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In 1967, the Israeli airforce took the Egyptian airforce by complete surprise, practically concluding the war before it even started. Superiority in the sky, we were taught, is everything. I certainly was not an accredited military strategist when I was young, nor am I today. But at the age of fifteen, I knew I wanted to be one. They were young, handsome, in great shape, and they enjoyed the admiration of the men, and the hearts of the women. In addition, it seemed like a good combination of profession and hobby. I decided to join the “air scouts”. A youth movement sponsored by the air force, which used the love of aviation and the building of model airplanes to lure kids into signing up. I spent a couple of years learning aerodynamics, avionics, and building model airplanes from pieces of balsa trees, rice paper, and glue. It was a lot of fun, and I remember those days fondly.
I didn’t become a pilot, although many years later, when I was close to forty, I did take flying lessons only to realize that after all, I was going to leave the business of flight to the professionals. I decided to love airplanes and traveling, and hate self aviation… My six years old boy, like many his age, love airplanes. He is fascinated with the idea of flying machines. A few months back, as we were driving back from Eilat and through Beer Sheba, we saw signs for the Israeli Air force Museum. Last Friday I kept my word. We picked my parents up in Tel Aviv, and headed south to the Israeli Air Force Museum.
 We were walking around along the long lines of old airplanes. Turboprops, jets, double winged, cargo, reconnaissance aircraft. They were all there, motionless, weathered. Many have seen combat. Some took part in defending the skies of this small country. One, nicknamed Downs Champion, downed thirteen enemy airplanes… So much history, so much activity, such a shameful end. I was standing there, looking at Spitfires, Messerschmidts, Sikorskies, Belles, Phantoms (F4E), Skyhawks, F-15, F-16, and I could easily imagine the roar of their engines, see the smoke coming out of the exhaust pipes, the pilots signing the victory signs. I could almost smell the fumes of the jet fuel. Seeing them standing in line, some with little or no air in the tires, their flags and signs faded away, I felt mainly respect. Respect to the old and experienced. Respect to the ones who gave their share, maybe more, and were let go when the time came.
Then, as I was taking off on the wings of my imagination, the roar of a fighter jet was heard, and then another one. Two fighter planes engaged in a dog fight. One was obviously trying evasive maneuvers to escape the attacker. They were flying low and hard. They were flying fast. But then, when they flew over the museum, I thought I saw them wave their wings in recognition and respect of the old.
Three generations of men were present. My seventy four year old father, myself, and my six years old son. I have plenty of respect for my father, I can only hope that my son has the same respect for me. Three generations: old glories, present routines, and future hopes. We each had our own memories and thoughts triggered by seeing the old flying machines.
The Israeli Air Force Museum. I strongly recommend.
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.
A few days ago, I was writing about anarchy in Israel. I though we were making headways. I had no idea how close we were. In answer to my own question from last week: “Anarchy, Are We There Yet?”, I will have to categorically answer, yes we are.
Sometimes, a single event indicates a change of direction, for better or for worse. Last Friday, something so significant, so terrible, happened in Tel Aviv, that I can only conclude that yes, anarchy is here. A middle aged person, accompanies by his wife and daughter, went for a walk along the beach next to a quiet and affluent Tel Aviv neighborhood called Tel Baruch. After walking for a while, the small family sat down on a park bench to rest. A gang of eight young guys and a couple of girls started to tease the couple’s daughter. The father asked for them to stop. They killed him. They beat the crap out of him, and then dumped his lifeless body in the Mediterranean Sea. His wife was injured, but both wife and daughter made it. The gang was drinking beforehand, and when the arrest took place, they still were.
I must make a disclaimer here. I don’t know what went down at 12:00 midnight near the sleepy neighborhood of Tel Baruch. The police is investigating, the victims know what they went through, and the youngsters with the alcohol vapored brains may have some recollection of it. But as one of the police officers stated, the police had received an F in the outcome test. In the same sentence, that officer also stated that “the police can’t be everywhere all the time”. And I wanted to comment on this statement.
But first, let me offer my sincere condolences to the family of the deceased. In a way, many of us Israelis, were there on the boardwalk that night. We were all walking down the path with our own families, and we were all attacked viciously. In a way, many of us died last Friday. Why? Because it could happen to each and every one of us. And if nothing changes and quickly, it will.
Second, let me voice my disgust, shock, and yes, fear. I am going through the realization that we live in a country with law and order, with no respect, with not a lot of hope. If a person can meet his death trying to protect his family in the most fundamental way, then we live in the jungle. And in the jungle, a different set of rules apply. In the jungle, in order to survive, you need to have sharper and longer teeth, larger claws, and you should be able to run. Run like hell.
Back to the police.
The police in Israel knows one song. It sings the song all the time, without deviation. Lyrics and tune are identical every year. The lead singer changes, but the song remains the same. Budget. The police’s song is about budget. “If”, they sing, “we had more budget, we could put more cops on the streets”. “If we had more budget, we could buy more police cruisers, protect more battered wives, lower the rates of car crashes. Budget is always missing, and when something really bad happens, the budget is always there to point to. And I say bull.
Lets take traffic police for example, or the armed forces of the Ministry of Finance. Their job, as opposed to what most people think, is not to make sure that drivers comply with traffic laws. Their job is to collect easy money for the police. The traffic police set radars along the expressways, where traffic conditions are near perfect, where the speed limit is artificial at best, and this is where they get you. However, if they had two unmarked police cars driving back and forth on the expressways, citing offenders on the spot, it could create awareness. Drivers may get the impression that someone is watching and paying attention. Overhead cameras on major highways are another (cheaper) way to do the exact same. And please don’t irritate the hell out of me with privacy bullshit. Nobody’s privacy is more important than road safety. In other words, try to explain to a widow, that her husband died in a car crash because we were concerned about privacy.
Lets take alcohol as another example. People who drink are much more likely to be engaged in criminal activity . We must choose. Fun over car crashes and dead people all around? Freedom of drinking over the right to live? People who want to drink themselves to oblivion, should do so in the privacy of their home or in a club. Following the alcohol binge, they should be hauled home at their own expense (but certainly not at their own hands). The streets should be alcohol free. Think about it: we fought for smoke free environment – so we can breathe freely. We should fight for alcohol free environment – so we can live to see tomorrow.
And empower parents too. Parents and teachers are already stripped of all instruments to educate and discipline. That must change and very quickly. A parent MUST have the instruments for preventing their children from associating with bad company, for engaging in criminal activity. Educators must be able to have some disciplinary instruments. Otherwise, the next thing we know will be chaos. We’re almost there.
I know I saw this sentence somewhere. But for the life of me I can’t remember where. In any case, I didn’t think it up.
“Why are you trying so hard to fit in, when you so clearly stand out?”
When it comes to exceptional, I can think of no better example other than Usane Bolt. By far, the most exceptional athlete ever.
My wife sent this poem and the preceding paragraph to me over the email the other day. She sent it in Hebrew, and having read it, I realized that the original was written in English. I looked it up and found it easily. My wife didn’t send it without a reason. She sent it because my father, who just turned seventy four, has been fading away in the last few years. The man who was, and still is, a wonderful father, a romantic husband, an outstanding grandfather, a diligent employee, an influential speaker and politician, has become quiet, withdrawn, melancholic and sad. My father turned old overtime. In the process, new people who never met him in the past, could get the wrong impression. I wanted to make sure that everyone knows. My father is not a crabby old man. He might look like one. He might even behave like one. But he absolutely is not. My father is fluent, sensitive, funny. He is interesting and knowledgeable. He has an amazing life experience. He speaks many languages. He has three children and ten grandchildren. He is a young man, full of life. He has many more years in front of him. And so do I.
Please, when you look at your parents, or even a strange older person on the street, think. Try to hear beyond the silence, try to look beyond the visible. Think of a young man starting out, think of sunny days at the beach with little children running around, think of a romantic love this person experienced, think of the excitement of grandchildren, birthdays, family trips, promotions, successes, weddings. When I look in my father’s eyes, I see it all. Happiness and joy, sadness, hopes, prides, dreams that came true and dreams that didn’t. When I look into my father’s eyes, I see my mother. I see myself, my sister and my brother. I see our children. We are a tribe, and my father is the Chief. He is not and never will be a crabby old man. He is and will always be my Dad!
Please read and remember: that crabby old man, is someone’s father and grandfather. He is someone’s husband. Respect him, his experience, his age. You have been blessed to having met him.
An old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska. It was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri. The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to world, is now the author of this ” anonymous” poem winging across the Internet.
Crabby Old Man
What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice “I do wish you’d try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do.
And forever is losing a sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse, you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman’s beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more Babies play ‘ round my knee,
Again, we know children My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me My wife is now dead.
I look at the future I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age .look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass A young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells
I remember the joys I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living life over again.
I think of the years .all too few gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people open and see..
Not a crabby old man. Look closer see ME!!
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