Amiram Hayardeny’s BigMouth

It’s been over a week since we landed in Israel. And what a week it was.

It started at 3:00 AM at the Ben Gurion International Airport outside Tel Aviv. The sky was clear and the weather was warm and welcoming. So were my sister and her friend who came to pick us up from the airport. We were out pretty quickly, myself, my wife Dorit, two sleepy but very excited children, and ten pieces of luggage, totaling almost 250 kilograms.  The state of Israel was kind enough to allow us all this overweight simply because we were returning Israeli citizens on Israel’s 60th year.

After two and a half years of being away, we were home.

Those of you who experienced remote assignments, relocations, and even the simple act of moving from one place to another will recognize this feeling right away: the feeling of euphoria. Everything looks great, the people are nice, the lines are shorter, the traffic is reasonable. Obviously, this feeling is temporary, simply because every place has its own shortcomings. But the bottom line is simple: this is home, and after being away for so long, home is beautiful.

It hit me when I went to vote for the Binyamina mayor and city council. I was standing there, waiting in line, when I saw a photo of the late Ehud Manor, a famous Israeli poet and composer. He was smiling in the photo, and the quote underneath it said (in Hebrew, and in a much nicer language):

“I want to tell you, and I want you to believe me, wherever I go and wherever I live, I am a Binyaminer”

By the same token, and with direct contradiction to whatever the cosmopolitan Amiram, who lived in various parts of the US, and in Beijing, I want to make it clear and I want you to believe me when I say:

Wherever I go, and wherever I settle, whatever I do and whoever I talk to, whatever passport I carry, and whatever language I speak. I am first and foremost, and will always be, an Israeli.

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It was just another flight for me.  Or so I thought.  I flew from Tel Aviv to Beijing a couple of days ago.  As I boarded the Boeing 767 I expected the usual bore, the occasional shuteye, the discomfort.  But at the other end, Dorit and the kids were waiting for me, and for that I was ready to experience infinite amounts of inconvenience…

A few years back I had a very strange observation about myself.  I was a Pavlovian Dog.  The thought of an airplane would put me to sleep right away.  As soon as I get myself seated, my seatbelt fastened, and the airplane leaves the gate - I fall asleep.  It’s truly amazing, but I doubt I experienced takeoff while being awake in quite a few years.

But this flight was different.  As the purser introduced herself, I realized that she must be the mother of a former employee of mine.  A pretty as well as clever employee.  I went over to the purser and introduced myself.  I told her that her daughter and I worked together, that I could see her daughter in her.  I then went back to my seat.  Being the traveler that I am, I quickly went to sleep, forfeiting an airline dinner for for a dream one.  The purser stopped by a few times, but I really didn’t need anything, plus I don’t like to be given preferential treatment, and the flight was progressing nicely.

But then she came over and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.  Not in a million years.  She offered me to spend some time at the cockpit.  I enthusiastically accepted.  Mind you, it isn’t very easy to get into the cockpit.  There are two doors between the cabin and the cockpit, and they can’t be both open at the same time.  But the space between them is too small for the two of us to stand, so one of us had to go to the bathroom.  Needless to say, it was me.  But a short minute after that, I was in the cockpit, where the sun was shining, and the captain and the first officer were all smiles.

I must have been too excited to say anything of significance, and I believe I mumbled something.  The two men, obviously comfortable with the monster they were in control of, showed no surprise.  They were nice and welcoming, and shortly after I came in, a conversation developed.  We spoke about flying airplanes (I took flying lessons a decade ago, but were too scared to pursue the hobby), developing software, the computing power of the airplane and the automation.  Indeed, they informed me, an untrained person can land the aircraft with instructions from the ground.  I was relieved.

During my stay at the cockpit, we changed altitude from 37,100 ft to 39,100 ft.  We also changed course (was part of the original flight plan), were alerted of nearby aircraft, which we later saw, and had some conversations with several control towers somewhere in China.  I have no idea how long I spent in the cockpit, but I’m pretty sure it was well over an hour.  It was an outstanding, exhilarating experience.  I would like to use this opportunity to thank Captain Avi, and his First Office for an unforgettable experience.  Also, I would like to thank the purser for giving me this opportunity.

Flying in the cockpit of a Boeing 767 from Tel Aviv to Beijing - Outstanding!

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I took Guy downstairs to ride his scooter, a very unusual event. And with good reason. Watching Guy riding his scooter, his bicycle or even playing on the monkey bars isn’t good for my health. Every time he falls, or seems to fall, or about to fall, or is standing next to a child that might fall in the next hour or so, my heart starts beating out of rhythm. I usually ask my wife, Dorit, to watch Guy playing or riding. I’m good at reading stories, playing computer games, and jigsaw puzzles. The couch potato games…

Anyway, I’m standing there, recovering from Guy’s last maneuver, and there she was. A young woman, shabby looking with a floor touching skirt, an out of fashion out of season hat, sandals, and a huge nap sack. In retrospect, she was looking precisely as she was supposed to look, but she was so out of context, that I was completely thrown. She was all smiles, and she introduced herself, in Hebrew. I extended my hand, and the answer was surprising at the time, but not so in retrospect. It was: “I don’t shake hands, but my husband does”. Providing a few pieces of completely irrelevant data: she’s married, uninterested in strange men, and that she is a practicing religious Jew. As I said, irrelevant. Then came the next surprise. She actually was interested. Well, not that way. She was interested in making the acquaintance. Israelis, particularly when they are living outside of Israel tend to flock. It’s not an unusual thing, nor a bad one, it’s just a fact. Everyone likes to have the company of his or her own kind on occasion. In the absence of family, it’s a great substitute.

But in fact, religious Jews in Beijing in general, and in our apartment complex in particular are as common as fish on bicycles, scuba diving birds, or flying baboons. No offense meant of course. In retrospect, I was very disappointed at my own reaction. The offense deserved some reaction.  We continued the conversation, I handed her my number, and we parted. What I should have done is to say: “I don’t talk to strange women, but my wife does”. But I was brought up differently. Courtesy comes natural to me. In order to not offend someone I’m willing to go to great distances. I will eat strange foods, take part in strange ceremonies, I will be polite, and well mannered.

Amazingly, Judaism preaches to just that. There’s a famous proverb in Hebrew which suggests “The Way of the Land Precedes the Torah” (דרך ארץ קדמה לתורה). In other words, respect and courtesy come first, religion second. But this isn’t practiced anymore, unfortunately. Moreover. The original Judaism is very aware of personal relationships. In fact, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, only covers the relationship between a man and his Creator. What it doesn’t cover is the relationship between man and man. In other words, if someone didn’t follow the word of God, they can repent on the Day of Atonement. But if someone hurt another human being, they can fast and pray year round, and it won’t be forgiven, until the person goes and asks for forgiveness. From the hurting person that is. But unfortunately again, this too was put aside. Forgotten.

I was offended, I was hurt. And the additional data provided only made me feel worse. I was only being polite. And I’m willing to bet, that the real Jewish women, who care about God, but also care about their fellow human beings, would shake my hand even if it was inappropriate. After all, if that was a sin, Day of Atonement would take care of it. Now, she has to look me up and ask for my forgiveness…

But there’s more. Is a relationship between our families possible? According to their practice, they can’t eat even a bread crumb at our house, not a glass of water. We can’t go out to restaurants, there’s only one kosher restaurant in entire Beijing, and it’s way too expensive and way too unrewarding. We can’t watch a movie, we can’t walk in the park on Saturdays. Truly, there’s nothing we can do together except one. The usual scenario is simple. Real simple. We can get invited to a “Shabbat Meal”, usually a Friday night dinner or Saturday lunch. We can practice their ceremonies - wash our hands before the meal, recite the prayers before and after the meal, sing some special poems and songs. Supposedly, not a big deal for us, except “experiencing a little Yiddishkeit” - Judasim, become “closer”. For them, it’s the opportunity to get a completely secular (some even atheist) family a little closer to Judaism. I hear that you score some good points with the Man upstairs for that.

Well, my friend, I’ll have to disappoint you. It won’t work. The reason is simple, and short. Been there, done that. I graduated from a Yeshiva (yes, for those of you who had no idea, particularly you, who think I’m the exemplary atheist - I’m sorry for not disclosing earlier), and my ex wife is a religious Jew. I spent more time in synagogues than I care to admit, and recited way too many prayers already. I want my children, at least the ones who live with me, to grow free of this burden. I want them to be curious, inquisitive, and to learn to live with unanswered questions. And in answer to your unasked question: no, I’m not a self-hating Jew. In fact, I’m proud of it.

And yes, I forgive you.

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May 1997. My first day at IBM Haifa Research Lab (HRL). The usual ceremonial seat assignment, terminal, some leftover paperwork, meeting the rest of the staff, back to my new corner to start and gain some knowledge of IBM Storage, my place of work for the next nine years. Suddenly, I heard a loud voice outside my office, “food”, the voice said. It was still patient. Then the word “food” was repeated another couple of times. The patience was significantly reduced this time. I came out of my office, and I saw a tall, handsome man, with the deepest, kindest, blue eyes I’ve ever seen. It was Gabriel Walder. Better known as Gabi.

Finally, when enough people congregated outside. In the coming days, and years, for the next eight years, I became conditioned. As a good old Pavlovian dog, when I heard Gabi out of my office saying the word “food”, I would start to drool…

Gabi and I worked together for many years. For years, we would listen to each other’s stories, share jokes, and argued, a lot, on very complex algorithms that had to do with the transferring huge amounts of data from one part of the planet to the other, without losing one byte, providing customers with the ability to recover from disasters.

Over the years, I met Gabi’s family, his old dog Shoshana, and the new one Duke. I met his friends, visited his home in Haifa, and in Tucson. Gabi Walder was a significant part of my life.

One day, June 2005, when my plane hit the runway in Tucson Arizona, my phone rang as soon as I turned it on. It was Dorit, my wife. She said Gabi passed away. I was in a state of shock, out of words. Gal, his manager was with me on that plane. We needed a quick decision. After twenty four hours in the air, Gal turned around and went home to participate in the funeral. With a heavy heart, I continued as planned. I shouldn’t have.

It’s been three years since Gabi left us. I can still hear his voice laughing when I’m told a joke. I can see his face in large crowds once in a while. I remember him daily. Gabi was taken from us prematurely. He could have lived among us for many more years, making us all happy, making us all reflect. He could have contributed so much more innovation, reflection, insight. His family misses him terribly. So do his friends. So do everyone who ever met him. So do I.

I wrote a eulogy for Gabi, the day he died. I’m not in possession of many documents from that period. I’ll never lose this one. It’s been three years, I can’t believe it.

June 14, 2005

We lost a friend yesterday. A friend and a colleague. Gabi was one of the first to join the Storage Development Department. Many things can be attributed to Gabi: the love of life, the professionalism, the sense of humor, the appreciation of good food, a good show, a good conversation. Gabi was a special guy. He could get all whipped out of shape for some minor incident, laugh at a joke, and come up with a really good idea, all on the same hour. One thing’s for sure, you could always count on Gabi for help in just about anything.

Gabi will be remembered for being a good friend, a true professional, a husband and a father. He will be remembered as the 12:00 sharp lunch guy, and the proud owner of the chair at the head of the Copy Services table in the cafeteria. Gabi will be remembered for the strong sense of justice he had.

Gabi will be remembered for PPRC (Peer to Peer Remote Copy) Establish Path. In fact, Gabi is PPRC Establish Path.

I will personally miss him terribly. Gabi was one of the emblems of the Copy Services team in Haifa, and so he shall remain.

To the family: there’s nothing we can possibly say to describe the pain we feel here. Gabi has left a big hole behind. His presence will be felt throughout the hallways here for a very long time. Over the years, we have become a family, an extended family of colleagues, their spouses and their children. We were all involved in each other’s lives, for better for worse. In Gabi’s absence, you, his dearest family, shall remain part of our extended family. We will continue sharing with you our joys and pains.

It’s been three years. I guess people like Gabi take a lot longer to forget. Millenia.

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The picture below broke a personal record for me. The elapsed time between seeing this picture and the first tear could be measured in nanoseconds. But that was one record broken, there were a few more. The parade of feelings and memories. Personal, familial, tribal and global all came streaming. Faces of the living and the dead. Faces of old an young, of happy and sad. Of friends and foes.

As I’m writing these words, it occurs to me that explanation is necessary. The blue and white Israeli flag, the tattooed hand of an old lady, and the chubby little hand of a baby. Many are familiar with chubby little hands. Less may be familiar with the Israeli flag. Few are familiar with old ladies with tattooed numbers on their hands.

When I was young, Israel was full of those. They weren’t so old back then, they had tattooed numbers on their hands, and it was said: those with the numbers on their hands. Having this number on the hand was the clearest, gruesome, chilling evidence that these people had something in common. They belonged to a certain club. Not the kind of club you might be thinking about. Not an upper class Golf club, not a Yacht club. Not even an exceptional fraternity or sorority, although one might claim that it was precisely that. These people spent time in the darkest places ever to have existed on this planet. And they lived to tell. They were the survivors of Hitler’s death camps.

The German, in their incredible effectiveness and order, kept records of every single person they ever de-humanized, and ultimately killed. Every person who entered the gates of the death camps was branded. Like cattle. They were branded with a serial number. When their turn came to be eliminated, the records could have been set straight, that this once human, professional, family person, Jew - is no longer. Mission accomplished.

But some, against all odds, survived. They rose from the ashes, they picked whatever was left of their humanity, dignity, of their families, of their former lives and former identities, and went to Israel. There, slowly, carefully, with a lot of help, patience and love, some of them were able to rebuild. To put together families, businesses, and a country. Imagine that.

I don’t have a clue who the people in the picture are.  But the old hand, with the tattoo is my grandmother’s, and the chubby little hand is mine. The flag is my country’s. It’s irrelevant that my grandmother is no longer with us, and that I no longer am a baby. Both my grandmother and I have a strong connection to the land of Israel. The three elements in the picture are combined into one big evidence - we’re here to stay.

* The picture was taken by Karen Gillerman-Harel. The picture won the contest “Israel Sixtieth Birthday Flag”. All rights reserved to Karen Gillerman-Harel.

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