freedmanslife

Grandpa

2009-11-11T22:36:00.000Z

As most people know by now, my grandpa passed away a few weeks ago. For those who missed the levaya and shiva, and for posterity, here are a few thoughts and anecdotes about him. Firstly, the personal from the JC:

"MAISEL. Avrem. A kind, gentle, sharp-witted and principled man. Sadly passed away Saturday, October 31, aged 93. Much loved by all the family."

Having been a bit feeble for most of the week, but still lucid enough to recount some stories of his childhood to Mum and see his friends Michael B and Doreen, Grandpa took a very bad turn on the Saturday morning. At the time, my parents and cousin Claire were visiting Hilly and Al in Zurich, leaving only Helen back in the UK. The care home could see he was in his final hours, and managed to get hold of Julie in Zurich, who called me, and I got to Helen, just as she put her mobile on and got the awful news that it was too late. Julie sent Phillip down to shul to get Mum and Hilly, and as we all digested the news and booked planes home, Mum found some immediate comfort in the turn of events that saw us grandchildren deal with things first.

This was swiftly reduced by my inadvertent leaking of the news via Facebook before any other relatives had been informed. Oh well. Shows what a powerful medium it is, and Grandpa would have been chuffed to know he got his own status update - although he wasn't comfortable with t'internet, he understood it was something he had to learn, and had only recently got a computer and his own hotmail account.

When I got back to London, one of the first tasks was for me and Dad to go to the care home and sort out his possessions. I had been giving some thought to whether I wanted to see Grandpa "doing a Lenin" or not, given that my last contact with him had been back in the De'Ath Ward of Northwick Park (that's the ward on floors 1 to 16 for those who have not heard of it), and I was not sure if I wanted that to be my final image - a frail if stubborn man perched in a hospital bed.

In fact, staunch supporter of universal free healthcare that he was, even he was so underwhelmed with his experience there that at one point, he took a bit of a stand. When they had delayed a minor operation for the third time (the second being entirely the hospital's own fault, having fed him breakfast despite the surgeon requiring nil by mouth for 24 hours before the op), the orderlies told him he may as well go and have some lunch, as they wouldn't be able to fit him in until the following day. He said no thanks. They said whaaat? He said he was going to refuse all food just in case an opening came up for surgery and he missed it because he had eaten something. When they understood he was actually going on hunger strike - a 93 year old diabetic with a dodgy foot and a solid 15 years of mileage on a heart bypass - they miraculously found an operating theatre and a surgeon.

As it happens, the decision was rather abruptly taken out of my hands, when we went to Grandpa's room, the nurse pushed the door open - and there he was, still in bed! In fact it was strangely reassuring, once I got used to it. The cliché was definitely true - he was lying there looking so peaceful, as if he was finally getting some decent sleep. The sun was streaming in through the window, and his room was really very nice (I had not seen it before as he went from hospital to care home only after I moved to Tel Aviv), with his favourite paintings and family pictures around him, and a lovely garden view outside.

This was the first moment when I realised that there might be certain items of his that I might stake a unique claim to - I have inherited his round shoulders and barrel chest, and am a pretty good fit for a whole range of rather nice jumpers, shirts and coats. Special mention must go to the stunning sheepskin jacket - Motty eat your heart out. At the levaya on the Tuesday, it felt very right to be there wearing his fab Dunn and Co trilby, red and blue check scarf and very lush gloves with fur lining.

Over the course of the week, we shared some great anecdotes about him, and also had a look through the accumulations of his and Grandma's lifetimes in the flat on Harrow Hill. I was particularly thrilled to find his membership card for the Labour Party, and remembered him telling Mum he was only voting for Blair to get them in, then was hoping for "Real Labour" to emerge. How prophetic - and unfortunate for the rest of the family, who have not inherited his socialist tendencies!

We had many political debates over a Shabbat table, at their flat and at Eastglade, over the years. Grandpa always enjoyed the intellectual rigours of it, even though he knew I would not be persuaded. Right until the end, he was reading the Guardian or having someone read it for him, and although he was a proper leftie, he wrote to them when he felt they crossed too big a line on the Israel thing (or in fact, dictated to Grandma who wrote off in her lovely bubble handwriting).

I was sitting with him in early July 2005, having his usual lunch of Ryvita and crackers and listening to Radio 4, when they announced that London had won the right to stage the Olympics. He switched off the radio and said "well, that will be a disaster. Thank God I'll be dead by then!" I don't think he can have envisaged cutting it quite so fine...

He did manage to come to one sporting event though - the FA Cup Final, when Cardiff played Portsmouth:

Somehow he managed to still get in his traditional afternoon nap during most of the second half, despite 80,000 spectators cheering all around him.

One of our favourite moments with him was on a weekend in Christchurch, not long after Grandma died, when we had a lovely suite together at the Captain's Cabin. After dinner, he had got into bed, and Mum asked him if he had brushed his teeth. He said "not tonight". On further interrogation: "I'm 93 and I don't feel like it." What a geezer.

I also remember being on the Bessies' balcony in Zurich playing Scrabble with him at dusk. As it got darker, he was struggling to see the board, so he said "let's shed some light on this" and whipped out a pocket torch to shine at his letters.

He generally kept in good spirits and set himself new targets to live for. Not least of these was to see his first great-grandchild. When Yosi was born, he and Grandpa seemed to be taking it in turns to be ill, but Grandpa hung in there for long enough to meet him once, on a sunny afternoon in the garden of the home, just a week before the end.

Perhaps because of this final achievement, I don't think any of us were massively shocked by the timing of Grandpa's passing. Mum has been saying to Dad for about 30 years that Grandpa was on his last legs, and this time might be the last she would see him, but after her visit to him last week, when he was so enfeebled but still felt the urge to tell her some of his life story, his early childhood memories (which Mum, in a homage to her day job, took thorough notes on), she really knew.

And I think so did he. A few days earlier, Dad had been visiting him to discuss some financial matters, and although Grandpa was really feeling under the weather, he wanted to hear my news. Dad read him my latest blog entry (luckily there was no autopsy so nobody can prove that this was what killed him), the one about my nascent love affair with Tel Aviv. Afterwards, Grandpa insisted on calling me, despite Dad feeling he was too weak and that I would be able to tell he was poorly.

Although he could hardly speak in more than a small, croaking voice, he managed to tell me he was so happy that I had "found love". Those were the last words he would ever say to me.

I cannot help but feel profoundly uplifted by his incredible dignity, knowing that he was in his final days, and that even when he was so tired in every way, he reached across thousands of miles to give a parting blessing. He must have guessed that my only real guilty feeling about leaving the UK was the sense of abandoning him, and I had felt, deep inside, however much I tried to repress it, that back then in the hospital in August, as I kissed his forehead and walked away, it would prove to be a final goodbye. I am sure he knew too, but - in a homage to the legendary stoicism of Grandma - he just gave me a classic Grandpa grin and wave.

As I return to my Altneuland, I have this strong sense that I am bringing his indomitable spirit with me. All I can hope for is to carry myself for even a fraction of my life with his humility, integrity and humour in the face of whatever adversity I am faced with.

Rest in peace, Grandpa. Even if Labour lose in May.

The honeymoon

2009-10-30T00:42:00.000Z

It's been nearly 8 weeks since I got to Israel, and I am still enjoying the "honeymoon period". I have been reminded by a very awesome guy (mush!) to always be aware that I get a very extended honeymoon period on my aliyah (yes, I am biting the bullet) because of the good fortune of having generous and wonderful parents and grandparents who have endowed me with a very soft landing here for my first year or so.

I want them to know that not a moment goes by here where I do not remember how lucky I am to be here on these terms, and I will be eternally thankful to them.

I look around me at people also just arriving (in some cases really crash-landing), and I see the many stresses and fears they have, their lives one endless stream of struggles with language, accommodation, employment, finance, bureaucracy and distance from loved ones. I feel awful that perhaps they do not have the same opportunity to luxuriate in everything that makes moving here momentous. All I can do is try and take advantage of the fact that out here I have the three key features olim hadashim require - chutzpah, protectsia and savlanut, and maybe try to give people a hand where possible. Perhaps this is one country where you really can and should "pay it forward".

On a wider level, one of my ambitions is to eventually set about improving the aliyah experience for people who choose to come here. It sounds odd that those are the ones that need the help, but actually the state does an adequate job looking after those who have no other choice, and in the longer term, Israel needs to attract the best and brightest of the Diaspora. For them to come here voluntarily and put down roots requires material compromise, so they have to be given a chance to experience something meaningful that replaces the loss of earnings that is almost inevitable.

Because Western olim by and large have the safety net of going back, it takes something quite powerful and profound to continue to anchor them here. In the words of one of my new friends (Polo), he is "earning what I did in London 12 years ago, in a position of seniority I had 7 years ago... but in lifestyle terms, back in the UK I wouldn't be at this level for another 10 years."

How can this be translated into spiritual, emotional and intellectual advancement, not just a statement about career, social and material change?

When I tell some of the little anecdotes of coincidences and moments that have happened to me here, something clearly resonates with native Israelis and both recent and settled olim. But whilst some people do have their own stories to tell, so many just don't have the time and cannot find the mental and emotional space to be open to these things, because of the aforementioned draining process of getting here and getting settled.

There is a reason why this place is like nowhere else, and it is because there is a unique quality to the people and a special atmosphere to every inch of the land that is so hard to describe, and indeed is perhaps unique to each of us. Everyone who has been here and felt a moment of love for this noisy, hot, dusty, dishevelled place knows what I am talking about. It could be the waft of hyssop and jasmine when out on a kibbutz, the unique Tel Aviv beach sounds of clip-clopping matkot and the ice-cream guy shouting "artic, artic", or the moment your ears pop when a very fast taxi driver takes you up into the hills between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv (I always think this moment marks the spiritual crossing-point, like some higher being clearing your ears so you can hear a different tone and quality of sound that echoes from those white stones).

Now I am learning not to be too pompous or self-important with all these thoughts and what I write here, and perhaps I don't always succeed, but what I hope is that by trying in my own way to express them and tell my stories, maybe the odd visitor or olah hadashah will just be a bit more open to these experiences for themselves. Not just having them, but being willing to recognise and explore them, without seeming weird or religious. It doesn't help physically with the chores and pressures of being here, but mentally I think it changes the experience completely.

But how to channel this into something practical? This being Israel, everyone has their ideas. I enjoyed a fabulous meal out with T&T (mazel tov on your engagement!) and their lovely friends last night, and we had some discussion about this.

One of the great assets of Israel is the heavily subsidised ulpan system to ensure that anyone who wants to learn Hebrew for any reason and any period of time can do so at a very affordable price. Despite this being a fantastic attraction for many young Jews who want to "try before they buy" - I was one of them - I was horrified to learn that the government are cutting ulpan budgets, and this will have the effect of raising prices or losing classes, or both. This is tragic, short-sighted and counter-productive. Having an accessible ulpan is just as important as Birthright or Masa. Write to the Knesset immediately!

We also talked about ways to improve the city using private money, to create new quarters in the way that Neve Tzedek, anchored by a resplendent Suzanne Dallal Centre, has been transformed. There are many neighbourhoods where a similar process would reap benefits. The key is to make this city proud of itself and try to get the residents to look past the end of their noses.

Israel is a funny place with an inverted value chain of civic pride and public behaviour. In the UK, people hold the door open for you, queue politely, generally don't litter, and obey the no smoking sign. Here, the opposite is true - in fact, they almost relish the barging. But here, if you stumbled on the street, people would rush to check if you were okay, whilst in the UK, people might well politely step over you on their way to the Tube. I know which I would rather have.

But it is not enough. If it can be transformed into a wider civic pride, combined with better care of surroundings, for example not just accepting the unkempt appearance of 80% of the buildings here because they look fine from the inside, perhaps we can have the best of both worlds.

We have to start small - and the advantage of being here is that sense of ownership. The other day, I was on a station platform in Netanya, and saw two kids in army uniform. One took out the last ciggie from his packet, and flicked the empty box at the bin. It missed, and he left it lying on the floor. I went up, said in my bastard Hebrew "you're in uniform, set an example and show some respect", picked up the box and dropped it in the trash.

The kid was completely stunned, probably because people here usually let this sort of sloppy behaviour slide. But I think along the lines of "broken windows theory" - you have to fix the small ills in society before going after the big prizes. And today that kid is chucking a fag-packet, but tomorrow he could be holed up in some Palestinian's house in Gaza, showing the same contempt for their home as for the station platform, or he could be letting his dog crap somewhere on Ruppin so Freedmansister is guaranteed to put her foot in it on the way back from the beach.

I think it is incumbent on Israelis and olim to keep trying to inspire and exhort each other to stay here, even when the going gets tough. This is a pioneering country whose frontiers remain unsecured and undefined, 60 years after creation. It is not an easy place to survive, let alone thrive in, and whilst the cliché of the Israeli Sabra (hard and prickly exterior, soft and sweet inside) is true, some people are disillusioned by the barbs that stick in the hand and craw, and never get as far as scooping out the lush fruit within.

An example: last night I was out for birthday drinks of an old friend at the Dancing Camel Brewery, and ran into Arik Bradshaw, a friend from ulpan. We ended up taking a little walk along the seafront and up to Ben Yehuda, just as the heavens were opening, and she told me how she was struggling financially and therefore physically and mentally, to make a go of it here. Her Hebrew was improving at a dazzling pace thanks to a fun but poorly-paid cafe job, but she felt homesick and to some extent thought Tel Aviv lacked certain things she had been relying upon to make the experience worthwhile and complete.

One of the main things she emphasised was that she had expected this to be a city full of live music culture, and that she was learning the violin. I pointed out that there were plenty of places to go, if she knew where to look, but this clearly was not enough to inspire her. Then, just as we walked down Ruppin to the end of the alley that runs down to Ben Yehuda, we suddenly heard the strains of violins and an accordion, playing Jewish or Central European music.

As a light drizzle turned into a full-scale downpour, complete with the crashing cymbals and drums of thunder and lightning, we ducked into the little pitzutzia at the foot of the alley, where half a dozen people were sitting under the awning at 1am, as three guys from Slovakia or somewhere nearby were playing merrily. The Bulgarian shopkeep merrily handed out pints of Czech draught beer, and gradually more and more people passing by, running to get out of the rain, came and huddled in this little corner shop.

The three men played for a solid hour and by the end, maybe 20 people were squeezed in under the shelter, clapping and singing. Arik was delighted and clearly reinvigorated, not least when one of the players let her play a few bars on his violin.

Only an hour or so earlier, when had just been trying to explain that this kind of small miracle makes up my daily experience here, she appreciated it and felt glad for me, but perhaps couldn't really grasp it for herself. Now, she seemed a different person, her eyes shining, a big beaming smile on her face.

And all of this in the rain! It's amazing how that first deluge of autumn doesn't actually dampen people's spirits here but seems to raise them. There is a sense of camaraderie when everyone is caught outside without coats and umbrellas, and a feeling of common sacrifice that although we may not get to have our 158th consecutive day on the beach, this country needs the water. It never lasts too long, as the novelty washes off, but it is delightful to read all the positive Facebook and Twitter updates from olim hadashim about that first moment of British weather.

I hope the forecast 4 days of solid rain will at least focus my mind on actually making a living and doing some work - to everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven, right? The glorious weather has put a wonderful gloss on my first few weeks here, but now to knuckle down and make a living, and see if the honeymoon lasts.

Now I am off to make some fresh baklava (almond and orange-blossom this week). Shabbat shalom!

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Glossary for the uninitiated (ie uncircumcised)

Ulpan - intensive Hebrew language school
Aliyah - Jewish immigration to Israel
Pitzutzia - little corner shop that always has something random for sale
Savlanut - patience
Chutzpah - blarney/cheek
Protectsia - network of useful people for any problem
Olim hadashim - new immigrants
Matkot - beach bat and ball game

I loved her, and now she is here

2009-10-18T08:06:00.003+01:00

Setting the scene: Freedmansdad has been out here for a long weekend while Freedmansmum and Freedmansister have a girlie (girdly?!) weekend in Lille. So too are the Cors, for a wedding (Ham is at home babysitting the toastie machine), and we met up with them for a drink on the beach (well, I sat there while the waitress pointedly refused to take my order - I guess she was one of those who take the Service Not Included thing on the bill quite literally here). Also flying through were one of Freedmansdad's old friends from back in the valleys, and his goody wife.

The leading questions they all had for me were of course whether I was settling in and whether I would stay, and also what made this place so special and better than London. I could only answer this through a series of anecdotes...

Avid readers of Freedmanslife will recall that I recently described my short time here as a life less ordinary. I said that I felt much more aware of my surroundings, much more in tune with people, nature and the world. I also thought I was in love with the city, and had this strange and magical sense that it loved me back. Perhaps there was some kind of Tel Aviv Syndrome (a cross between Jerusalem Syndrome [Type II] and Stockholm Syndrome but with fewer frummers than the former and better beaches than the latter).

I also felt that this was a place where finally I would find the time and space to become the person I always thought I was capable of - in fact, the person so many others always thought I could become, but that got bogged down in London, became listless and dull, and in relative terms to potential, really was a bit of a failure. I can be this self-critical now, because in just a few short weeks, I have started to turn it around.

This city and its people inspire me to read, write, debate, live a healthier lifestyle (so much that I have gained hair and lost belly at a rapid pace, and an old friend from London didn't recognise me standing next to him on the beach!), give myself quality time alone, blended with meaningful time with other people, try new recipes, hang out with artists, dancers and dandies (longstanding Freedmanslifers will understand this represents a radical change), take long walks, set challenges for myself (ie get fit enough to do shlav bet [short voluntary army service for new olim] and then walk the entire 1,000km Israel Trail - does this sound like the old Fatty Freedman?!) and actually put into practice all those things I said I would do a month ago.

Is this a honeymoon period? Maybe. But so many others I know who have moved here, some quite a few years ago, are still in it. So now I am pretty convinced that this is where I belong, because as the hackneyed expression goes, home is where the heart is.

Last week, I was having my daily sunset swim, when I felt a most powerful sensation that I had to turn around and look back at the beach. On doing so, my eye was drawn immediately to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I began to swim back to the shore, determined to go up and say something. No sooner had I got close to the beach than an even more powerful feeling overtook me, that it was vitally important not to speak to her after all.

So I sauntered on by, grabbed my towel and went for a shower, before heading up the steps behind the beach, to take my usual seat on a bench on the promenade and enjoy the sunset. As I made my way up, I passed a guy heading in the opposite direction. He was clearly dressed up a bit more than he might be usually, and was holding a large bouquet of flowers. Despite there being hundreds of people on the beach, I knew he was heading to that breathtaking girl.

And of course, that is exactly what he did. Even from a distance, I could see she was delighted to see him. Although I was desperate to know what the occasion was, the whole point was that she was someone very special whose special moment I had narrowly avoided casting a pall over, and I could hardly pop over and ask.

As I enjoyed another delicious ever-changing canvas of red and orange, misty greys and deep blues, and reflected on this, I felt profoundly connected to my surroundings, and comforted by the knowledge that one day I would be that guy coming down the steps at sunset.

Earlier in Freedmansdad's stay, I had told him I was no longer sure if I believed in coincidence, and indeed, since I had been here, every one of these "chance" encounters had been profound or practical. Last night I recounted some of this, and the sensation of being in a deep love affair with the city, to Valley and Goody as we headed up to the closing party of the Tel Aviv 100th anniversary celebrations. I think they thought I was a bit mad, until we arrived, and the chorus of the opening song, referring to this city, was "I loved her, and now she is here". As the fireworks went off, and the faces and facades of the city flashed up on a clever screen formed by a mist of water on the Yarkon River, I knew my love was not unrequited.

If I had any remaining doubts, they were dispelled, when after the fog of the fireworks started drifting away along with the audience, we turned around, and right in front of me were four of my most special Israeli friends, who I had yet to see since arriving. After a lot of hugging and kissing, we enjoyed a spectacular concert of some of Tel Aviv's greatest bands of the 80s and 90s, playing together for an immense crowd, in a wonderful, convivial atmosphere.

What a night. What a month. What a life.

She loved me, and now I am here.

Ahmedinejad is a Jew-hating self

2009-10-06T09:57:00.003+01:00

Okay, so even though the following appears in the Guardian, it does appear to be quite plausible:

Ahmadinejad has no Jewish roots

Rumours that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's family converted to Islam from Judaism are false. In fact, they are proud Shias, by Meir Javedanfar.

In June 2005, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's meteoric rise from mayor of Tehran to president of one of the most influential countries in the Middle East took everyone by surprise.

One of the main reasons for the astonishment was that so little was known about him.One recently published claim about his background comes from an article in the Daily Telegraph. Entitled "Mahmoud Ahmadinejad revealed to have Jewish past", it claims that his family converted to Islam after his birth. The claim is based on a number of arguments, a key one being that his previous surname was Sabourjian which "derives from weaver of the sabour, the name for the Jewish tallit shawl in Persia".

Professor David Yeroshalmi, author of The Jews of Iran in the 19th century and an expert on Iranian Jewish communities, disputes the validity of this argument. "There is no such meaning for the word 'sabour' in any of the Persian Jewish dialects, nor does it mean Jewish prayer shawl in Persian. Also, the name Sabourjian is not a well-known Jewish name," he stated in a recent interview. In fact, Iranian Jews use the Hebrew word "tzitzit" to describe the Jewish prayer shawl. Yeroshalmi, a scholar at Tel Aviv University's Center for Iranian Studies, also went on to dispute the article's findings that the "-jian" ending to the name specifically showed the family had been practising Jews. "This ending is in no way sufficient to judge whether someone has a Jewish background. Many Muslim surnames have the same ending," he stated.

Upon closer inspection, a completely different interpretation of "Sabourjian" emerges. According to Robert Tait, a Guardian correspondent who travelled to Ahmadinejad's native village in 2005, the name "derives from thread painter – sabor in Farsi – a once common and humble occupation in the carpet industry in Semnan province, where Aradan is situated". This is confirmed by Kasra Naji, who also wrote a biography of Ahmadinejad and met his family in his native village. Carpet weaving or colouring carpet threads are not professions associated with Jews in Iran.

According to both Naji and Tait, Ahmadinejad's father Ahmad was in fact a religious Shia, who taught the Quran before and after Ahmadinejad's birth and their move to Tehran. So religious was Ahmad Sabourjian that he bought a house near a Hosseinieh, a religious club that he frequented during the holy month of Moharram to mourn the martyrdom of Imam Hossein.

Moreover, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's mother is a Seyyede. This is a title given to women whose family are believed to be direct bloodline descendants of Prophet Muhammad. Male members are given the title of Seyyed, and include prominent figures such as Iran's supreme leader Ali Khamenei. In Judaism, this is equivalent to the Cohens, who are direct descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses. One has to be born into a Seyyed family: the title is never given to Muslims by birth, let alone converts. This makes it impossible for Ahmadinejad's mother to have been a Jew. In fact, she was so proud of her lineage that everyone in her native village of Aradan referred to her by her Islamic title, Seyyede.

The reason that Ahmadinejad's father changed his surname has more to do with the class struggle in Iran. When it became mandatory to adopt surnames, many people from rural areas chose names that represented their professions or that of their ancestors. This made them easily identifiable as townfolk. In many cases they changed their surnames upon moving to Tehran, in order to avoid snobbery and discrimination from residents of the capital.

The Sabourjians were one of many such families. Their surname was related to carpet-making, an industry that conjures up images of sweatshops. They changed it to Ahmadinejad in order to help them fit in. The new name was also chosen because it means from the race of Ahmad, one of the names given to Muhammad.

According to Ahmadinejad's relatives the new name emphasised the family's piety and their dedication to their religion and its founder. This is something that the president and his relatives in Tehran and Aradan have maintained to the present day. Not because they are trying to deny their past, but because they are proud of it.

Ahmedinejad is a self-hating Jew

2009-10-04T17:16:00.004+01:00

This one needs to be re-read a few times to be believed:

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad revealed to have Jewish past... vitriolic attacks on the Jewish world hide an astonishing secret, evidence uncovered by The Daily Telegraph shows.
By Damien McElroy and Ahmad Vahdat

A photograph of the Iranian president holding up his identity card during elections in March 2008 clearly shows his family has Jewish roots. A close-up of the document reveals he was previously known as Sabourjian – a Jewish name meaning cloth weaver.

The short note scrawled on the card suggests his family changed its name to Ahmadinejad when they converted to embrace Islam after his birth.

The Sabourjians traditionally hail from Aradan, Mr Ahmadinejad's birthplace, and the name derives from "weaver of the Sabour", the name for the Jewish Tallit shawl in Persia. The name is even on the list of reserved names for Iranian Jews compiled by Iran's Ministry of the Interior.

Experts last night suggested Mr Ahmadinejad's track record for hate-filled attacks on Jews could be an overcompensation to hide his past. Ali Nourizadeh, of the Centre for Arab and Iranian Studies, said: "This aspect of Mr Ahmadinejad's background explains a lot about him. "Every family that converts into a different religion takes a new identity by condemning their old faith. "By making anti-Israeli statements he is trying to shed any suspicions about his Jewish connections. He feels vulnerable in a radical Shia society."

A London-based expert on Iranian Jewry said that "jian" ending to the name specifically showed the family had been practising Jews. "He has changed his name for religious reasons, or at least his parents had," said the Iranian-born Jew living in London. "Sabourjian is well known Jewish name in Iran."

A spokesman for the Israeli embassy in London said it would not be drawn on Mr Ahmadinejad's background. "It's not something we'd talk about," said Ron Gidor, a spokesman.

The Iranian leader has not denied his name was changed when his family moved to Tehran in the 1950s. But he has never revealed what it was change from or directly addressed the reason for the switch. Relatives have previously said a mixture of religious reasons and economic pressures forced his blacksmith father Ahmad to change when Mr Ahmadinejad was aged four.

The Iranian president grew up to be a qualified engineer with a doctorate in traffic management. He served in the Revolutionary Guards militia before going on to make his name in hardline politics in the capital.

During this year's presidential debate on television he was goaded to admit that his name had changed but he ignored the jibe. However Mehdi Khazali, an internet blogger, who called for an investigation of Mr Ahmadinejad's roots was arrested this summer.

Mr Ahmadinejad has regularly levelled bitter criticism at Israel, questioned its right to exist and denied the Holocaust. British diplomats walked out of a UN meeting last month after the Iranian president denounced Israel's 'genocide, barbarism and racism.'

Benjamin Netanyahu made an impassioned denunciation of the Iranian leader at the same UN summit. "Yesterday, the man who calls the Holocaust a lie spoke from this podium," he said. "A mere six decades after the Holocaust, you give legitimacy to a man who denies the murder of six million Jews while promising to wipe out the State of Israel, the State of the Jews. What a disgrace. What a mockery of the charter of the United Nations."

Mr Ahmadinejad has been consistently outspoken about the Nazi attempt to wipe out the Jewish race. "They have created a myth today that they call the massacre of Jews and they consider it a principle above God, religions and the prophets," he declared at a conference on the holocaust staged in Tehran in 2006.

[ Incidentally I noticed that whilst Ahmedinevich is busy denying the Holocaust, the Taleban not only recognise it happened, but used it as the basis of a threat to German NATO troops in Afghanistan that they would wipe them out in a similar way to how the Nazis killed the Jews... ]

Goldstone's passion for works of fiction

2009-10-01T22:16:00.000+01:00

I have so far refrained from having a good old dig at Richard Goldstone for his quite incredible (I mean it literally, it's not credible) report for the UN on the Gaza operation. In part this is because Dershowitz (x3), Phillips et al have done such a good job already. I also found a peach from Evelyn Gordon about the use of proportion and force - not recommended for weak-hearted lefties. Even the Economist, which might generously be described as a critical and naive friend of Israel, managed to say something decent. And I had to pick myself up off the floor after reading an article from notoriously self-flagellating former Ha'aretz editor David Landau.

We already know the story of Goldstone sleeping through one of the sessions where residents of the bombed towns of Israel were giving evidence to his committee. But I had to share with you this little treasure which has somehow gone unreported in the British media, despite casting even more doubt over Goldstone's capabilities and ability to discern fact from fiction:

When Goldstone Indicted a Fictional Character (and a Dead Man)

by Nissan Ratzlav-Katz

Judge Richard Goldstone, whose recent United Nations Human Rights Council investigation purported to find evidence of Israeli war crimes in Gaza, once indicted a fictional Serbian character and a dead man for war crimes as well. As in Gaza, those indictments were also allegedly based on "eyewitness testimony."

Goldstone headed the Office of the Prosecutor for the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), established by the United Nations in 1993. In 1995, one year into his term as chief ICTY prosecutor, Goldstone presented an indictment of several Serbs for war crimes and crimes against humanity. As brought to light in the weekend edition of the Hebrew-language Makor Rishon newspaper, among those indicted was a man identified as "Gruban".

Gruban, later identified more fully as Gruban from Bijelo Polje, was charged with viciously raping Muslim prisoners in what was identified by the prosecution as essentially a Serbian concentration camp. His crimes were given weight by an anonymous individual identified only as "Witness F", who claimed to have suffered at the hands of the notorious war criminal.

As described by Makor Rishon, "Within just a few months, the black silhouette of 'Gruban' was plastered on a poster of the most wanted war criminals in Bosnia." At the time, Makor Rishon noted, the American newspaper The Boston Globe published an article wondering why the poster of "Gruban" stated that his description, father's name, location and age were all listed as "unknown".

The problem for NATO forces in tracking down the serial rapist was that Gruban from Bijelo Polje, also known as Gruban Malic, is a fictional character from Hero on a Donkey, a famous Serbian novel about World War II by Miodrag Bulatovic.

The Gruban hoax was the result of a conversation in a Bosnian cafe between Yugoslavian war correspondent Nebojsa Jevric and an American journalist desperate to see a "real war criminal", according to Makor Rishon. Jevric identified "Gruban Malic" by name as the Serbian people's "worst war criminal", having committed the most rapes.

After the indictment of "Gruban" became known, Jevric capitalized on his countrymen's bemused fascination with Goldstone's "investigation" and wrote a book called Hero on a Donkey Goes to The Hague. In the book he detailed how his comment to an American reporter took on a life of its own.

In 1998, even after the true identity of the "war criminal" was known, the charges against "Gruban Malic" were officially dropped for lack of evidence by Goldstone's successor. Thirteen other flesh-and-blood Serbs were also taken off the same ICTY indictment docket alongside "Gruban" - including a man that Goldstone indicted several years after he had already died.

Rav Freedman's Yom Kippur Message

2009-09-27T16:27:00.001+01:00

Tonight is the beginning of Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, and one of a handful that receives close to impeccable levels of observance (at least in public places) from even the most secular of Israelis, in terms of not eating, driving cars, yacking on mobiles etc. They do however let their kids go cycling and rollerblading down the middle of the totally deserted streets of the city, which is surreal and somehow incredibly beautiful - the buzz of traffic (especially the ubiquitous Israeli honking) replaced by the tinkle of bike bells and sound of children playing everywhere.

Somehow this juxtaposition seems quite appropriate: the solemnity of the day for adults, on a Jewish religious and spiritual level but also as the 36th anniversary of a war that blew away Israel's ideal of invulnerability post-'67; and teenage kids taking advantage of 2 miles of Dizengoff to build up a head of steam on their scooters.

This time of year is always a period of reflection, for the religious and secular, as families get together, broadcasters run their summaries of the year that was, (some) people go to shul in the old-fashioned way, and - even more than it usually does - being in a city composed almost entirely of other Jews, built by our own hand in just the last 100 years, I find myself more contemplative than ever (despite my minimal attendance at shul). I think about all the things I did last year, those I really shouldn't, and consider that the best way to seek forgiveness for the latter is by not doing them again, and striving to redeem myself by actively doing the right things (and doing things right - harming no-one but frittering away time and ability is almost as sinful in my view).

I particularly ponder why I am here - what draws me to Israel, not just on the practical level of it being a financial imperative, a natural break point in my life back in London, crammed full of gorgeous Jewish women at a time when (apparently) I ought to be thinking of settling down with one, and all under delicious blue skies and next to lapping waves.

Some avid readers have been kind enough to post the odd remark or comment on my notes so far, and some more forthright friends have voiced their opinions on my move here. Among these are "I always thought you would go, I am just surprised it took you this long", "why on earth would you live there... there's nothing there", "hope the honeymoon phase lasts", "soooo jealous", "wish I had the courage to do the same" and "still as impartial as ever, Michael!"

With this interesting blend of views in mind, I got to thinking about the bits I am less keen on. Not the obvious stuff that as a Brit abroad, I notice in most places, ie the total ignorance of the concept of personal space, the general barging and pushing by people and vehicles, the grudging service and so on. Israeli society is a long way from perfect, and I question (as do many others) why I would trade the apparent comforts of London life for the daily challenges of living here.

There are problems here on so many levels, with a religious-secular divide, an Arab-Jewish divide, an Israeli-Palestinian divide, a Sephardi-Ashkenazi divide, all the lovely neighbours, water shortages, lack of recycling, general pollution and litter, the fact that having a country has just changed the nature of the Wandering Jew into something more optional, the general level of corruption and protectsia and so on. Then there are all the same ones we suffer from in the UK - a widening gulf between the elite and the poor, alarming levels of hidden poverty, over-reliance on the state by too many sectors of society, concerns about education and health, and the impact of a global financial crisis.

However, the difference I see here, and this is what compels me to be here, is that these are our problems. For all that people in every country like a good old grizzle about such problems, the blame is usually placed on the government or the mystical "they", no practical solutions are mooted, let alone ones which the debaters feel like trotting off and implementing themselves, and the end result is usually a polite but resigned sigh then a cup of tea (British goyim) or a throwing up of hands in the air and an oy va voy then a cup of tea (British Jews).

Here, it is a pretty small country, and the constant interference in each other's personal space and good old protectsia do have their uses. People who feel strongly about something can - and often do - get off their butts and try to fix it. This is the entrepreneurial nature of society, on a commercial and social level. See a disease, an injustice, an empty patch of land, a gap in the market, an opinion that needs a counter-argument, and go do something about it.

For me this is the Israeli way. Or at least, it was.

My greatest concern for Israel is that young people here are tired. They are tired of creating your heart and cancer drugs, your mobile phone chips, your laptops, your desalination and solar technologies, your irrigation systems, your instant messenger, your citrus fruit, only to receive endless calls for a boycott of Israeli goods.

They are tired of silently suffering 8,000 rockets aimed at them with no international condemnation, tired of responding by emailing, texting and leafleting the civilians near the rockets to please step aside, before putting troops on the ground at great risk to check if they left before firing back, when airstrikes would be safer for them, tired of the anonymous and unproven claims of systematic abuse of civilian populations and property during this mission, tired of the world believing every one of the blood libels spread by a side that threw its own brothers off buildings, tired of having to keep checkpoints because although they are inconvenient, they do cut the threat of bombs, tired of removing hundreds of them at their own risk, but getting no thanks from anyone, least of all the Palestinians, tired of being the ones to make concession after concession when the reward for doing so is 8,000 rockets.

And you know what? Sixty-one years of living in this neighbourhood, trying to make peace with neighbours in a white Western Ashkenazi philosophical manner, trying to "civilise" them, has not worked. In fact I think the opposite is starting to happen. Instead, they are brutalising us.

Let us not just blame the average Palestinian in the street - it is the result of years of steady inculcation of the message that Jews have no claim over any part of this region, that Jews are evil, that Jews drink the blood of Palestinian children, that Jews killed Mohammed al-Durra, that Jews invented the Holocaust.

For as we tumbled into a chicken-and-egg of being attacked, having to occupy these people, thereby unintentionally and unwillingly reinforcing these myths, and creating the next generation of attackers, the world did not stand idly by. Far from it. The world perpetuated this state of affairs by funding the camps, the textbooks, the weaponry, by allowing the smuggling, the revision of history, the barrage of rockets, by failing to even maintain a pretence of impartiality in its reporting, its institutional rulings, its policies.

So to all those people out there in the world, who really believe they are fair-minded decent liberal people, and if only nasty little Israel would learn to behave, everything would resolve itself nicely, my message this Yom Kippur is this. You should look at yourselves and understand that you hate Israel because we are a reflection of you. A quote from Stephen King's article in the Irish Examiner - "could it actually be that we see Israelis as very much like ourselves – sophisticated, prosperous, well-educated, fairly pale-skinned democrats? Do we hate ourselves that much?"

I propose that you are so terrified of having this same situation on your own doorstep on a daily basis, and more so, terrified of how you would react, whether submissively or repressively, that you demonise Israel even as it struggles with these demons on a daily basis.

Abbas, Erekat et al have admitted in the past few months (just not to the English-speaking media) that they will effectively never sign a peace treaty. They retained the right to try and wipe out Israeli in their constitution, they stated that there is only Allah above and below the Temple Mount (ie even a theoretical Jewish/Israeli right to what is under the Dome of the Rock would be rejected because the Muslim world would tolerate no less, and how can any Israeli government - especially one in coalition with the frummers, sign that away?!), and they continue with the usual equivocations elsewhere. And these are the "moderates"!

This is a conundrum for the world to resolve - cue throwing up of hands and an exasperated sigh, followed by a cup of tea and a spot of BBC News.

To Israelis and to Jews everywhere, my message is that we do not have to be brutalised by our neighbours, enemies and critics, and we should not try to impose our own cultural and philosophical norms on them.

For the Jews, whether in the Diaspora or Israel, instead let us look to ourselves, to all the problems we need to fix internally. Why is there such visceral hatred between settlers and peaceniks, even though they both love Israel and their enemies want them both dead or exiled (just maybe in order)? Why do I not have a mixed-recycling bin as even backward Blighty manages in many areas? Why does the Gordon Beach manage to look pristine on the sand and in the water most days, but is still subject to a layer of flotsam and debris on others? Why must Israeli drivers continue to kill more civilians than the rockets and bomb-belts? Why can't Israeli society learn that Jews have been around for six millenia, outliving every other tribe and nation, including the ones who tried to wipe us out, and therefore show just a little care and patience when it comes to customer service, waiting, queuing, giving a smile every now and then? Why is anyone homeless or hungry in this land, where we have several billionaires, GDP per capital that competes with Europe, and we "have never seen a righteous person in need"?

Why does everyone use the excuse of "this is the Middle East" to explain away every problem (including why Israel is maybe becoming more desensitised to brutality and violence) when the Bauhaus architecture, phenomenal technology, H&M and Ikea, obsession with education, constant self-flagellation, democracy, social liberalism, melting-pot of opinions and beliefs, and easy ability to obtain schnitzel clearly mark us out as a Western society, regardless of which shore we have washed up on?

We are in a unique and blessed situation. Israel was formed by "kibbutz galuyot", the ingathering of exiles - but it is also "Kibbutz Galuyot" in the sense of being a commune of people from the world over, with their ideas, experiences and enthusiasm, and despite the Israeli post-army wanderlust, still nowhere else to go that accepts us and that we can really call home.

All those years of galut mean we have built up some incredible attributes and experience in how to make the best of what we have, how to make the transient into the permanent, how to give to those around us even as they restrict, spite and persecute us, how we tread the line between their grudging respect and seething jealousy. We do this by looking after ourselves first - the family unit, the synagogue, the shtetl, the community, the city, and now that we have our own country, we can try to improve our nation as a whole.

For the Jews, cue throwing up of hands, an oy va voy and a cup of tea. But after Yom Kippur, let us start finding some solutions for our own problems.

A life less ordinary

2009-09-16T17:20:00.003+01:00

I think I am in love. At least, the whole movie schtick about being in love is that all your senses are heightened, and you become almost autistically aware of everything around you in a heady and pulsating new way. Well, if this is the case, I am in love with Tel Aviv.

A simple jaunt to the beach near to sunset brings with it a series of very Israeli cameos.

Firstly, as I come down onto Ruppin, there's the mother with two children in the back of the car, the car wedged into a space about 3 inches longer than the vehicle, warning her kids (in Hebrew - I think I understood this correctly but some of the vocab hasn't come up in my first 4 days of ulpan) that "mummy has to make some bumpies to get the car out so hold on".

Just around the corner on Shalag, I notice a middle-aged lady outside an old block with no lift, in heated discussion with a guy on the ground floor and another on a top floor balcony. They have installed a very neat little winch system and have hooked up crates full of the lady's shopping, and are having the classic 3 Jews, 4 opinions moment on how to get the goods to the 4th floor. I consider adding a 5th and even 6th perspective, but there is a picture-postcard moment in front of me as the sun drops behind a fluffy cloud and a halo of dusty pink rays shoot out in every direction.

As I come down the ramp to Gordon Beach, a very large labrador has just spotted a tiny little bassett and decided to make friends. The owners are giggling away as the lab appears to give it a sloppy kiss on the forehead. One of those instants that ends up on the nasty black-tinged posters with tacky quotations that you used to get in Athena (z"l).

Down on the sand, it's 6.15pm and I think about my friends in London as I kick off my flip-flops and dive into crystal-clear bath-water temperature seas, tinged a lovely ochre by the setting sun. Then I focus on the native wildlife. Sorry, assorted Wifeys!

After an invigorating swim, I trot off to take a shower. A twentysomething Russian dolly-bird is walking along with the tiniest little baby greyhound, which sprints to the foot-washing taps for a frolic, much to the delight of a blonde toddler, who shrieks with delight as it runs around her.

I head up from the beach, a beatific smile across my face, thinking it has been a proper Lou Reed Perfect Day. Halfway up Shalag I realise I left my keys somewhere on the beach. About-turn, more glowing sunset, more dogs, more cute owners, still a great day.

It truly sinks in why Rav Kook always signed letters from his house in Neve Tzedek as "Tel Aviv, Iyr HaKodesh" - Tel Aviv, holy city.

My love affair is such that I am looking at myself in a whole new way. I walk a little taller, I am prepared to make changes and personal compromises to ensure this relationship works, I can imagine myself becoming a better person with every moment together. I want to gain knowledge and lose weight. I want to gain insight on my self and lose my fear of the 'other'. I want to gain experience and lose inhibitions. I want to be free and yet I can best achieve that by committing to this place.

Someone implied recently that my postings on Israel are not objective; I say to you that this is a place I defend with passion as well as reason, because I love it, and I think it loves me back.

With thanks to Berlinerstrasse for also daring to dream.

Five months of Fizzybubbly

2009-09-15T13:47:00.002+01:00

Well, there has been a heck of a hiatus since my last posting, but now I am happily settled in Tel Aviv for a 5 month test run ahead of a possible decision to make aliyah. I will try and post regularly with news and views, especially as this will save dramatically on repetitive emails and phone conversations.

A brief explanation of how I got here and why, as my departure seems to have taken some by surprise, despite the 4 different leaving shindigs and efforts to reach everyone by text, email and Facebook. Basically since we got the flat out here about 5 years ago, I have spent 3 months a year enjoying being in Israel, but never for more than 3-4 weeks at a time. With a business to run in the UK, I felt compelled to return and make a go of it, but finally a few months ago I decided to give it a shot. With the forthcoming end of my lease making a natural break-point and a feeling that I was just as unlikely to make a decent amount of money here as in London in the current economic climate, I bit the bullet.

So with the fantastic help of Marlon the black/white van man and Grandpa's garage, I put all my stuff in storage (about 70 crates, a dozen large bags, 60 bottles of booze), booked my bmi ticket with specially schnorrered gold status, and flew off into the sunset.

Now I am safely ensconced in Tel Aviv, have had 3 days of ulpan so far, and am generally having a fantastic time. If I can find a way to eke out a reasonable living, then it's hard to think of any compelling reasons to come back to Blighty. Every day I speak to or email someone and they mention the shit weather, or broken Tube, or dead economy, whilst here the cafes are full, the nightlife is vibrant, the weather is a steady 30 degrees by day and 20 by night, and need I mention the women?

Also as I am in the shadow of Iran's mushroom cloud for a few months, I am once again invigorated with the urge to fight back against the combined efforts of the world media, the Axis of Feeble in DC (Zbig/Hilldog/Obummer), and the wonderful so-called humanitarian organisations with their warped sense of do-gooding.

On this note, a quick celebratory gloat at the exposure of Marc Garlasco as a Nazi obsessive. You might remember I mentioned him in a posting back in January, when the world was having one of its regular feeding frenzies at Israel's expense. Here's what I wrote:

For example, the "neutral" "expert" from "Human Rights Watch", Marc Garlasco. Here is a little snippet about him, and a link to Honest Reporting's article on him, HRW, and some of their previous handiwork. Now whilst the killing of this doctor's family was clearly a tragic accident (unless you are Bowen, Garlasco or Gilbert of course), the IDF's initial reaction was that if they did hit the house with a shell, there was a reason it was targetted. Then they started to carry out a fuller investigation and I found this coverage of the actual tank unit commander's comments.

At the time, I had a bad feeling about him and the various other parties who kept cropping up in the world's media. Now it transpires he has a bit of a Nazi fetish. And it must be true, because I read it here on the BBC. Just the kind of guy to check out allegations of Isreali human rights abuses. He is taken to task in this fabulous article over at Mere Rhetoric.

That's about it for the moment. L'hitra'ot, ani holech lahof!

There are 70 conflicts worldwide, so why do we focus on just one?

2009-05-22T11:49:00.002+01:00

Original article by Stephen King appeared on May 13 in the Irish Examiner

Yes, there is public feeling about the Palestinians and their rotten deal. I’ve never heard Chechnya being discussed on the DART, whereas I have heard Israel being trashed on buses as well as at smart dinner parties. Besides, who’s ever heard of a "Sri Lanka out of Tamil Eelam" march through Cork or calls for a boycott of Russia? I owe Micheál Martin an apology of sorts. I admit that when I read media reports of his discussions with Ban Ki-moon in New York at the weekend my eyes rolled up to the heavens.

The country’s most senior representative to the rest of the world has a rare opportunity to raise Ireland’s issues with the UN secretary-general and what’s his top priority? Yes, you guessed it – Gaza.

It’s not that Gaza isn’t an important issue facing the world. It is. What Gaza is not, though, is an issue where Europe, let alone Ireland, can wield much positive influence. Gaza will only be sorted when the Arab states, the US and Israel – probably in that order – decide it should be sorted.

But I was wrong. I had swallowed the media line. Yes, Micheál Martin and Ban Ki-moon did talk about Gaza, but it was just one subject among others.

In fact, when you look at the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) press release, the first item of discussion listed was one where Ireland has a very direct interest, namely Chad.

So what caused my blood pressure to rise? Was Gaza the topic the DFA’s spindoctors were pushing? Possibly. Was the position on Gaza the most objectively newsworthy? Again, possibly: the Pope is in the region and Ireland tends to be at one end of the European spectrum of opinion on anything to do with Israel.

The third possibility, and the one that seems to me most likely, is that the media has a fixation on Israel (and its supposed crimes) which is, for want of a better word, disproportionate. That’s why the line about Gaza led several media reports of Minister Martin’s meeting.

If I were Jewish, I would be told I’m paranoid for thinking the world and its media are out to get me. After all, the fact that Israel is the world’s one and only Jewish state – amidst a vast ocean of Muslim states – inevitably makes many Jewish people think it’s them, and not Israel as such, which is in the media’s sights. But I’m not Jewish. Besides, just because people are paranoid doesn’t mean others aren’t out to get them.

A quick scan of the world’s trouble spots makes my point. The well-respected International Crisis Group is currently tracking 70 conflicts around the world, from Afghanistan and Algeria to Yemen and Zimbabwe. Yes, 70: we live in a dangerous world.

Some of these are very familiar to us: Northern Ireland, Iraq, the Basque country, North Korea and, of course, Israel and the Palestinian territories. Others are not nightly news: Kashmir, Burma, Eritrea and so on. And then there are the conflicts we have forgotten about, or never really heard about too much because they are far away or poor, or both: Armenia versus Azerbaijan, Mindanao in the Philippines, Morocco/western Sahara and Aceh.

Some of the 70 hotspots are especially deadly. Millions of black Africans have died in Congo in the past decade, well below most people’s radar.

Sri Lanka has had a bit of a focus in recent weeks – though hardly the minute-by-minute wraparound coverage Gaza had in January. How many of us were really aware of the fact that more than 80,000 people have died in a quarter of a century of civil war?

Try this. Google "Tamil Tigers" and you will receive 2.3 million results. Google "Hamas" and you get 10 times as many – and Hamas hasn’t been around nearly as long. It’s the same if you Google "Tamils" and "Palestinians". Is the difference that the Tigers might have killed Rajiv Gandhi but, unlike the Palestinians, have rarely brought their murderous tactics to Europe directly? The Sri Lankan conflict, at least in its military phase, looks as though it is coming to an end. The work of peace-building will last for years to come.

The same could be said about Chechnya. The Russians have just announced the end of their "counter-terrorism" operation. There are no solid figures for the number of civilians killed since the second war began there in late 1999, but estimates range anywhere between 25,000 and 200,000.

Put that in context. Israel might be geographically small – smaller than Munster – but in population terms Chechnya is absolutely tiny. A region with a little more than one million inhabitants has seen anything up to one-fifth of its civilian population killed in two decades of war. And one school siege aside, we have largely looked the other way.

By comparison, 6,000 Palestinians – armed and civilian together – out of a Palestinian population in the territories three to four times that of Chechnya have died since the second intifada of 2001.

It goes without saying that any civilian death is a tragedy – and, very often, an outrage – but search for Chechnya on the DFA website and you only receive one-tenth of the number of hits that you do for Israel. No-one believes the DFA is somehow in league with the Russians and supports their quasi-colonial war against Chechnya, but it does go to show some perspective has been lost somewhere along the line.

Yes, there is public feeling about the Palestinians and their rotten deal. I’ve never heard Chechnya being discussed on the DART, whereas I have heard Israel being trashed on buses as well as at smart dinner parties. Besides, who’s ever heard of a "Sri Lanka out of Tamil Eelam" march through Cork or calls for a boycott of Russia?

But whose fault is that? Dare I suggest, the media? As a result, Israel has learned a lesson from the Russians and the Sri Lankans: impose a media ban and the world leaves you pretty much alone. No one could condone the ban during the Gaza offensive – and being host to the world’s second largest press corps, after Washington, means you pay a high price in terms of stroppy hacks – but it does seem to work.

SO WHY why the obsession with Israel? It’s the only country in the world whose existence is queried is one reason. It’s the Holy Land to the world’s two largest faiths is another. That al-Qaeda sometimes backs the Palestinian cause makes Israel/Palestine strategically important – but that’s true of Chechnya, too.

Maybe it’s the oil in the Middle East region that makes Arab countries important in western capitals (while distracting from their own despotism)?

Could it be some wrongheaded notion of guilt for having set up Israel after the Holocaust, when actually Israel fought British imperialism for its independence? Could it be, as many Israelis believe, that we see Israelis as Jews and, therefore, as bloodthirsty sub-humans in the latest manifestation of centuries-old anti-semitism?

Or is it just anti-Americanism? Perhaps it’s a little to do with each of these factors. But could it actually be that we see Israelis as very much like ourselves – sophisticated, prosperous, well-educated, fairly pale-skinned democrats? Do we hate ourselves that much? It’s either that or Israel simply isn’t deadly enough to deter the journalists too afraid to work in fly-ridden Congo.

Gaza for breakfast, back to the pool at the American Colony Hotel in time for tea, and pick up an attractive girl or strapping lad at a bar after dinner. Same again tomorrow, please. Just try doing that in Darfur.

Bluebirds grounded

2009-04-28T23:20:00.004+01:00

A quick footy-related posting. Cardiff City have managed their usual success at snatching defeat from the jaws of glorious victory by spending the last 3 matches getting one solitary point, by scraping a 2-2 draw with a couple of late goals against rock-bottom Charlton. Their other two fixtures saw a 6-0 drubbing at Preston, the only team who could realistically catch them for the last play-off place, and an ignominious 3-0 home reverse to Ipswich, a team with nothing to play for except avoiding the wrath of famously hot-headed new gaffer Roy Keane, in Ninian Park's final ever league game before their move to the new place across the road.

Why is this surprising, special, worthy of comment? SOmething that has seemingly gone totally unnoticed by footy fans is the real possibility of a bizarre play-off for the play-offs scenario. Under Football League rules, if two teams finish the season with identical points, goal difference and goals scored, and there is something to play for (ie a place in the play-offs for promotion), then the two teams must play a special play-off to determine who finishes highest.

Here is a part of the latest league table:

	Played	Pts	Goals Diff	Goal Scored
Wolverhampton	45	87	27	79
Birmingham	45	80	16	52
Sheff Utd	45	79	25	64
Reading	45	77	33	71
Cardiff	45	74	13	65
Burnley	45	73	8	68
Preston	45	71	11	64
Swansea	45	68	14	63

I have included Swansea just to rub it in that they cannot get into the play-offs. Small comforts...

Now look at Cardiff and Preston's records. If Cardiff were to lose by a single goal, be it any given scoreline, and Preston were to win by that same scoreline, they would be exactly tied, and for the first time ever (I think!), the top seven would all make it into the play-offs, with Cardiff and Preston facing each other in a preliminary round.

Wonder what odds you'd have got at the beginning of the season that a team effectively finishing seventh could make it into the Premiership?!

None of this is of any comfort; I am pretty sure Preston will romp home with a fantastic end-of-season performance, while Cardiff will cave in miserably to a Sheffield Wednesday side who have absolutely nothing to play for and are mentally already halfway to the Costa del Bling for their summer break.

Ahmedinejihad

2009-04-20T14:48:00.002+01:00

So some of the spineless diplomats who didn't manage to boycott the Geneva charade did at least manage to wriggle out on their shameful serpent bellies during Ahmedinejihad's speech. Even by his standards, it was totally nuts - just the kind of finger one wants on the nuclear trigger. He started with the classic "Palestine was expropriated by the Jooz" tirade, which prompted a first wave of walkouts, then ranted on through Israel being "a most cruel and racist regime" and "genocide of the innocent Palestinians while the world stood by", before explicitly blaming "the Zionists" for the war on Iraq.

Still, all credit to him for his oratory skills, he kept steadily spitting bile as a solid hundred delegates got up and huffed out, not to mention a couple of protestors running in wearing very funky wigs.

Needless to say, the BBC managed its usual spin, with a preview report saying how the whole thing had been made a farce by all the nasty boycotters, then managing not to translate his speech. Prior to that, an interview with an expert about North Korea's nuclear arsenal was quickly turned by the Beeb anchor into a discussion about Israel's nuclear ambiguity, and suggesting that Israel could just declare then give up its weapons in return for Iran ceasing their nuclear programme. Nice one.

A little affirmation is needed; may I first recommend readers to Calev's wonderful blog, In The Land Of Milk And Honey, and secondly I am cribbing a passage from Amos Oz that he just used, by way of sticking two fingers up to Ahmedinejad, the people who stayed on the conference floor, and the continued insidious bias of the BBC.

Then he [my father] told me in a whisper, without once calling me Your Highness or Your Honour, what some hooligans did to him and his brother David in Odessa and what some gentile boys did to him at his Polish school in Vilna, and the girls joined in too, and the next day, when his father, Grandpa Alexander, came to the school to register a complaint, the bullies refused to return the torn trousers but attacked his father, Grandpa, in front of his eyes, forced him down on the paving stones and removed his trousers too in the middle of the playground, and the girls laughed and made dirty jokes, saying that Jews were all so-and-sos, while the teachers watched and said nothing, or maybe they were laughing too.

And still in a voice of darkness with his hand still losing its way in my hair (because he was not used to stroking my hair) my father told me under my blanket in the early hours of the thirtieth of November 1947, ‘Bullies may well bother you in the street or at school some day. They may do it precisely because you are a bit like me. But from now on, from the moment we have our own state, you will never be bullied just because you are a Jew and because Jews are so-and-sos. Not that. Never again. From tonight that’s finished here. For ever.’

Dur-brain

2009-04-20T00:49:00.002+01:00

Good heavens. Are my eyes deceiving me? Here is someone very senior from the UN commenting on the "Durban 2" extravaganza of Israel-bashing taking place in Geneva:

"A handful of states have permitted one or two issues to dominate their approach to this issue, allowing them to outweigh the concerns of numerous groups of people that suffer racism and similar forms of intolerance to a pernicious and life-damaging degree on a daily basis all across the world."

Indeed, it is horrific that the Organisation of the Islamic Conference, along with their fellow human-rights-abusing, oil-weapon-wielding, Jew-bashing friends Venezuela, Russia et al, should use this as a tool for anti-Semitism and tedious attacks on Israel, when there are so many other things going on in the...

...hold on...some interference on the line...what's this...ah...I see...so...got it...orftorfu, you say...yes...yes...uh huh...business as usual then...thanks!

Sorry about that dear reader, it seems I made a mistake. That quotation from the beeyatch UN head honcho of this conference is actually aimed at AUSTRALIA, ISRAEL, THE USA, HOLLAND ETC for walking out in protest at the appropriation of the conference agenda to solely attack Israel and the Jooz.

Hopefully she will bury her head so far in the sand she'll strike some choice Arab crude and choke to death on it.

Back in TLV

2009-04-19T09:42:00.004+01:00

After a 10-week hiatus, I am finally getting back on the horse and blogging again. I was just thinking about what to write, as I sit at Ruppin Villas, with the BBC news on in the background. Lo and behold, Lize Ducet is hosting a debate on - get this - "Do the Palestinians have a partner for peace in Netanyahu?"

The delightful Abdul Bari Atwan is peddling the standard Palestinian line. I always think he looks like a sleepy hound dog. He speaks in that totally stereotypical Arabic-English voice, throwing in plenty of quavering emotional crap. Hilariously he makes a slip and says Israel could have dealt with "moderates like Arafat... I mean Abbas"!

Most of the debate is a yawn-fest in which the British and American folks on the panel try to stick to blandishments, whilst Bari Fatwa peddles his nonsense and the Israeli guy, Saul Zadka of some unheard-of agency, and formerly of Ha'aretz, plods along with his heavily accented English and blunt, boring counter-arguments. He fails to question very much of the others' statements, for example he leaves unchallenged such phrases as "Netanyahu is opposed to a two-state solution" and "Israel's government coalition is extreme right-wing."

Then the debate switches to a discussion on the worldwide recession and even Bari Fatwa has something reasonable to say, whilst the dumb Israeli sits twiddling his thumbs and looking like a one-trick pony. This is the time to point out that Israel's banks largely avoided sub-prime, that Israel is slowing down but is going to have a much milder recession, and this shows that Netanyahu's policies in the past as Finance Minister, and his suggestion that the best way to cut a deal with the Palestinians is through "economic peace" is a realistic option. Instead he gets a laugh from the panel by meekly agreeing with Bari Fatwa that Gordon Brown is a pillock.

Useless bloody Zionists.

Meanwhile, a bit earlier on in the trip, I read an excellent piece by the wonderful David Horovitz of the Jerusalem Post. Note the references to Saeb Erekat's recent interview on Al-Jazeera. Want to know if we have a partner for peace with the "moderates" of Fatah? Really think there is a workable solution? Wake up and smell the white phosphorus. Here is a choice morsel of Erekat's interview:

"Yasser Arafat said to Clinton defiantly: 'I will not be a traitor. Someone will come to liberate it after 10, 50, or 100 years. Jerusalem will be nothing but the capital of the Palestinian state, and there is nothing underneath or above the Haram Al-Sharif except for Allah.' That is why Yasser Arafat was besieged, and that is why he was killed unjustly."

Let that sink in a bit. Arafat denied that the Temple Mount had any Jewish connotations, therefore was unwilling to concede even the idea of Palestinian sovereignty on the ground with theoretical Jewish sovereignty of what was underneath. Erekat and Abbas concur with this, and Erekat even suggests Arafat was KILLED by Israel for this. The full interview is translated here at MEMRI.

We will never have peace with the Palestinians, unless we want a civil war of our own when the frummers turn on an Israeli government for allowing the destruction of what is left of the Temple.

So I find myself in this bizarre position where the more time I spend here in TLV, the more I think about aliyah, love the lifestyle, and wonder what I am doing in London, but then I see things like that and think I would be a better Zionist by being back in Blighty defending Israel properly. In either event, do I really want to spend the next few years wheeler-dealing, or should I be doing something more meaningful? Some big questions...

Editor's Notes: Home truths about Gaza

2009-04-09T10:28:00.001+01:00

Superb piece by David Horovitz, editor of the Jerusalem Post:

Are we losing the capacity to distinguish between what we know from our own experiences to be true or credible and what others would have the world believe about us?

In a Jerusalem Post supplement that will appear next week to mark the end of Pessah, Esther Wachsman, whose son Nachshon was kidnapped by Hamas in 1994 and killed in a Palestinian village not far from Jerusalem as the IDF tried to come to his rescue, describes poignantly how the family came to choose his name.

The family's third son, he was born at Pessah time in 1975, and they decided to name him in honor of Nachshon the son of Aminadav, the man who had the guts to trust God and test the waters, the man who leapt into the Red Sea confident that his people would be able to cross, the man who showed the children of Israel the path to their destiny.

Israel cries out for such a figure today... or such a mindset: the confidence to set a path of national destiny, to unify behind it, and to pursue it for our own benefit and that of like-minded nations, leaving our enemies helpless in our wake.

Israel has faced, and faced down, more daunting hostile challenges in its brief modern history than those posed today by the toxic mix of demonization and violence championed by Iran and offshoots such as Hamas and Hizbullah. Surviving the first moments of statehood in 1948, when a few hundred thousand pioneering Israelis prevailed against armies drawn from surrounding populations in the tens of millions, was only the first of many improbable victories.

It was a series maintained through the decades, notably including the Six Day War and the Yom Kippur War, all the way through to the second intifada, when the Palestinians dispatched suicide bombers in a calculated, strategic onslaught that was designed to terrorize our nation and encourage us to take the only sensible course of action - to flee. Yet even with buses and cafes and shopping malls blown up week after week, and much of a watching world branding us the architect of our own misery because we had resisted suicidal terms for Palestinian independence, the people of modern Israel did not flee; we stayed, we rethought, and we learned to protect ourselves more effectively.

But in the years since then, those who seek our demise have rethought as well. We sought to construct hermetic physical barriers to the suicide bomber onslaught. From south Lebanon and Gaza, Hizbullah and then Hamas simply cleared those obstacles by firing missiles over them, and every effort is being made to do likewise from the West Bank.

Protecting Israel cannot now be achieved by walls and fences and defensive measures; the rockets have to be stopped at source - and the source of the rockets, as ruthlessly determined by the Palestinians who manufacture and launch them, lies in the heart of the civilian populace. By cynical design, those who would kill our citizens thus ensure that their people are killed when we try to thwart the attacks - so that we are forced to fight not only to protect ourselves, but to protect our good name and our legitimacy as we do so.

This creates a somewhat complex reality - in which war footage and death tolls emphatically do not tell the full story of our conflicts, and yet that story is told, and is misunderstood, largely in a mix of misleading images and statistics. Still, internalizing the true picture - of an Israeli nation seeking to defend itself against a cynical, dishonest Palestinian terror leadership whose religiously inspired loathing for us far outweighs its concerns for the well-being of its own people - is not impossibly challenging, not for those with the earnest will to look a little more carefully.

Operation Cast Lead, Israel's turn-of-the-year military effort to halt the rocket fire from Gaza, however, seems to have marked something of a turning point as regards the willingness to look a little more carefully, to probe beyond the daily images of war and the casualty tolls.

Indeed, the furor surrounding purported testimonies from a small group of soldiers back from the war - the soldiers whose stories were compiled by the Rabin pre-army program's Danny Zamir - would suggest that a growing proportion even of our own people, we Israelis, are losing the capacity to distinguish between what we know from our own experiences to be true or credible and what others would have the world believe about us.

THE IDF is a people's army which directly touches us almost all of us. We all serve in it ourselves, and/or have relatives and friends and colleagues who do.

Almost all of us knew soldiers who directly experienced the Second Lebanon War, and came home with sorry tales of inadequate training, equipment and supplies. Almost all of us know soldiers who served in Operation Cast Lead. And what we didn't hear directly was supplemented by what we saw and heard and read about in the media.

We knew that the IDF was drawn into a civilian theater of war by an enemy that had placed rockets inside mosques, booby-trapped schools and deployed snipers in apartment buildings. We knew, too, because IDF commanders were permitted to say so publicly, that the army had changed tactics in the wake of events such as the ambush in Jenin refugee camp in 2002, in which 13 soldiers lost their lives, and that there was a readier resort to fire power in areas of military operation.

We knew, for instance, that the IDF leafleted areas where it was tackling Hamas, and urged Palestinian civilians by radio and in countless phone calls to leave. If it then came under fire from a particular building in such an area, we heard commanders detail, rather than send in soldiers to their possible deaths, it called for air support and, if necessary, took the building down.

We knew that mistakes were made - how could they not be in so densely populated an area at a time of war? Somewhere amid the self-flagellation of the Zamir soldiers' stories, we seemed to forget that the IDF killed several of its own soldiers in the bloody chaos of conflict. Inevitably, there were Palestinian noncombatants, many Palestinian noncombatants, killed in error in a conflict in which teenagers and the elderly were known to be potential suicide bombers, in which Hamas gunmen fought out of uniform and sometimes fired from within civilian crowds, in which any notion of Palestinian fighters following rules of war was nonsensical.

Credible sources, furthermore, suggest that, post-war, there has been considerable debate within the IDF about the difficulties of reconciling traditional IDF military ethics with the problematics posed by the nature of the civilian-theater conflict Hizbullah and Hamas have concocted: Where is the correct path between safeguarding troops and minimizing harm to civilians, and was it followed this time?

This newspaper, when news broke of the Rabin academy graduates' "testimonies," sought to measure their credibility by traditional journalistic standards. How dependable was the source? Were the testifying soldiers named? Could they be contacted to verify their accounts?

By definition, such assessments have to be made rapidly, decisions taken against the pressures of deadlines, and all newspapers inevitably get some of them wrong. But since the soldiers themselves were not named and not contactable, and since doubts about the accuracy of their accounts surfaced almost immediately, it was rapidly decided to carry those initial stories on the inside pages of the paper.

Danny Zamir's unexpected declaration to this newspaper on Tuesday that he had been horrified by the worldwide controversy sparked by his soldiers' accounts was, to put it mildly, hard to reconcile with his earlier stance and expressions. Now, Zamir says that the IDF "tried to protect civilians in the most crowded place in the world. There were no orders to kill civilians or any summary executions or things like that. There were problems, but problems the army can deal with."

The narrow focus in his own op-ed article (reprinted on Tuesday in the Post) on The New York Times in particular and the international media in general is disingenuous, too; it was parts of the Hebrew media, notably Haaretz and Ma'ariv, that first splashed the damning accusations he had compiled of permissive rules of engagement producing specific incidents in which civilians were deliberately shot dead. It was a Haaretz reporter who flatly stated that "the soldiers are not lying, for the simple reason that they have no reason to... This is what the soldiers, from their point of view, saw in Gaza."

Except, it turns out, they didn't. Their "testimony" was hearsay, and untrue.

FROM ISRAEL'S front-pages, in the sadly predictable rat-pack world of what passes for global journalism these days, Zamir's compilation became the most prominent story on earth for a few days - headlining major newspapers, leading global newscasts, demolishing yet more of Israel's legitimacy, turning Chief of Staff Gabi Ashkenazi's insistence that the IDF is a "moral army" into an international bad joke.

With newspapers closing down, resources evaporating and reporters' buckling under ever-heavier pressures of work, it should be understood, there is no profound process of evaluation that determines whether a story like this will dominate the global agenda. What happens, rather, is that a hostile-to-Israel story in the Hebrew press is deemed credible simply by virtue of its having appeared in the Hebrew press: The Israelis are saying nasty stuff about themselves. Networks such as Al-Jazeera have an ideological interest in pumping up any such stories. Rival networks don't want to be left behind. Once the story is running on TV, in turn, the print news agencies feel obligated to cover it, because otherwise their clients will complain that it's on TV but not on the wires. Hey presto. World headlines.

The highly dubious nature of this and certain other items that made world headlines relating to the Gaza conflict, I have been told, prompted considerable unrest in the newsrooms of several international news organizations, with some staffers loudly protesting the apparent suspension of more rigorous journalistic standards - to no avail and, I suspect, to no lasting effect.

Entirely unsurprisingly, infinitely less global media attention has attended Zamir's contention to the Post this week that "the international media turned the IDF into war criminals," that he had no way of knowing whether the alleged shooting incidents ever took place, and that "Operation Cast Lead was justified; the IDF worked in a surgical manner. Unfortunately, in these types of operations, civilians will be killed."

FROM THE Israeli perspective, among the more troubling aspects of this dismal affair was emblemized by a letter we received, and published in Wednesday's paper, from a reader in Tel Aviv who took the Post to task for believing that "the IDF 'investigation' [of the purported killings] is gospel truth" and for ostensibly ignoring what he called "the flood of testimonies coming from Gaza - almost on a daily basis - about IDF soldiers shooting innocent men, women and children fleeing their homes, about killing medical personnel, about a civilian death toll much higher than Israel claims, all backed with strong evidence.

"No, the Palestinian side of things will always remain a lie for you," the letter writer concluded, "and evidence [of] grave wrongdoing is not for a once-honorable paper that is rapidly becoming a mouthpiece for the propaganda of the most moral army in the world."

Far more worrying than the criticism of this newspaper was the assertion of a "flood of testimonies" backed by "strong evidence" that IDF soldiers shot the innocent, and the cynical description of the IDF as "the most moral army in the world."

Skepticism is an essential tool in the armory of any journalist, and indeed of any member of the public in assessing what is presented as fact. Again, the IDF is itself agonizing about the ethical parameters within which to wage war in Gaza.

What was so sad about this reader's letter was the mix of elevated skepticism regarding what the army has to say about its own practices, and the suspension of such skepticism as regards the worst allegations being leveled against it. And what is so dismaying is the degree to which that skewed mix was widely manifest not only in this episode, but in much of the way that Israel is generally viewed from afar and, increasingly I fear, in the way we are coming to view ourselves.

WE ISRAELIS need to constantly ensure that our actions are moral and just. In that context, Zamir's allegations emphatically should have been - and indeed were - carefully investigated and handled as he told the Post this week he'd hoped they would be: His soldiers had "talked about what was difficult and painful in the war," and he took their accounts "to the army because I expected them to deal with the issues raised."

More broadly, with the dilemmas posed by Gaza as with all challenges to our capacity to live here securely, we need to shape military and diplomatic tactics and strategy to best ensure that we can both hold true to our core values and survive.

We live in a region where hostility and hatred are not easily redirected toward conciliation. We are battling in a largely unsympathetic international climate and must defend ourselves, physically and intellectually, against those who seek our demise. Critically, we cannot afford to become the prisoners of others' distorted sense of our reality, our behavior and our challenges.

These are national imperatives and they require a cohesion of purpose that Israel has yet to achieve. Internally riven and all-too intolerant, we remain as far as ever from a consensus over what our goals should be and the means we should employ to realize them.

We have left Egypt and reached the promised land, but not yet fulfilled our destiny. We await our Nachshon.

Freedman Down Under: Sydney to South Hampstead

2009-02-04T14:57:00.000Z

This is the final instalment of Freedman Down Under... we pick up as Wifey and I cruise across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in glorious sunshine and blue skies, with the words of John Farnham ringing in our ears. The combination of the song, the view and the air conditioning made the hair stand on end.

We swung by the hostel first, to drop off our things, and were delighted to see that they had prepared a simple method of burning off the excess pounds we had piled on in the previous month. 40 degrees in the shade, and no aircon in the room - not even a decent ceiling fan, just some ancient plastic thing that may as well have been a fly taped to a stick for all the air it was pushing. Still, at least we didn't have squeaky prison bunks.

With a few hours left on the clock before returning the car, we headed out for a little orientation drive around the city. Not much to say really; the place is like London and New York combined with some serious tropics and a dash of old-fashioned English seaside sans scum and crap weather. We took in the cheapest pub lunch ever (under £3 for a mahoosive and actually very excellent steak and chips), dropped the car back, then had a leisurely stroll back to the hostel in said 40 degree heat. Mad dogs and Englishmen and all that...

That evening, we contemplated a big meal out but decided it might be nice to actually cook something for ourselves for once. The hostel had a pretty decent kitchen, and a Coles was handily at the top of the road, so we rustled up a spot of spag roo, much to the amusement of some funny Taiwanese kids who had never cooked anything before, and stood nearby gawking, and pointing at onions or garlic, asking "rot is dis?" etc etc. Not that we believe in stereotypes or nuffink.

The following day, our prayers for ANY change in the weather were answered with some grey clouds and light intermittent drizzle. We headed out to Bondi Beach for a nice long jaunt down to Coogee along the fab coastal path. Bondi is nice, but does have the same faded charm as a Brighton or a Scarborough. Obviously the birds and weather are a bit hotter though.

Highlight of the trip, other than a conversation with Wifey which was just a tad Sixth Sense, was the part where we passed some interesting curved rock formations, and I immediately switched into my best Aboriginal voice and told a beautiful made-up story about how back in Dreamtime, Plonka the Whale had chased Fukuit the Shark into the bay, where they threshed about until Fukuit fled and Plonka was beached against these rocks, making the smooth curved indentation. Then we walked around the next corner and found a plaque explaining a bit about the area, and, um, telling pretty much that exact story. I think I might get a spearing on my next trip to Oz...

Stopped off for a fress at Bronte, probably my fave of the beaches, and wound up back at the hostel to freshen up and head out for the evening (after devouring a serious load of fajitas first). Although it was a Sunday, the following day was Australia Day, ie public holiday, so people were out in force. It's hard to describe just how many stunning girls were just parading around the streets of King's Cross, but think Playboy Mansion with clothes on, and you wouldn't be too far off. Wound up at the funky Goldfish bar, where we worked through a few cocktails, including one with marmalade in it, and chatted to a bevy of cuties of course, as well as checking out the cool unisex toilets. Now I know why women always go in pairs, but I am sworn to secrecy.

The following day was characterised by a steady wet mist descending, with the effect that we didn't feel like doing a whole lot. That evening we headed out for a harbour boat trip (for which read piss up and pick up) with a large group of "fellow backpackers". Obviously I am not one, but best to keep up the pretense and slum it from time to time. Keeps one grounded. A dozen cans of Tooheys later, and with a cute strawberry blonde Canadian snuggled under my bright orange umbrella, we dashed through the rain to a crazy grafitti-covered bus, on to a mad club, where pitchers of cocktail were a fiver each. Got through half a dozen jugs of that, threw myself massively into the ambience of Australia Day, especially a spot of the ol' Flo Rida, where I did a full Les Grossman (Tropic Thunder reference!).

Next day a nice early start as we had a 10am checkout to contend with. Wifey was a little woolly-headed but I dragged myself downtown for a little mooch about nonetheless, including visits to the NSW Parliament, some other random historical buildings, and a drop of coffee on the top floor of the NSW Supreme Court, which is actually a skyscraper right next to Hyde Park (kinda mini-Central park), with cracking views across the city despite the weather.

Then off to the airport, with Wifey accidentally-on-purpose losing his Huckleberry Finn hat en route - it had reacted as straw usually does to damp, and smelled like a horse had slept on it. Usual visit to airport lounge, disappointing Qantas red wine selection masked by a G&T and the ubiquitous glass of sparkling, as well as a stack of very good cheese. Back to Melbourne, temperatures down to just high 30s, trek back to collect the car then wind up at Cool Aunt and Uncle's designer pad for leftover roo (we schlepped it from NSW, smashing all the rules about bringing food interstate), which we washed down with some excellent red brought by the Rippa, who stayed for dinner.

After a couple of days in Melbourne, and with another heatwave of 40+ approaching, we hopped in the car down the Great Ocean Road. Very pleasant, and all the more impressive for learning that large chunks of it were built by hand by a private company looking to attract tourists to the region, but as Wifey pointed out, compared to say Route 1 in the USA, this is a Good Ocean Road with occasional Greats. Highlights included the Round The Twist lighthouse and some really excellent quiche at Cape Otway, as well as the obvious lovely scenery. We got to Warrnambool at the end of the road, kipped overnight in a motel, and swung back to Melbourne the next day.

We had some really nice stops along the way - Wifey is learning the Freedman Road Trip methodology, where we potter, meander and mooch our way across various landscapes. One of them was particularly nice - a little cove hidden right down under the cliffs, complete with its own fairytale story about Tom and Eva, the only survivors of a shipwreck. Except there was no happily ever after; Tom, some lowly shiphand, didn't get to snog Eva, some rich kid, after rescuing her. In fact, they never saw each other again once they had recuperated. But then again, from the engravings of the incident, she looked like a minger anyway.

After getting back to Melbourne and having a leisurely weekend of mooching around town, not doing too much, little walks and dips at the beach, bit of fressing here and there, we took in a nice birthday dinner at Chocolate Buddha on Fed Square with Yankanaussie, whilst enjoying the atmosphere of tens of thousands of people packed onto the plaza in the balmy evening sun, enjoying the final of the Australian Open. Then some swift beers down by the riverside, and back home thoroughly contented.

Next day, final full day in Oz, mostly chilling out, then off to Neighbours Night with Wifey, Rippa and The Ringer, who actually works for Neighbours. Met the very sexy but just a tad ditzy Sky Mangel, Eastenders-a-like Steve, and the wonderful Dr Karl Kennedy, who played a set with his band, Waiting Room. Pics to follow.

Sadly that brings us to the end of Freedman Down Under. Suffice to say I cheered myself up over the next 24 hours of travel by downing obscene amounts of excellent food and drink on first Qantas to HK and then BA back to Heathrow, and making use of the lovely Arrivals Lounge for snobs like me back at T5. Then Wifey #3 and his Wifey came to collect, complete with my bright orange BP coat to wear, as it was the same tempreature in fahrenheit in London as it had been in celsius in Melbourne.

Anyway, I am now back in Blighty, and looking forward to catching up with y'all soon...

A quick news round-up

2009-01-27T23:18:00.004Z

No point reinventing the wheel re what's still going on in Gaza, the debate re the Beeb etc. Suffice to say that Auntie is showing its usual orftorfu re the Palestinians: they had an unelected, corrupt leadership that stole all its aid money, then they elected the same mob, then replaced them with another bunch who turn out to also be appropriating cash, as well as attacking their own aid vehicles, and who prefer to provoke a war using the resources they do have, to trying to improve their own society.

Oh, did I mention that Hamas seem to have enough cash to splash that they are going around damaged properties handing out wads of banknotes? Also the irony that these are usually evil Zionist shekels and dollars... Meanwhile normal service has resumed re rockets and border attacks. So the Gazans are on the whole definitely good candidates for a humanitarian appeal.

So here are a few choice stories and links for you (thanks for this first bit to Honest Reporting):

Despite widespread charges leveled against Israel in the international media, some journalists have, to their credit, made the effort to dig deeper amidst the rubble to find out what really went on in Gaza and the crimes committed by Hamas against its own people. Here are a couple of stories that you may not have seen in your local media.

Hamas hijacking ambulances:

According to the Sydney Morning Herald:

Palestinian civilians living in Gaza during the three-week war with Israel have spoken of the challenge of being caught between Hamas and Israeli soldiers as the radical Islamic movement that controls the Gaza strip attempted to hijack ambulances.

Mohammed Shriteh, 30, is an ambulance driver registered with and trained by the Palestinian Red Crescent Society.

His first day of work in the al-Quds neighbourhood was January 1, the sixth day of the war. "Mostly the war was not as fast or as chaotic as I expected," Mr Shriteh told the Herald. "We would co-ordinate with the Israelis before we pick up patients, because they have all our names, and our IDs, so they would not shoot at us."

Mr Shriteh said the more immediate threat was from Hamas, who would lure the ambulances into the heart of a battle to transport fighters to safety.

Hamas's human shields:

Der Spiegel reveals the abuse of Palestinian civilian homes by Hamas:

Hail's house is just a few streets away and only suffered light damage. There are a few bullet holes in the living room walls and all of the window panes are broken. Hail also found out after the cease-fire that the militants had used his house as a base for their operations. The door to his house stood open and there were electric cables lying in the hallway. When Hail followed them they led to his neighbor's house which it seems Hamas had mined.

As Hail, in his mid-30s, sat on his porch and thought about what to do a man came by: He was from Hamas and had left something in Hail's home. He let him in and the man then emerged with a bullet proof vest, a rocket launcher and an ammunitions belt. An hour later a fighter with Islamic Jihad called to the door, then disappeared onto the roof and reappeared with a box of ammunition. "The abused civilians' homes for their own purposes. That is not right," Hail says with disgust while trying to remain polite.

IDF INVESTIGATES CASUALTY FIGURES

YNet News reports:

A continuing IDF investigation into the number of civilian Palestinian casualties during the Israeli offensive in Gaza indicated that only 250 of the fatalities were civilians.

The military estimates that between 1,100 and 1,200 people were killed during the offensive. Some 700 of are believed to be militants and most are believed to be Hamas operatives.

The IDF is still trying to ascertain the identity of the remaining fatalities, but security sources said many would probably turn out to be militants as well. "Hamas is familiar with the numbers and is doing everything it can to concealed them," said an IDF source....

Many of the fatalities were considered to be civilians at first, because there were no weapons found with them, said a military source, "But that method of operation is consistent with the way Hamas was hiding in the midst of civilians, moving between their strongholds with no weapons. In many cases someone thought to be a civilian casualty turned out to be a Hamas operative after we ran our checks."

giving
Now a few articles from The Times (hat tips to Reuben, Bodie and Lazarus, I think).

Firstly this piece by the masterful Daniel Finkelstein, where he points out that all we want is for the other lot to say they are okay with us existing and actually mean it, rather than ululating and handing out sweets when some Jews/Yanks get blown up. Also here is his recent gem about giving airtime to whoever wants to buy it, so they can just run with their own bias, and we all know what we're getting.

Next up, also in The Times, this excellent piece by Andrew Roberts, pointing out that the charities who might run a BBC appeal have been as systematically biased against Israel as the Beeb itself.

I also caught this superb Times editorial, which really sums it up and has a feel of cool objectivity (ie hundreds of bleeding hearts wrote in afterwards to "correct" it). The only bit that made me squirm was the quoting of that Norwegian doctor, because yes, it is all so tragic, but then he creeped me out when I saw him on the news. So I did a bit of research...

Gilbert is a radical Marxist and a member of the political Red (Rodt) party, a revolutionary socialist party in Norway. He has been a pro-Palestinian activist since the 1970's and travelled to Lebanon in support of the Palestinians during the first Lebanon war in 1982. He has long been a vocal opponent of Israel and the U.S. Gilbert has acknowledged that he cannot separate politics from medicine, stating, "there is little in medicine that is not politics." He even criticizes the group Doctors Without Borders for providing medical assistance to both sides in a conflict instead of taking a strong stance and supporting only one party. In a 2006 article in Nordlys, journalist Ivan Kristoffersen lamented the fact that Gilbert allows his humanitarian efforts to be politicized by his radical agenda.
Mads Gilbert is described on his Wikipedia page as a “Communist politician as a member of the party Red”. The Red party was previously the Workers Communist Party, which supported Pol Pot:
AKP openly endorsed the Khmer Rouge of Cambodia, and when that party’s forces invaded Phnom Penh, Klassekampen had “Long live the free Cambodia” as their front page headline. Support from AKP endured in spite of the killings which were reported during Pol Pot’s rule which AKP at that time considered to be lies, and AKP had delegations visiting the country.

Mads Gibert himself supports terrorism. This is what he told a Norwegian newspaper, the Dagbladet, a couple of weeks after 9/11:

If the U.S. government has a legitimate right to bomb and kill civilians in Iraq, then there is also a moral right to attack the United States with the weapons they had to create. Dead civilians are the same whether they are Americans, Palestinians or Iraqis.
…
Do you supports the terrorist attack on the United States?
Terror is a bad weapon, but the answer is yes, within the context I have mentioned”

Full articles here at CAMERA and Harry's Place.

Let's conclude with a classic piece of BBC emoti-journalism from the incomparable Jeremy Bowen (I think Jim Bowen would be a better reporter). Here is his heart-rending diary entry about Dr Izzeldeen Abuelaish, a Palestinian doctor who has worked in Israel for many years, and lost daughters and nieces in a shell explosion at his house, yet still puts a brave face on it, likes his Israeli colleagues, and is happy for his surviving but injured family to be rushed to Israel where the best treatment is available (not that Norwegian guy then?!).

So we should start with a few things Bowen forgot to mention. For example, the "neutral" "expert" from "Human Rights Watch", Marc Garlasco. Here is a little snippet about him, and a link to Honest Reporting's article on him, HRW, and some of their previous handiwork. Now whilst the killing of this doctor's family was clearly a tragic accident (unless you are Bowen, Garlasco or Gilbert of course), the IDF's initial reaction was that if they did hit the house with a shell, there was a reason it was targetted. Then they started to carry out a fuller investigation and I found this coverage of the actual tank unit commander's comments.

Not only that, but even Garlasco makes a discovery of "anti-tank shell" fragments - not sure why Israel would be firing those at snipers... surely the other way round? Ah yes, some more evidence of this was apparently found embedded in the unfortunate girls' heads. Pieces of Russian-made, Iranian-sponsored Grad anti-tank missile, adapted from the infamous katyusha. Still a tragedy, not least because this particular family seems to have been genuinely interested in peace and co-existence, but once again the truth in this story is somewhere between blurred enough for Bowen to hold back on the emote button just a bit, and being yet another example of Hamas cynically using parts of civilian infrastructure, knowing the response.

I even saw one comment, apparently from an Arab reader, on a blog about this, where he said it was even more likely that Hamas used this guy's house, knowing that either nobody would fire back because he had protectsia from high-ranking Israelis, or that they would, and the PR "gain" of his loss would be spectacular. Wouldn't put it past them, given the track record.

Think that'll do for the moment. Next, some more light news about Australia...

Freedman Down Under: coasting it

2009-01-22T13:16:00.001Z

After the boozy delights of Margaret River, we jetted into Brisbane, landing at midnight to a humid 32 degrees. We jumped onto the cheapo shuttle bus and asked the driver what he would recommend we do in the 36 hours we had in the city. His reply was "leave". Not promising. Then we got to another damn youth hostel, which looked modern and pleasant enough, but did involve sharing a shoebox of a dorm with a German couple, and on the most ridiculously squeaky, wobbly bunks of all time, complete with piss-proof rubber-coated mattress.

Following a restless night, Wifey woke up a little before me and wanted to get some totally unimportant object from the bottom of my bag (I schlepped a fair amount of his stuff, as he tried unsuccessfully to shoehorn everything for a 3 week trip into hand-luggage to avoid Tiger Airways stiffing him, which they did anyway). The bag being right by the bed, and me still trying to sleep, he then made the deadly mistake of waking me fully to ask where his unimportant objects might be located. After confirming they were really not up his fucking arse, and trying to rummage sleepily with one hand through 20kgs of my stuff to find his unimportant object, there was only one thing to do. Cue Freedmansdad-esque tantrum upending of bag and liberal dumping of all items across floor, before calmly retrieving said unimportant object from the bottom of the bag, handing it to him, rolling over with an enormous rattle and squeak from the bed, and going back to sleep.

Anyway, onward into Brisbane, where we started with a little stroll along the very pleasant Queen Street Mall, dropping off the broken walking boots and Wifey's Stinkenstocks at a shoe repair place. Then a little Aussie breakfast in the glorious outdoors, including my first taster of ubertreif, a nice rasher of chazer. Totally disappointing experience, not repeating that. Just salty, greasy and a bit leathery. Wondered if I'd sent the bacon to the shoe repair place and had the cafe fry up some boot.

Then we did a little self-guided tour of Brizzie, and fell in love with the place. Shuttle driver obviously just a depressive, because it's really lush. Imagine mini-London with tropical weather... awesome river frontage, a South Bank complete with wicked artificial beach and lido area, with backdrop of nice cluster of skyscrapers and historic buildings, botanical gardens with real wildlife competing to be hand-fed some crisps. Okay, the other difference between Brisbane and London - in fact between Oz and Blighty - is the scum. Or general absence of it in Australia. Well, it is probably there, it just knows what it is and how to behave when mingling with everyone else, coupled with some draconian punishments for people who step out of line. Mostly there is a real sense of civic pride, so public spaces remain unvandalised, and roaming gangs of feral youths are replaced with roaming packs of cute marsupials. The city beach would last about a week on our South Bank, and not just because it would be under a foot of snow just now.

We crashed over that evening with Wifey's lovely friend Catriona, in her sweet-ass flat with city views and a top-notch swimming pool. Out in the evening for a slap-up dinner, then back to the flat for drinks on the balcony and an episode or two of Peep Show. Ought to just big that up and say that during my time here, I was supposed to work my way through the delights of Ken Wilber's Theory of Everything and have instead got through every single episode of Mark and Jez re-enacting scenes from my life. I AM MARK CORRIGAN!

Off in the morning to collect the hire car, then a very civilised lunch by the river with Catriona (plate of most excellent marinated salmon and avocado, twice-fried chips, and a very indulgent little dessert, and yes, a bottle of something sparkling), and then the start of our Big Schlepp - a couple of hours' drive up the Sunshine Coast to Mooloolaba. Pretty grim hostel again - just cannot get used to rooming with total strangers who live out of rucksacks smaller than my free bizclass goodybag - but at least it was very near to a proper whack-in-the-wok noodle place, for a kilo of fried carby goodness.

Just up the coast from Moo is lovely Noosa. The plan was to have a night there before heading off for 3 days to Fraser Island, but it turned out we were wrongly advised and all the tours either left on inconvenient days, or were full. So we just hung out in Noosa instead, partly because we had stumbled across a lovely twin room and balcony at Noosa Backpackers, but also because of the total gem of an eaterie next door, Global Cafe, where the quality of the food was matched by the shaggability of the staff. I may have fallen just a little in love with the 18 year old blonde waitress. The food in this place was just superb, down to the wonderful Marco-Pierre-trained Stacey. We ate there every night, and on the last evening she even prepared a Spanish special as we had said it was a fave cuisine - a divine gazpacho and some of the best patatas bravas ever.

We passed our days bodyboarding on the stunning beach, fressing of course, finding a little slice of Zion, taking a walk in the national park, where we saw our first wild koalas and also went skinny-dipping on the nudist beach. On re-emerging Daniel Craig-like (only with even less left to the imagination of course) from the water, a fellow naturist and total raving hom (thanks for that word Jules) came sprinting up, canapés jiggling, and as I sat on a sandy bank, stood right in front of me - you do the maths on this one - and said "would you like me to piss on you?".

I gasped and thought about it for a moment... I've treifed out already, why not give the Other Side a try? He could see my bewilderment and added that my back looked very red (I caught the sun a bit when swimming at Yulara) and he thought it was a jellyfish sting. I declined as politely as one can when a stranger has his cock 2 inches from your mouth, and have since spent several hours perfecting my new gay Aussie accent for recounting this tale.

Moving back down the coast, we stopped off at Alma Park Zoo to meet some domestic furries. Highlight was of course the koala-cuddling. Don't we look like a lovely father and son?! Also we entered into a debate with this kangaroo about zoo funding and the role of the late Steve Irwin in preserving Australian fauna. He was a very deep thinker.

Then back through Brisbane, where we collected our shoes and I caught up with my old boss Grant from BP in Grangemouth, who's from the Gold Coast and has since gone back there to work for a big nasty conglomerate, on their coal-mining side. A man after my own capitalist heart, or what there is of it. After a few pints with him, Wifey and I headed down to Surfer's Paradise, which is an impressive bunch of skyscrapers and big straight beaches, still just tacky and overdeveloped compared to Noosa and other Sunshine Coast beauty spots. Just the one night there. Groan - another youth hostel on the cards. Joy - twin room all to ourselves that turned out to be a very nice self-contained flat, for about fifteen quid each. Groan - no working lightbulbs. Joy - across the road from a dirt-cheap Mexican place. Groan - worst meal so far on the trip, totally not authentic, can make better myself.

And so on down the coast in the car, chipping away the miles, a little stroll here, a little paddle there, a major fress everywhere, nights in motels, hotels, hostels, over the course of 4 days:

- Byron Bay (a little drive around, lighthouse view and picnic, check the box, decide Noosa was more our scene)

- Ballina (I had a swim in the world's biggest pot of tea, Lake Ainsworth, decent dinner by the water, Wifey's most beautiful photo of the trip perhaps)

- Yamba (night in a fairly crazy hotel)

- Coffs Harbour (picnic on the docks, little stroll)

- Port Macquarie (total blank!)

- Forster-Tuncurry (motel, good curry for dinner, nice brekkie overlooking the lagoon)

- Nelson Bay (boom net, dolphins, waterslide off back of boat, excellent tom yum ka soup)

- Newcastle (like our one but with a beach and hot weather, door policy that got shirty about Wifey's thongs - that's the flip-flops, not choice of undies - he was going commando that night anyway)

Then the final 2 hours driving down to Sydney, climaxing joyously in a bombastic rendition of our official tour anthem, John Farnham's You're The Voice, as we crossed the Harbour Bridge.

The return of ORFTORFU

2009-01-17T08:57:00.001Z

As Israel's Gaza operation seems to be coming to a conclusion, one final blast of Freedmanslife indignation. Orftorfu is an acronym we use down at Freedman Villas - One Rule For Them, One Rule For Us. A useful shorthand first conceived back in 2000 with the Second Intifada, and particularly handy when describing anything to do with Israel and the Jews in general, who are subjected to the orftorfu treatment by the world's media, NGOs, liberal left, almost the entire Islamic world, antisemites of various guises (including self-hating Jews of many descriptions), and in a totally different and vastly more moral and interesting way, those Jews who contemplate what the burden of being the Chosen People is really about.

Some good articles have been written and largely ignored by the mainstream which cover some of the orftorfu's of this particular conflict. For example how reporting of the Tamil Tigers being ruthlessly wiped out by Sri Lanka, in a way that raises many more issues of human rights, war crimes and proportion than Israel in Gaza, has barely featured in the press, despite happening concurrently.

Tempting as it is to get into the orftorfu of how Palestinian attacks, which intend to maim civilians, are somehow seen as morally equivalent, or in view of the "disproportion" of number, method and impact, even MORE justified than Israeli responses, this is evident to any really objective observer.

Instead, let's look at what's happening in the UK and to the Jews.

I will first waste a bit of air-time on that hoax email to the Board of Deps, for which Jewdas (google them for more, in short a collective of wannabe Anglo-Jewish anarchists who have failed to spot the oxymoron) have claimed responsibility, in a rambling, self-congratulatory email that showed nothing but the classic naivete of the bleeding heart liberal whose knowledge of current affairs is by osmosis from the gentle drone of the BBC to the ear and the stain of Independent and Guardian ink to the hands. Reducing it to one line, they believe that we the Jews of Britain should not support any of Israel's military action, regardless of the cause or how it is carried out, because "only negotiations can bring peace in our time". Okay, I may have embellished that just slightly, but you get the idea.

Funny thing is, for a fleeting moment I put Jewdas in that latter category of orftorfu, the one where we Jews hold ourselves up to a higher standard than others hold themselves. But the tone and absolute dogma of their email mean they fail to recognise what Jewish history has shown - if we are not for ourselves, no-one will be for us.

Because of this war, not in spite of it, the USA, Egypt, and even the PA itself, have finally understood Israel's predicament with Hamas and the need, after 10,000 pieces of ordnance over 8 years, to cut off the latter's supply of explosives through the porous border with Egypt. Failure to have done this, and the world's application of orftorfu with first Fatah and then Hamas, have led us here. Nowhere else would this situation have been tolerated, or EVERY attempt Israel made to resolve it (EU observers at crossings, Disengagement, limited targetted response etc) have been met with anything from lack of support to total contempt.

Jewdas seems to think that Anglo-Jewry's support of Israel is "right or wrong", and that it's inherently a contradiction to back the operation AND want or believe in peace. The fact is that peace follows quiet. To get to quiet, the other side has to accept it cannot win through force alone. Israel accepts this - that's why it left Gaza 4 years ago, why it continues to have dialogue with the PA, why it will accept other parties controlling the Philadelphi Corridor, and why it (and Jews at large) is constantly searching its soul and trying to find a compromise of its own factions that also will find acceptance from the Palestinians, Arabs and wider world.

Hamas specifically does not want peace, used the previous quiet of its ceasefire to rearm and then provoke this current operation, and has no capability of dialogue even with its own brethren in Fatah or the PA. But orftorfu - we are Jews so have to behave and think decently, whilst the world expects (in a way that's actually pretty condescending and borderline racist) much lower standards of the other party. I wonder if there is just a general pattern of supporting the perceived underdog, "right or wrong", among our chattering classes (Ken Wilber and Spiral Dynamics fans will know this as mean green meme syndrome).

Orftorfu prevents anyone discussing the absurd irony that Israel continues to wage a war to protect its civilians AS WELL AS THAT OF ITS ENEMY. Whilst it seems that 20%-40% of the (apparently) 1170 dead Palestinians have been civilians - depending on who you believe - Israel continues to try and leaflet areas it may need to target, has a daily 3-hour ceasefire for people to move out or find food (and for Hamas to rearm), goes house-to-house more often than necessary for its military objectives to avoid collateral damage, and so on. This is despite the fact that for whatever reason the Palestinians elected Hamas, and the latter chooses to hide among its population, thus intentionally creating the asymmetry of 13 dead Jews to all those dead Arabs. Also the irony that we are all saddened by their innocent casualties, even organising appeals where you can send an SMS with the word "life" as the text to 81400, costing £1.50, and donate equal amounts to hospitals in Israel and Gaza to help the real victims (where did Jewdas publicise this worthy cause?! Orftorfu even within Anglo-Jewry...), whilst I would be astounded - and of course delighted - if the Muslim community of Britain had set up anything similar, rather than affiliating more with the 'Arab street' that rejoices in our misery and pain.

Meanwhile, the domestic orftorfu continues with the media busy picking up any hint of Islamophobia, whilst ignoring recent attacks on Starbucks and Tesco, targetted because of current or prior Jewish management. This insidious move from protests about Israel's actions to violence against anything Jewish does not bode well, but the lack of decent coverage, especially that explicitly denounces this as antisemitic, is possibly even more sinister.

Let's compare and contrast coverage.

The "peace march" was un-nuanced pro-Palestinian in its leaning, failing to differentiate between Hamas and everyone else (apparently "we are all Hamas now" reared its ugly head), implicitly grieving for the 500-800 dead terrorists and supporters of terror, whilst not even paying lip service to the million Israelis within rocket range of Gaza, the dozens dead and hundreds injured, as well as thousands carrying other well-documented psychological scars. It turned violent at the end, including attempts by a large mob to attack the Israeli Embassy, vandalising several supposedly Jewish businesses, and even a serious assault on a kippah-wearing protester who was coming back from THEIR march.

The "pro-Israel" march, according to the reports I read, seemed to be much more "pro-peace", and encapsulate the general sentiment in Anglo-Jewry that this is a necessary operation where innocent victims are inevitable and to be mourned. It passed off peacefully, and was attended by 15,000 people - one heck of a slab of the community, given the timing, weather, fear of violence, hoax cancellations, and alleged disharmony of opinion.

But hey, some Jews trying to be equanimous are not newsworthy, nor are hundreds of people enacting a small slice of the kind of violent history that forced the establishment of modern Israel as our protection. Just plenty of coverage of anti-Israel rallies everywhere, keeping to the photogenic bits of hijabbed ladies pushing prams alongside dreadlocked students in kheffiyehs, carrying placards and pics of dead babies, with no mention of the marchers' implicit support of the rocket attacks and a terrorist government.

ORFTORFU.

Freedman Down Under: Perthpective

2009-01-14T03:17:00.001Z

Okay, due to a bit of a technical hitch, photos are not going to be inserted, but instead I'll throw in some links as I go along, and invite you all to check the little album here. Thanks to Wifey for most of the pics.

Now where were we?! Ah yes, down at the Bros House in Perth. Cue endless Facebook status updates involving words I could shoehorn Perth into, ie Perthpective, Perthetic, Pertheption, suPerthtructures, interperthonal skills and so on. Oh how I laughed.

Anyway, after being fed, watered and cleaned by Momma Bro, including superb home-made schnitzel, we nipped into town for Warren's stag do. Of course it is not right to publicise the details here, but I will say that Wifey and I had managed something like 9 hours of sleep over the previous three days, so were just a tad exhausted. Nothing that a 10 minute dremml on a lav stool in a pub couldn't sort out. Then on to The 'Deen, a crazy pub/bar/club thang with 6 rooms and a courtyard, each with its own bar and different ambience and musical theme. Massive amounts of accessible WA fleisch but it was stinking hot, and as mentioned, we were knackered, and besides, it being a stag do, we knew there was a guarantee of nude lewd behaviour to come... I am saying nothing except I have never seen anyone wear bifocals like THAT before.

Next day was spent napping and fressing, with a stunning home-made curry for Fri night dinner, then an early night and general raiding of the Bros' oversized fridge, then we hopped on a train down to Fremantle to catch the 11.30am last ferry to Rottnest Island. We arrived at the station at 11.28, legged it 400 yards in 2 minutes in the 37 degree heat, and just made it. Turns out eating kangaroo gives you extra special springy-step roo powers.

So Rottnest is just lovely, Caribbean-style white beaches and turquoise seas, and funny little marsupials unique to the island, called quokkas. They're really adorable, but apparently you're not supposed to touch them because we might give them some nasty diseases or vice versa. Instead, people limit their contact to quokka soccer (allegedly). We got there a bit late and also a bit hot to be cycling around the place, so hopped on the island bus, found a beach, and duly had a good shlump and a nice swim. This was followed by a pretty decent fish and chips, some more strolling and shlumping, and a very nice glass of sparkling at a beachside bar, before reboarding the ferry back.

Landing in Fremantle, we headed off for a little wander around town. It's a bit more old-skool than Perth, very quaint, and we wound up at a lovely rooftop bar and restaurant, on the terrace having yet another glass of something good as a sundowner. As this was a taboo-breaking trip, we went a bit nuts on the seafood platter... again, quite tasty, and glad I've tried all these things once, but the part I liked the most was the only kosher white fish on the dish. Washed down with some bloody good chardonnay.

A quick rundown of the treif experience, for those yidden who will never cross the line:

- Oysters are a real delicacy that looks and tastes just like someone brought up a real good one from the back of the throat and flobbed it gently into a large shell full of seawater.

- Crayfish wins third prize in the ugly seafood contest, behind cuttlefish and Moreton Bay bug (more of which anon). It's like a lobster without the amusing whiskers, castanets and French accent. Tastes okay, but proves my longstanding principle that anything you have to use a burglar's tools to get into is just not designed for us to be eating.

- Octopus is like a piece of rubber tyre braised in a fishmonger's mop-bucket. Mussels are not too bad, but I am really bothered by the little orange cube thingy that attaches the bit you eat to the bit you don't.

- Eating prawns made me realise how accurate the (vegetarian!) flavouring of Walkers prawn cocktail flavour actually is... in fact, the real thing has a "delicate" (ie bland) taste, and a weird texture that grew on me a bit, as prawn pops up in SO many things down here.

- Proper shellfish bouillabaisse, replete with scallops, mussels and prawns, jolly nice soup, could take or leave the treif isles flottantes, but no doubt added plenty of stocky goodness. Also this was more of a consommé, whereas the kosher version is a proper thick soup using the flesh of biblically certified fish. Prefer the latter.

Back to the Bros, night's kip, up next day to raid the fridge again, then off to Warren and Amy's wedding, taking the family's spare Beamer. Scorching hot day, pushing 40 in the shade, best men in black suits, Wifey and I just about staying alive in white shirts and cotton/linen trousers, luckily meant a bevy of hot girls in flimsy summer dresses, including the incredible Marie, photos of whom are available on a pay-per-view basis only.

Decent grub, wedding cake, then on with the bride, groom and friends to a nightclub and casino, where a local ditz saw 2 of us more burly lads march in wearing the uniform white shirt and tan trousers, and asked if we were from the police. Needless to say, the response was "every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you". Wasted on her.

Quick shout out to Laura, who is adopting Independent Love Song by Scarlet as her special song. A little excerpt of the lyrics

I'll show you how to take me
Go down go down
And I'll show you how to turn me
Right on right on
And I'll show you how to touch me
Right on right on right on
Right on right on right on
Now it's fine that many men will look my way
And I'll take them home and let them show me the way
And sure I'll like a few but I'll leave the rest to play
I'm doing it a different way
I'm doing it a different way

Hmmm, maybe a little racier than she had in mind. Back home in the Beamer, more sleeping, then off to Margaret River ("the Marge") on Monday morning. Leisurely potter down some pleasant coastline, including some waterside grilled fish at Mandurah, then into wine country.

Through gritted teeth I agree to stay in a youth hostel, albeit just us and a cute Dutch girl in a room, and the place came with volleyball, footy, swimming pool, a pervasive whiff of pot, and proximity to the main drag. Ate at a really fab little place called Ze Arc of Iris, go before it changes hands and goes downhill, or buy the place. Particularly worthy of mention was the slow-cooked Moroccan lamb, like a spicy yet sweet chulent. Naturally we washed this down with a decent bottle of local shiraz cabernet, delightfully named "Skuttlebutt". Seriously Freedmansmum... I've sent a bottle home just to prove it.

Morning, headed off on a wine-tasting extravaganza with a very camp guide who took a bit of a shine to us. To be honest, after full tastings at four wineries, a brewery, a liqueur factory, a cheese shop and a chocolate factory all in one day, broken up by a fat deli lunch with the most extraordinary red pesto, I was anyone's. Particular recommendations are:

- Brookland '02 cab sav merlot, about to run out, so other than down in the Marge, they are now only selling their '04. The '02 was so good I am sending a crate home before they make the switch.

- Flying Fish '07 rosé, actually tastes of toffee apples, would be a totally amazing dessert wine, or to drink by the gallon on a summer's day.

- Windance '04 cab merlot and shiraz... in fact this is a blind recommendation as we didn't get to the winery, but each of these won about a dozen top awards, so I've freighted back some samplers.

We finished the day by driving up to Dunsborough to stay with the lovely Brett, Amy's brother. He has a very cool villa with old-fashioned pool table, close proximity to the beach and of course a stack of wineries. Off to a very good curry dinner with him, cruised through some decent sav blanc on the starters and another red on the mains. Left the rosé in his fridge.

Back on the road the next day, picking up Dutch girl en route, stopping off for more fresh fish in Mandurah, arriving in Perth early arvo (see how native I am?!), one last stop at the Bros, where Momma Bro tried to feed us AGAIN. Then to the airport where Wifey got his first experience of the business lounge. For an equanimous, spirally-dynamised, meditating, backpacking artiste, he seemed to get really stuck into le snobisme of going through those sliding glass doors and riding the escalator up to above the seething masses and into air-conditioned bliss. Certainly made short work of the buffet bar. Washed down with - you guessed it - some decent sparkly.

Next stop, Brisbane...

Just the one

2009-01-11T04:43:00.004Z

It would be only too easy for me to lose my entire holiday to blogging intensively about what's going on in Israel and Gaza. However, for once I get the feeling that Israel is handling itself pretty well, and that the public are seeing through the usual Hamas and media distortions. So just a few snippets:

Let's start with the text of the unbelievable hoax email "cancelling" the Board of Deps London rally:

The Board of Deputies and the Jewish Leadership Council, in consultation with a coalition of prominent organisations in the Anglo-Jewish community, have decided to cancel the planned Israel Solidarity Rally, due to occur on Sunday 11th of January.

This decision has been taken after intense discussions within the community, due to a feeling that such a demonstration would not be in accordance with the Board's wish to bring the conflict to an immediate conclusion. It was thought that the demonstration might be perceived as the community taking one side in the tragic war in Gaza and Israel, and might be seen as supporting Israel's military campaign.

The Board calls for an immediate ceasefire, immediate negotiations between Israel and Hamas, and for lifting the economic blockade of Gaza, in order to allow the Gazan and Israeli people to live together in peace. There is no military solution, only a political one.

The Jewish community does not wish to be seen as a participant in the conflict, and in taking this stand we hope to be a part of the solution. The Board stands in solidarity with the besieged and injured people of Gaza, as well as the victims of terrorism in Israel, and we oppose all violence as contrary to the tenets of the Jewish religion. We would like to reach out to the British Muslim community, as well as those of no religion who have demonstrated against Israel's military campaign-we share your anguish at the destruction and loss of life caused, and hope that our action in calling off our demonstration will be a small step towards peace.

This is a very clever and insidious fabrication, but let's set aside the sinister motives and capabilities of whoever did this, and ignore the kind of wide media coverage and opprobrium that would land on the whole Jewish community if anyone called Cohen or Abrahams turned out to pull off a similar stunt in hoaxing a pro-Palestinian protest. The Beeb covered it somewhere discreet, good luck trying to find it by browsing the site without that link... but mostly focused on headlines like "UK protesters call for Gaza peace" (until you read the text where it turns out they went on a bit of a pillaging spree, trashing Starbucks for presumably being a US-Zionist stooge, and trying to attack the Israeli Embassy.

The reality is that the Jewish community is a participant in this conflict, whether it likes it or not, because Hamas and its friends have been unashamedly boasting that they will take this war to the doorsteps of Jews everywhere. The reality is that most people in the Jewish community, and I think an unprecedented number outside it, are supportive of Israel's right to defend itself, using military means as a last resort.

The fact is that, unlike most of the media and the British Muslim community, whilst we weep for the loss of innocent life in Gaza, we also understand that intent is more important than proportion.

Israel does not intend the loss of life of civilians: there is no possible argument that would make it in Israel's practical, military, moral or PR interest to do so. Furthermore, if that was their intent, they would and could have killed tens of thousands, rather than about 250 civilians (assuming their figures of 550 Hamas activists dead is correct).

The reality is that 2 out of 3 people they have killed in this campaign have been non-civilian, with the tragic effect that these targets have been in densely populated areas where collateral damage is almost inevitable. The moral burden for those other deaths should surely fall on the bad guys Israel was going after. Bear in mind also that in the past, Israel has paid a huge price for trying to be EVEN MORE moral, for example in the tragic operation in Jenin. By going house-to-house, it lost 23 soldiers and the world lapped up every column inch of a blood libel that a great massacre had taken place there, although it turned out that about 50 people had died, half of whom were gunmen.

On the flip-side, almost every Palestinian terrorist attack is perpetrated intentionally against civilians, the only exceptions being those against IDF targets. Even then, these all too often have a scary parallel agenda: by attacking border crossings and fuel depots, they know the Israeli reaction will be to reduce supplies into Gaza from those places, and bizarrely, they secure a nice big PR victory in the international press, despite being the aggressors. It's amazing how little-reported this is - I had to explain to a friend how the article he had read by Jimmy Carter, claiming Israel had arbitrarily slashed humanitarian supplies to Gaza all the way through the 6-month hudna was putting effect before cause.

Another incredible example of the Palestinian calculus of their war against the Jews is the incident of the attack on the UN convoy drivers a few days ago. This was immediately reported in the media as having been carried out by the IDF, and the UN said they had to cut their supplies, blaming them too. In this, we see the following benefits to Hamas:

1. Bad media image for Israel
2. Further likelihood of bias against Israel from the UN
3. Waste of IDF resources investigating and being overly careful in future, probably risking the lives of Israeli troops
4. More sympathy for Palestinians due to cuts in aid

Bascially, dead Jews are good for Arab terrorists, dead Arabs are good for Arab terrorists, and dead foreigners are also good for Arab terrorists. Dead ANYONE tends to be bad for Jews.

Now in this particular case, the media just splashed Israel's supposed guilt immediately and without question. The UN blamed them straight away too. Hamas rubbed its hands with glee and added fuel to the fire with a range of other stories, none of which seem to have been independently corroborated.

What very few media have covered properly is that Israel has now said it is "100% certain" that it was not responsible for the deaths of those convoy drivers. Think about this. In the past, Israel has always apologised in case it made a mistake, then taken ages to investigate, and not pronounced on the subject until they had some certainty. In the past, this has meant that terrible slurs on the IDF and Israel have been left to stand until long after the damage is irreparably done, even once irrefutable evidence has been found to counter it, or at least enough to pose serious doubt, as has happened with Jenin, the Gaza Beach "shelling", and of course Mohammed Al-Dura.

For Israel to come out and make such a categorical denial means they must be that sure. Now think about what this means. Someone else must have attacked the convoy!

I am just going to let this sink in, in the light of my point above that in the cold logic of our enemy, this attack represented a multiple boon in their struggle. Now rethink every bad PR story you have heard and read in the last few days about how the IDF is carrying out this operation.

For example, there is the horror story of the Palestinian children found tired, hungry and weeping among the corpses of their families. Local staff of the Red Cross (NB these are usually Palestinian) claim that Israeli soldiers ignored their cries, and this amounts to a war crime. The story has yet to be corroborated by anyone else, but we have all been moved by the TV pictures.

Ask yourself which of these possibilities seems the most plausible, and whether it constitutes a war crime, bearing in mind the likelihood that Hamas or another Palestinian terror organisation attacked a UN convoy carrying their own humanitarian aid:

1. The Israeli soldiers hear the children's cries, and decide to do absolutely nothing about it.
2. They hear the cries, but having evaluated the chances of intervening, given a history of booby-traps and human bait, decide they can do nothing.
3. Having heard a noise, they fail to identify it as civilian children, and therefore do nothing.
4. They don't hear the cries at all, because of the noise and confusion.
5. The whole thing is a fabrication; it seems implausible that a shelling of a building would kill all the adults and magically leave the vulnerable children unharmed.

Of all these, number 1 looks the least likely, doesn't it?

Enough already. Comments welcome as always. Otherwise just using this to get frustrations off my chest...

Freedman Down Under: Outback Sideways

2009-01-09T04:50:00.006Z

So we pick up the story in Melbourne early on Sunday morning, when Wifey and I are driven to the airport by the Rippa, to board our (shudder) low-cost airline flight to Alice Springs. The night before, we had made a pretty valiant effort to eat our way through the Limor's legendary meat fress, and we were feeling the burn. Meat sweats, bloating, and just not enough of the right kind of fibre to help such a mass of protein on its way. And now a 2 1/2 hour flight with the legal minimum seat pitch and 200 selected local and international hoi polloi in close proximity. Just the thing.

After a flight that was uneventful due to everyone's inability to move from the knees up, we touched down in Alice Springs. First thing we noticed was the greenery - there has been a lot of rainfall recently, so as much as semi-arid territory blooms, this was doing so. One downside to the recent precipitation is the number of flies. We fought through a couple of clouds of the little buggers, picked up our Hioldguy Betz and headed off to the hotel, a pleasant enough affair near the edge of town. More bugs on offer, including these cricket/grasshopper things who spring around your face a lot and then sit dumbly on the pavement waiting to be crunched underfoot.

A little pootle into town reveals a whole load of Aboriginal daywalkers just kind of hanging around the place, intense heat and a bunch more bugs. It being 11am, and with some fairly immovable lumps of meat deep in the recesses of the bowel, we do the only decent thing while I am still in treif mode, and go into the only open restaurant (KFC), where we work our way through the Batsman's Bucket in short order. This is a $25.95 coronary-in-waiting, and with that much grease, it slips down real nice at that time of day. All 16 pieces of chicken, 2 large fries, large bottle of fizz and crate of coleslaw.

We waddle off for a little tour of Alice, starting with an abortive trip to the Cultural Precinct, which turned out to be shut until 8th Jan, so I missed out on my chance to see the fab works of Albert Namatjira and visiting the Aviation Museum. We made the best of the day by going on tours of the Royal Flying Doctor Service and the School of the Air (ie where Outback kids learn via radio and internet). Very cute girl giving the talk at the latter, grew up on a cattle station miles away from everywhere, shows that inbreeding really can work sometimes.

Speaking of which, it turns out the Aboriginals have had a practice stretching back a few thousand years that each person is allocated to one of 6 groups at birth based on a look at genealogy, and can only marry someone from a determined other group, which helps keep the gene pool reasonably open. This is especially important given that numbers have dropped below 300,000, and intermarriage bringing in new bloodstock is not all that common. Jews of Britain, take note.

Still doesn't make many Aboriginals use toilets instead of shitting on pavements, and certainly has not encouraged the use of showers and baths on a semi-frequent basis. Apparently this is because of a cultural aversion to "wasting water". Now camels are known as the great "ships of the desert" and retain vast amounts of water, apparently capable of rehydrating at the rate of 200 litres imbibed in 3 minutes. They also make surprisingly good pie, when braised in stout and served with chips, as Wifey found out down at Bojangles in downtown Alice. Having still not had a good poo since the combination of Limor's and the earlier finger lickin' goodness, I was not in the mood to partake.

Anyway, the following day we headed out into the Macdonnells, a range of mountain ridges that extends for a few hundred kms out of Alice and into the middle of bumblefuck. Given the 100km per day restriction on the car, along with our general laziness, we got as far as Trephina Gorge, in the East Macdonnells, where we took a long hike culminating in a dip in the waterhole at the foot of the gorge. After that, we were quite knackered, what with temperatures already being in the high thirties, and having made a 7am start, quite a feat for the likes of Wifey and me, so we sauntered back via a couple of other nice little stops, complete with me going for a good paddle at Emily Gap - or was it Jessie Gap? All these girly gaps I have been diving into whilst on this trip... wow, that wasn't contrived or lewd at all.

The plan was to have lunch outside, but the flies were just infuriating: Wifey's discovery of his inner guru means that I too must practice equanimity towards all creatures great and small. This doesn't stop me squishing a few of them when he's not looking.

Returning to Alice, we devoured our picnic lunch on the strangely fly-free balcony of our villa (perhaps the trail of scattered, shattered insect corpses of a previous moment of unequanimous behaviour on my part had the desired effect), took a long schluff and dip in the hotel's bougainvillea-draped pool, followed by a mooch into town, where we finally bought some fly nets. Then we took in some dinner at Bojangles again - Bo's Aussie Outback Mixed Grill, which describes itself as a "beaut combination of buffalo medallions, camel kebab, kangaroo fillet, emu sausage and crocodile rissoles served on a bed of garlic mash with chilli quandong sauce". Tasted mostly like chicken, beef, lamb and other things I can get at the Golders Green Deli, hence my belief that this treif "wildcard" experiment is just that...

The following morning, we headed off on the 3 day Rock Tour group trip, for a bargain $295. Firstly, I should mention that we breakfasted on these amazing limited edition Toffee Crunchy Nut Cornflakes - easily better than any of the bushmeat I've had out here. So we got on the minibus and met our guide, Beej, a glorious stereotypical native of The Alice. We then did a tour of hotels and hostels, collecting a Yank, 2 Swiss, a Dutch girl, a Brit girl, 4 Germans, a Turk, a Frenchie, and a family of 5 Swedes. We pottered out to King's Canyon, where we took a lovely hike that included a spectacular emergence into a gorge with a deep waterhole for swimming and general lizard lounging.

Beej turned out to be an excellent guide, and we even converted him to the ways of the flynet, for the first time in his 33 years of living in the Red Centre. Shows how bad it was, or perhaps how many we attracted. He talked about the various aspects of geology, nature and Arrernte (local Aboriginal tribe) mythology that came together to form the canyons and monoliths we saw, and ensured we were well fed on chicken satay and rice in the evening, as we settled down in swags by the campfire.

What with being so very far away from everything, we all lay awake under the big sky, spellbound by just how many stars there turned out to be up there. I snuggled up to Wifey, but he was having none of it.

The next morning, up not long before sunrise for a trip over to the Olgas, which are a variation on the more famous Uluru/Ayers Rock monolith, and in many ways much more spectacular. By the Arrernte name of Kata Tjuta, these strange knobbly heaps contain within some impressive views of more gorges and canyons, complete with some nice wildlife, and with an amazing ability to totally destroy my walking boots.

As we set off on the hike, I began to wish I had laid down some of that funky shoe glue in the welts, but had never got round to it. Gradually the crack between the rubber sole and leather upper started to fill with pebbles, twigs and dust, until like some cartoon hobo, I was walking along with the whole front flapping away. After tripping and swearing my way for a mile or two, I resolved to use the emergency sewing kit to temporarily stitch the top and bottom together, but was not factoring in the drizzling sweat and accompanying thousand flies who wanted a bath.

So I hobbled my way around most of this stunning walk, with the soles completely removed and the uppers of my shoes held together with the remaining shards of insole by my socks being wrapped around the outsides. Meanwhile my sweaty sockless feet absorbed the crunchy, pointy rocks underneath as best as possible, while Wifey helpfully kept telling me to be equanimous.

Later on, we went on a visit to the Uluru cultural centre, learned more about how the Aborigines came over from Indonesia and Papua New Guinea by boat somewhere between 25,000 and 65,000 years ago (and have yet to wash, by all accounts), lost David the German, wound up at the foot of Uluru for a quick look at one of the waterholes that forms by collecting the water run-off from the top of the the rock, where we saw a rare perentie lizard baby. There are apparently only about 50 perenties left in the wild, so this is a real coup.

Then we found David the German, headed to the viewing point to cook up some spag boloroo (yes, that is pasta with minced Skippy) overlooking the rock at sunset. Very nice but we didn't get the really spectacular orange glow of the picture postcard. This didn't stop the archetypal group of Japanese tourists taking a gazillion photos and quaffing a champagne buffet. We entertained ourselves with a brief guitar strum with new group member British Matt, and a little sing-a-long of Waltzing Matilda.

On the coach back to camp, we were treated to Beej being posed the best question of all time from British Laura:

"Did the Aboriginals leave Asia because it was shit?"

Mulling over this profound question, wondering if a T-shirt in one of the Aboriginal languages, saying "We're only here because Asia was shit" would be a best-seller.

Another night under the stars, fit 19 year old German girl insisting on sleeping just nicely in my eyeline, on top of her swag, wearing just a little vest and some snug Hello Kitty knickers... doesn't get much better than that. Up before dawn, down to Uluru again for sunrise breakfast, delightful PB&J sarnies on tasty fruit loaf, with swigs of orange and passion fruit juice. Then a 10km circuit around the rock, where Stephen and I romped home in first place, due to the front-runners mysteriously disappearing.

Eerily reminiscent of Meryl Streep's "uh dingo took mah baaaybeh" moment, British Matt and Yankee Bayo had simply vanished. After half an hour of waiting and driving around looking for them, we were about to write them off, as a 10% attrition rate on these kinds of tour is quite acceptable, when a coach coming in the opposite direction screeched to a halt, and deposited the bedraggled pair. Turns out they had been so engrossed in their debate on the metaphysical qualities of Uluru and the Aboriginal legends of Dreamtime that they failed to notice they had completed the circuit, and just kept on walking.

As this was the end of the tour, everyone was heading on a 6 hour drive back to Alice but Wifey and I were being dropped off at the resort so we could fly straight out to Perth. The loss of two trippers deprived us of nearly an hour of extra dipping in the resort pool, but we got a splash before supping a cool bevy in the hotel bar and heading to the airport for our trip to Perth, thankfully on Qantas. No bizclass section on this flight unfortunately, which meant we only managed Row 4, whilst Row 5 was occupied by a couple whose two young children took turns to crap their nappies every 15 minutes for the whole 2 1/2 hour flight. These were changed in situ so we all got to smell the sweet, musky delights of the underage turd.

We got to Perth, cabbed it to the Bros' surgery, got a lift from there to their rather awesome house, and basically flaked out for the next 24 hours. That brings us up to date. Rottnest Island, downtown Perth and Fremantle to come tomorrow, wedding on Sunday, down to Margaret River on Monday. Wifey promises that photos will be inserted retrospectively this side of Easter.

Sad days in Israel

2009-01-02T04:16:00.005Z

These are very sad days in Israel. Of course, what we are all reading about in the media is Operation Cast Lead, and naturally I am expected to blog about it in my usual style. However, we are instead thinking about our wonderful uncle Meir, who passed away peacefully on Tuesday at the Hadassah Hospital outside Jerusalem. He was well into his 90s, and had been unwell for some time, and went with his family surrounding him, having led a fascinating and full life. Nonetheless, this feels like a tragedy - perhaps because until recently, he was bounding around hilltops like a mountain goat, driving his car even more crazily than a typical Sabra, and finishing his studies into medicinal leeches. A visit to Israel was not complete without a cup of milky tea and an over-feeding on the balcony of Meir and Ruth's apartment, looking down the valley over Jerusalem at sunset.

Here is a portrait of him, painted (I think) by his daughter:

Meir was not a typical Israeli uncle that we had to be guilt-tripped into visiting. He and his brothers had grown up in Beirut, and Meir retained some decent Arabic along with a left-leaning position (definitely adopted by his daughters and grand-daughters!) that neatly offset my own and that of other members of the family. I recall him grinning and describing his wing of the family as the luftmenschen section - a bit hippy-dippy, involved in academia and the arts, and totally wonderful and generous in a profound way that we capitalist materialists can never quite pull off.

I remember being told a story of how he wanted to contribute to bridging the social, cultural and economic divide between Jews and Arabs, and so when he was replacing his car, he drove the old one across to Silwan in East Jerusalem, found the most responsible-looking elder, and handed over the keys. I have a glorious image of Meir in his sandals and baggy white trousers, with his white comb-over blowing in the hamsin, and a startled Omar Sharif-a-like in flowing robes, shaking hands as the sun sets over the hills. Apocryphal or not, it's a great story.

The beauty of Meir and Ruth is that they know something about everything, especially Israel's history and the individuals who built the state. I recall asking them about various street names (in Israel these are invariably named after people from modern and biblical history who have shaped the country and culture), and it turned out that they had known many of them personally, and sat on the Jerusalem street-naming committee!

Meir played the role of family historian, and gave us a marvellous tour of Rishon LeZion, which our forbears, the Hirschfelds, had helped to found in the 1880s. Recently I caught Meir on camera for an hour-long interview, talking about his childhood in Beirut and visiting Grandpa in London. Grandpa was very close to the Rigbi brothers, especially Meir, who was his age and shared the same mild temperament and politics.

Here is an excerpt of Meir talking about when he spent a whole term with Grandpa at Canonbury High School in London, and was picked on by a 9 year old playground bully:

There are so many fascinating stories of childhood, his time as a volunteer for the British Army in WWII, and his role during the founding of the State of Israel. He then had a prolific career in science and academia, as well as volunteering with Ruth for pretty much every political, social and cultural committee and group imaginable. On top of that, he always found time for a cuppa and a good political debate with the more right wing members of his family, and would visit Aunty Deb even when she was at her most grouchy, always finding something positive to say about their discussions.

Of course, his wife, kids and grandkids will still be there for us to spend time with, and they carry so much of his spirit and presence, but our visits to Israel will still be that little bit less colourful for the passing of Uncle Meir.

Normal service re Oz and politics will resume shortly...

Freedman Down Under: peachy Melbourne

2008-12-31T01:56:00.004Z

What can I tell you? Much as it has been a trauma for Wifey #1 to go and live on the other side of the world (I have still not taken the hint perhaps), now I am here, I can see why. Melbourne is one of those places that just works. It has a little of everything you'd want - beaches, weather, lovely people, good fressing, nice architecture, good countryside, culture, and a functioning public transport system.

Much like home, however, it has a losing cricket team; here's a pic from the final day of the Boxing Day Test at the MCG, a real institution like the opening summer test at Lord's - and the first time in a generation that the Baggy Greens (that's the name for the Aussie cricket team, because of the cubscout caps they wear) have lost a Test series at home.

So far, I have been acclimatising, getting to know the city, and of course, eating plenty of hearty meals. I have decided to have a brief rebellious patch on the whole kosher thing, as it's not every day a nice chunk of marinated kangaroo is on offer. Still bizarrely avoiding pork and shellfish though, and this won't last beyond Oz, but it's nice to just kick back and be someone else for a bit. I think the strategy is that I get three wildcards for treif holidays, so I can experience all the stuff you can't get in Solly's before retreating to safe food beginning with K. To be honest, the yokmeat is all ok, but not so amazing that I couldn't live without it.

On that note, I went surfing the other day! Yes, me... drove down to Phillip Island with Wifey, Stitch (limber London linguist Lilo's little sister), and The Bull, stopping off on the way to meet some koalas, kangaroos and other domestic furries. Then got down to Smith's Beach, squeezed into wetsuits and plunged on in. The Bull was pretty good, having done this before (ie actually getting to her feet on the board), whilst Wifey and I managed a couple of bodysurfs and even got onto knees at one point. We went about recreating the dramatic closing sequence of Point Break - I especially enjoyed wiping out on some strategically placed underwater rocks a couple of times. The things we do for our sport, eh?

In the evening, we got back to Melbourne, devoured some more excellent food, and watched Frost/Nixon (very enjoyable), before visiting Stitch and The Bull's sweet townhouse, complete with basement cinema. That's about all I've got for the moment - Stitch is holding back the release of the pic of the four of us holding our boards and looking very professional, pending airbrushing of how skanky she looked, despite flaking out early from the surfing. Some of us have got it, honey, and some of us have not.

The rest of Melbourne in a nutshell (photos to follow): strolls around the botanical gardens with Wifey, beachfront and St Kilda Pier as well as hearty brunch with Bouncer, enormous meat fress at Limor's, pleasant coffee and nosh with Wifey's friends the Golden Couple, London-style sprint to move car and avoid parking ticket, usual collection of jokes about eating babies, helping Wifey with his eviction, and a cracking meal at the cool aunt and uncle's trendy designer house.

That's all for now... in Alice Springs but no time to finish posting properly, except to complain bitterly about having to fly low-cost to get here. Oh, and the fucking flies are everywhere. Why does nobody mention these? Maybe they are just drawn to me. Like flies to... um...

Freedman Down Under: happy landings

2008-12-26T23:56:00.003Z

This is the first of my postings from Oz, where I will be enjoying the next 6 weeks in glorious sunshine, hoping that enough of the UK remains uncrunched for my plane to land safely when I get back.

In the "Spirit of Webber", I will try and avoid the "and then I did..." style of travel writing, and I will also assume that Freedmansmum will edit this before reading it to Freedmansgrandpa, so the odd swearword and naughty escapade (yeah, as if) can be included.

So Day One started with Freedmansdad driving me to the airport, via a near-collision with a police van, which had pulled to the side of the road ahead of us, then with no signal or warning, suddenly pulled back out right in front of us. Cue screeching of brakes and a moment where I thought I might get to play out my fantasy of a police motorcade escorting me to the airport in a blaze of sirens, lights and paparazzi flashbulbs (with possible Nicole Kidman rooftop dancing/draping cutaway scene). Sadly the quick reactions of Freedmansdad, and sturdy frame of the Silver Slug, saw to that.

Heathrow Terminal 4, Christmas Day. 100% efnik staff on duty, other than a few hard-ups taking the double-time. Mooch through to BA lounge, devour some cereal and red berries, a couple of hot brekkie rolls, and then the pièce de résistance, warm pain au chocolat and cinnamon rolls with a large glass of champers. Board flight, enjoy delight of not only turning left but going up the stairs, settle into front row seat, drink more champers before take-off. So nice to genuinely begin your holiday before even leaving the airport.

12 hour flight to Singapore, slip on my nice Qantas grey flannels, devour a G&T before lunch, an excellent chardonnay with my smoked salmon starter, a sauv blanc with the halibut, a pink muscat with the cheeseboard, a little sherry on the side of the warm ginger cake with hot butterscotch sauce, and a decent cognac with the bitter chocolates to finish. Then have a little fatnap, before working my way through Tropic Thunder (human version of Team America), Hancock (abbreviated and more realistic version of Smallville), Etz Limon (depressing, slightly Meretz Israeli-Palestinian lemon grove by security fence saga), Wall-E (nicely done Disney shtick), and two episodes of Family Guy. Flight concludes with a superb breakfast of scrambled eggs, potato pancakes, tomato relish, toast and honey, warm Danish, passion fruit juice and some decent tea. Oh, and a glass of sparkling, of course.

At Changi I waddle off to the Rainforest Lounge, have a neck and shoulder massage, a gin sling and a freshen up. Reboard for 8 hours down to Sydney, have an excellent cream of tomato soup with piping hot sunflower seed roll, excellent glass of shiraz, Malaysian-style fish and noodle curry, date and apricot custard frangipan with a Cointreau on the side, 2 episodes of the Simpsons, Man On Wire (documentary about crazy French guy walking on a rope between the Twin Towers, obviously pre-9/11, not so challenging now), and a 6 hour schluff curled up in a paralytic ball in the nice big bed.

Roll off the plane in Sydney, fast-track myself, my bags, and the all-important Cadburys delivery from my mother-in-law through customs, then duck into Emerald Lounge, have a hot shower and extensive eucalyptus-related pampering goodies, quaff some domestic sparkling with a few slabs of cheese, a very nice pasta pesto salad thing, and a glass of ginger beer. Seat 1A over to Melbourne, feta cheese and sundried tomato salad on a bed of those rice-shaped pasta bits (do they just get those by sweeping the pasta factory floor?), start to appreciate just how fit Aussie birds are, meet Wifey at airport, admire the white Toyota rip-off, also admire how chilled he has become on driving (always within speed limit) until he tells me how officious they are here and he has already had his first speeding ticket.

Get to Elwood, admire nice house in great location, make myself at home in the outhouse (ie garage), take a stroll with Wifey up the beach and back through Acland/St Kilda, drop off at about 2am to the sound of many strange birds that make the same noises as howler monkeys, and the buzzing from the neighbour's garage-based freezer. Wake up at 10am, buzzing has stopped, realise it was my electric toothbrush, come in for a shower, bowl of cereal, gutted to find no champagne awaits me, nor is there a blonde dolly-bird in a kimono to serve me... ah yes, good morning Nicci (Wifey's housemate), still no champers though.

And that brings us up to date. 29 degrees out today, off for an orientation tour of Melbourne. This rocks.