It was late at night. I was driving back from Washington DC to Long Island New York where I was going to school at the time. It was year 1987 and I was driving a 1980 Oldsmobile Delta 88, converted diesel to gas engine (in short a young clunker). It was dark, I was by myself driving north on route 95, I felt my steering wheel pulling to the right, I managed to stop on the shoulder to realize that I was one tire short. The doughnut (a ridiculously small spare tire, placed in great American cars, which is good for 50 miles only) was out of air. I was stuck. The only two positive things I remember from that night was the huge statue of Virgin Mary, “Our Lady of the Highways”, and the policemen who helped.
Mind you, just in case you were wondering what happened to cellular phones, AAA or any other roadside service – the year was 1987. No cellular phone was available to poor students. Such as myself.
Five minutes after I pulled over, a Highway Patrol car pulled over as well. There were two officers inside. I saw them fiddling with some radios, then I was instructed over a loud speaker in a very strict voice: “keep your hands on the steering wheel please”. The driving officer then left his vehicle and slowly stepped over to mine. He was holding a flashlight, and was hand was gently touching the holstered gun. He signed for me to roll down the window. “Slowly” he said, “slowly”. I complied. Of course. Big car, with dark colors. The flashing red and blue lights. The stick, the uniform, the hat, the look. The climate was very clear: “do as you are told”. I did. With the window rolled, the officer said: “good evening sir, what seems to be the problem?”. I described the situation, and the climate changed immediately. He became all smiles, and willing to help. To make a long story short, the cop radioed in a request for a tow truck. A few minutes later, I was towed to a near auto shop.
My first experience with US police was intimidating at first, but in the end, they helped me. I concluded that they actually mean it when they state that their mission is to “protect and serve”.
Years later, in Tucson Arizona, I was driving to work one morning. I was listening to loud music, enjoying the early hours of the desert morning. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw the police car so close to me, I almost freaked out. I pulled over right away. The approach procedure was repeated. I must have been so anxious, that the policeman actually asked me to relax, explained that he was pacing me, that I was speeding, that he was going to give me a ticket, that I should take it easy and refrain from speeding in the future. I was thankful. Indeed, the $50.00 ticket was a poor way to spend hard earned money, but the lesson was priceless. I paid it gladly.
The reason was simple. I wanted to believe that the intimidation is practiced on all. And that by practicing it, it helps protecting me and my family as well. I liked the “bad policeman” concept. Particularly since it was also helpful, and it helped me to feel protected.
If you have the unhappy experience of being pulled over by Israeli police, you will have a different experience altogether. For starters, you will be asked to step out of the car and walk over to the cop, sitting comfortably in the plain looking blue and white police car. Begging will not help, explanation won’t either. The cop will not try to help you. The citation will be written, the window rolled up, and off you go back to your car. Not an intimidating or educational experience.
And then it strikes you. The cop is not intimidating to you, nor he is to all the potential rapists and murderers walking the streets. I’d rather have Israeli police in big bad cars, wearing dark uniform with mandatory hats. The Israeli cop should walk over to your car (not vice versa). The Israeli policeman should at least make you believe that he protects you, and possibly even serves you. But in all honesty, I wish for only one thing. It’s in my head, of course, and I don’t think the police can change it. I wish that when I see something wrong, like a crime in progress, some juvenile delinquents misbehaving, some drunk driving, I wish that the first thought in my mind would be: “call the police, they will be here shortly, and they will take care of the situation”. Instead, all I can think about is: “don’t bother calling the police, they will not come, and even if they do, they can do nothing to take care of the situation”.
And until Israeli police fixes my perception (and the perceptions of millions of other Israeli citizens), I expect nothing.
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