging – as a first step in the war against global terrorism – if this is in fact what we are seeing in Paris today.

The images emerging today from TV screens are indeed powerful. They bring hope that perhaps the world, or at least parts of it, has finally got it. That it suddenly understands the scourge of extremism, providing that the hype from Paris will not subside tomorrow or the day after, and that the root causes of terrorism will also be addressed.

Lost in the hype is a piece of news in today’s papers of a 10 year old girl who was used by Nigerian insurgents as a suicide bomber, killing herself alongside 20 others, and wounding many more.

The use of children as potential suicide bomber is not new. Hamas hat tried that before. And there are other means by which terrorist groups use children: Most of the 200 Nigerian schoolgirls who had been abducted last year by Boko Haram are still in the hand of their kidnappers. That too has been missing from the voices in Paris, not to mention last week’s possible killing of 2,000 Nigerians by the group. But the rally is not over yet at the time of this writing, and may be these atrocities will be mentioned too.

The phrase “not in my name” uttered by many Muslims, whether ordinary citizens or leaders from Arab and non-Arab Muslim societies, sounds good. But unless it becomes a movement, it will remain an empty slogan. The movement needs to include not only civilian and military leaders, but also, most importantly, Imams from the Middle East, Africa and the West.

Till that happens, today’s rally in Paris, impressive and moving as it is, will be a fleeting episode in the “fight” against the latest wave of fascism the world is facing.

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9/11 memorial and Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 04:48:00 +0000

Earlier today (Wednesday) I visited for the first time the 9/11 Memorial and the Memorial Museum. Its awesomeness overwhelmed me.

I went there with my cousin and his friend who are visiting from Israel, where the culture of memorializing the Holocaust, fallen soldiers and terror victims, is prevalent. Though used to this ethos they too were overawed.

As we stood by the South Pool of the memorial the friend was visibly upset about the ease with which visitors can lean on the black marble that contains the names of the 9/11 victims. He thought that doing so was tantamount to desecrating the victims.

“Don’t you feel that way?” he wanted to know.

I didn’t. On the contrary. I felt that whenever a visitor touches the marble, whenever he or she rubs an engraved name however randomly, they create an instant connection to that name. Touching those engraved letters that forms the name of a person whose life was lost so abruptly in that terrorist attack affects one emotionally in an instant.

“What do you feel when you look at the pool?” he wanted to know.

“Continuity, triumph” I said. The movement and sound of the circulating water made me feel that way. Life goes on. The human spirit cannot be defeated in spite of the enormity of the tragedy.

“Interesting though,” he said. “I don’t feel that way. I feel hopelessness.” The smaller inner pool in the center of the larger body of water reminded him of people jumping to their death. Plunging to an abyss from where there is no way out.

Either way, the memorial’s architects accomplishment was immense.

Inside the museum my cousin was disturbed by its enormous size. He felt it was too impersonal. What moved him most was a small item on display: the wristwatch of one of the victims. Or the photo of the people walking downs the survivors’ staircase. I explained that the size of the museum was equivalent to the area where the building stood. It was built over their foundations. He understood but he wasn’t convinced. He needed a small quiet corner to reflect on what happened that day. To meditate. To feel the heartbreak in a more intimate setting.

That was before he saw the heart of the exhibit. The artifacts. After two hours in the museum I had to leave without visiting that section where he went and to where I’ll return. I haven’t spoken with my cousin yet to hear his impression of that part. I’m sure we’ll both find it hard to sleep tonight.

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The General Assembly and Rosh Hashannah

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 26 Sep 2014 05:05:00 +0000

My neighborhood is tumultuous these days. Streets are closed and sirens are shrieking ceaselessly as heads of states and foreign diplomats are arriving in New York City for the 69^th UN General Assembly.

On Tuesday I walked on Second Avenue, not far from the UN. The streets swarmed with Federal agents, NYPD cops, many UN personnel and visitors wearing their ID tags, and delegates, some of whom were interviewed by TV reporters. Nearby a group of South Koreans was demonstrating against President Park, Falun Gong members demonstrated against the Chinese government, and across the street a group of Iranian shouted slogans against the regime in Teheran. Drowned in the commotion was a lone, elegantly dressed woman in her 50s, who was carrying a big sign against Hamas, Muslim terror and Iranian nuclear arms. Not far from her stood a man holding a sign saying that the Jews control the world. Another of the many reincarnations of the infamous 1903 The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, I thought.

The next day, as I was preparing to welcome the Jewish New Year, in his inaugurating speech, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon warned the world that its “fasten seat belt” lights is illuminated. The official agenda of the world meeting concentrates around the issues of the threat and barbarism of ISIL, events in the Ukraine, the spread of Ebola and climate change. But the Secretary General elaborated on additional and related threats to peace and security, including: the plight of refugees and displaced people, the spread of extremism not only in the Middle East, but also in Africa, the depletion of human rights, and more.

The fourth address that morning was President’s Obama’s “right makes might” speech. The President, too, emphasized the dangers of ISIL and spoke about the US’s leadership role in eradicating that scourge.

For the Jewish New Year we wish each other a year of health, prosperity and peace. This year, in the aftermath of the war in Gaza, and the Middle East facing the savagery of ISIL, peace is on the mind of most Jews. But the blessing we recite on the eve of the holiday that our enemies, haters, and those who wish evil upon us shall be eliminated, resonates particularly relevant to all of humanity.

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Gaza

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 28 Jul 2014 02:33:00 +0000

I haven’t written for a while. Away in Israel during the month of June, and busy for the past two months with the last editing sequence of the Hebrew version of my memoir, I was too busy to write. That, in spite of the events that precipitated the current cycle of violence that is raging between Israel and Hamas. Then the war broke out and I was reluctant to write about it. Not only because much has been already written and spoken about the war, but also because I find it too hard emotionally. It brings me back to the day I was widowed during the 1967 war. As if time hasn’t passed. As if I haven’t successfully rebuilt a fulfilling life for myself.

But I can’t remain silent. Not after the odd ceasefire proposal that Secretary of State John Kerry submitted to the parties on Friday.

To be sure, there have been enough reasons to speak up, from the moment three innocent Jewish Israeli teenagers were abducted in the West Bank on June 12, by two Palestinian terrorists disguised as religious Jews, and the Israeli government’s response to the kidnapping. I was in Israel then, affected by the grace of the missing children’s parents.

Two weeks after their abduction their slaughtered bodies were found. That followed by the horrific murder of a Palestinian boy by a few misguided avenging extremist Israeli Jews, and all hell broke loose.

Israeli cities have been bombarded by Hamas with thousands of rockets and missiles to which Israel had no choice but to respond. Additionally, Israel discovered over thirty underground tunnels Hamas had built in order to penetrate Israeli towns, for the purpose of abducting and killing Israelis. That discovery has suddenly posed a strategic challenge for Israel it hasn’t known before.

Israel is facing a cruel, stubborn, sardonic enemy that is gaining from the suffering of its own people. That is how terrorist organizations operate. They rely on political gains resulting from widespread sympathy after massive retaliation that is expected from the party they had harmed in the first place. You can read about such tactics in any introductory textbook on the subject of terrorism.

Still, no human being can be oblivious to the horrifying pictures that come out of Gaza. They are not helpful to American interests, nor to Israel’s. But American cities are not bombarded and hundreds, if not thousands of terrorists that could infiltrate US borders through underground tunnels do not threaten its citizens. Witness the outcry in Congress over the infiltration of undocumented youth through American borders. Can you imagine what the US would do if the infiltrators would be terrorists that openly call for your country’s destruction rather than undocumented immigrants?

That is why Israelis are so upset with Secretary Kerry’s ceasefire proposal. It took into account all of Hamas’s demands, neglecting Israel’s legitimate concerns, and it designated Qatar and Turkey, two countries that are extremely hostile to Israel, as emissaries.

You do not have to be a right wing Israeli to be shocked by such a proposal. No one who knows me can accuse me of being one.

The suffering needs to stop. The pictures of Israeli mothers and fathers burying their sons, and those of pregnant widows, like I was so many years ago, break my heart. So do the images that are coming out of Gaza. In spite of that there is no moral equivalency here.

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BLOG HOP: Write On!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 06 May 2014 04:49:00 +0000

When my writer/friend Linda Rosen invited me to join this blog hop, first I was overwhelmed. I hesitated because of my busy schedule, concerned that I’ll have something else to do in addition to teaching, grading, writing, editing, and what not. But being thankful for the opportunity, I immediately accepted Linda’s kind invitation, thinking about the chance she has offered me to become part of a community of bloggers. You may already know Linda from our blog connection. Nonetheless, let me introduce her to you:

Linda Rosen lives in New Jersey with her husband. When she’s not teaching fitness classes or working with private clients, she enjoys creating stories for readers to devour curled up in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea. Her unpublished novel seeking representation, FLOURISH, was a semi-finalist in the 2012 William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition. She has been published in 201 Family Magazine and The Dying Goose. She is a member of the Women’s National Book Association, NYC chapter, co-coordinator of Great Group Reads for National Reading Group Month, and has a website, www.linda-rosen.com, which links to her blog, The Literary Leotard.

As for me, Since 1986 I have taught a wide variety of courses in Political Science at Queens College. Throughout my academic career I have been actively participating in numerous conferences and I have been an invited guest speaker to many lectures.

In 1995-1996, as a Fulbright scholar, I went to Israel and the Palestinian Authority for my post-Doctorate project, interviewing Israeli and Palestinian women affected by conflict and war. I presented my finding both in writing and lectures.

In 1996 my book Israel on the Road to Peace: Accepting the Unacceptable was published (Westview Press), as were my book reviews, book-chapters, and articles. Currently I am writing a women’s fiction. As I mentioned earlier, I hope my memoir will be published both in English and Hebrew soon enough.

I live with my husband in New York City. I love music and the opera, ballet and the theatre, but mostly I love to spend time with my two lovely grandchildren. I intend to return to my painting sometime in the future. And when I will find the time I will go back to my painting.

1) What am I working on? I have just completed my third version of my memoir No Laughter in Winter, and sent it for yet another round of editing. My Hebrew version of the book is with Orion Publishers in Israel. Hopefully the book will be published by the end of this year, or early next year.

My task now is to work with the editors of both versions of the memoir. In between I hope to return to my women’s fiction (no name yet).

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre? I guess every memoir is unique because each tells a story about an exceptional life experience. We all use the term “voice,” using our own and giving voice to others. In my memoir I not only tell my own tale of love, loss and triumph, but I give voice to women who have suffered the consequences of war and its aftermath; young women who had been preyed upon by men, often experiencing the double standard with which their societies have judged them.

My women’s fiction tells the story of a fiery aging woman who refuses to live by the rules.

3) Why do I write what I do? When a friend, to whom I was lamenting about the difficulty of publishing my book in the traditional route, asked me why is it so important for me to publish my work, to which I dedicated six or seven years of writing, rewriting and translating, I answered: “Because I have an important story to tell.” I have known for years that I’ll tell my story. Most importantly, it is a story I believe in.

4) How does my writing process work? I’ve written academically, but creative writing is completely different. No advisers, no “readers.” No one taught me how to write creatively. I just write, then rewrite, and write again, till I say to myself “it’s time to know when to stop.” Since English is not my native tongue, I am not always sure about the exactness of the words I choose: Is this the right use of the word? Is there a better one? Should I try to be more sophisticated? Is simplicity the answer? Then I follow my intuition, while allowing myself to make mistakes, as I am certain you’d notice. I have become much more self-forgiving when I make them, and I go on. As for style, I like the combination of long, sometimes run on sentences, and very short ones. I like to use color and smells, and detailed descriptions.

I’d like to thank Linda again for inviting me to be part of this Blog Hop, and to introduce my friend Barbara Sutton Masry to you.

Barbara is a screenwriter and a playwright, but she also writes short stories. She produced and co-wrote the short, “A Wake-up Call.” She served as assistant producer for the historic, award-winning short, “Equality” about the first women’s liberation march and the prize-winning short, “The Most Dangerous Animal.” Her full length feature, “A Wake-up Call,” is in development with attachments from the actors, Mira Sorvino, Dermot Mulroney, Ashanti, Peter Jacobson, Dan Hedaya and Amanda Setton. She has a second feature in development,” Love Potion No. 10,” a romantic comedy.

Previously, Barbara was an educator and community activist while playwriting and producing. She produced her play, “Rewriting Her Life,” as an Equity Showcase at The 411 Space in Manhattan, and in Manhattan Repertory Theatre’s Summerfest. Her play, “Kika” was given a reading at the cell theatre in honor of the League of Professional Theatre Women’s 30^th Anniversary. Among the plays she has written and produced, “A Fettucini Affair” was published by Samuel French. Other plays include the musicals, “Womansong” and “Suburban Serenade.” She has also written and produced shows for Cable TV and the videos, “My Paris, “ and “A Day in Pre-K.” Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Newsday, and other Long Island newspapers. She is a member of the Dramatists Guild, NYWIFT, (New York Women In Film and Television, IFP, (Independent Feature Project) and The League of Professional Theatre Women. She was named to the Town of North Hempstead Women’s Roll of Honor. Her website is: awakeupcallfilm.com.

My Memorial Day

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 04 May 2014 22:51:00 +0000

A while ago I returned from the Memorial Day service honoring fallen Israeli soldiers and victims of terrorist acts, which was held at the 92^nd Street YMHA in Manhattan.

Tonight and tomorrow, throughout the Day of Remembrance, Israel will somberly remember its fallen. Tomorrow night, at the end of the day, the country will begin to celebrate its 66^th Day of Independence.

The moving ceremony I attended today, and those I have attended for the last forty-seven years, is very personal for me: My first husband Yigal was one among the 23,169 Israeli soldiers who fell while in military duty since the beginning of the struggle for Israel’s Independence. Close to 2,500 more were victims of terrorist acts.

Yigal was burnt beyond recognition on June 9^th, 1967, when a Syrian missile hit his armored vehicle as his brigade began its ascendance to the Golan Heights, during the Six-Day war. He died thirty-six hours later at the age of twenty-eight. I was twenty-three and pregnant, but I lost our unborn child because of the shock I endured seeing him minutes before his death.

Nearly half a century later I still sobbed when the cantor sang the somber Jewish prayer for the dead “God Full of Mercy.” When a bereaved brother recited the “Kadish” prayer, I solemnly recalled the unbearably painful expression etched on Yigal’s father’s face whenever he recited that prayer for his dead son, by whose side he remained until Yigal stopped breathing his insufferable loud, choking breaths.

“Yigal will always be the most important man in your life,” Stephen, my husband of nearly forty years then, told me in the autumn of 2010, after reading in Lilith Magazine, my chapter “A Knock at the Door in the Darkness of Night,” which was excerpted from my memoir “No Laughter in Winter,” to be published this year or next.

“How can you say that?” I protested. “I am married to you for almost forty years, whereas I was married to Yigal for three years only. You are the man with whom I decided to share my life far away from my family and the country I loved. We have a daughter and two grand children, and a shared history that is unique to us.” Then I admitted that losing Yigal so abruptly, seeing his scorched body and face and hearing his last breaths, all against the advice of his doctor, who feared the effect the sight would have on my pregnancy, is the most important experience of my life, our marriage and the births of our daughter and our grandchildren notwithstanding.

The last time I saw Yigal before he went to war he hoped would not break out he looked attractive and composed. While a military truck was waiting for him we said our goodbyes. We hugged and kissed for a long time, and then he put his hand on my stomach and held it there as if to protect his child. I always try to remember him the way he looked. But I can’t help remembering me standing by his side, unable to recognize him, his beautiful face erased by fire as if it never existed; the man whose loveliness will remain only in the memory of those who loved him.

This morning I woke up with a nightmare. It was nothing compared to the reality of the early hours of June 11^th, 1967, that will forever remain with me. Inexplicably part of the rich and rewarding life am able to live.

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