To: His Excellency President Rufus T. Firefly
From: His Notsogoodency Haim Watzman, Freedonian Ambassador to Israel

As you will recall from my earlier report, this morning I was summoned urgently to the foreign ministry in The Capital That Must Not Be Named. (As you know, the ministry is actually located in Jerusalem, but in accordance with international diplomatic custom we do not acknowledge this.) I knew from news reports that the summons was with regard to the screening, in Freedonian movie theaters, of a film portraying four members of the Jewish race as bumbling idiots who foment world war. We understood through diplomatic channels that Deputy Foreign Minister Canny Babylon’s superior, Foreign Minister Avigor Tuberman, was especially incensed by the fact that one of the said Jews was portrayed as speaking with an Italian accent rather than a realistic Russian one.

illustration by Avi Katz

I would not allow him to besmirch the four freedoms on which our great national tradition is based: the freedom to walk like a chicken, the freedom to insult rich dowagers, the freedom to make awful puns, and the freedom to speak one’s mind with a bicycle horn. Indeed, during my long years of service in my country’s diplomatic corps, I have held my head high through a number of such dressings-down. You will recall, no doubt, the incident in San Marcos where I refused Gen. Vargas’s order to wear my underwear over my pinstripe suit. And I am especially proud of how I stood up to U.S. President Merkin Muffley when he threatened to nuke our capital. That crisis ensued, I may remind you, after you declared that the theme of our annual Mardi Gross spring festival would be “The Women in the Closet: The Life and Loves of Warren G. Harding.”

So, accompanied by my faithful attaché Bob Roland, I walked into Mr. Babylon’s office in a fighting mood. My first inkling that this assignment would be even more difficult than I had anticipated came when his secretary handed me a box. She smiled sweetly and said:

“Hi, I’m Cindy. Deputy Minister Babylon asked me to tell you that in accordance with a longstanding Israeli tradition that dates back to 8 a.m. this morning, all official visitors are required to wear this quaint local costume.”

Thinking that this might be something akin to our own custom of asking honored dinner guests to wear horseshoes and snout rings, I opened the box with great curiosity.

“I’m afraid there must be some mistake,” I said to the secretary. “This is a Bozo outfit.”

“The deputy minister will not receive you until you have it on,” she said firmly.

Well, President Firefly, what was I to do? I had no time to waste — I was scheduled to arrive at Ben-Gurion Airport an hour hence to welcome Freedonia’s champion elliptic machine team for the regional championships to be held here later this week — so I excused myself, walked into the bathroom, and changed my clothes. Bob helped me apply the greasepaint and get the nose on right. I told him to wait for me outside as Cindy ushered me into Mr. Babylon’s office.

The members of the press were already assembled for the photo op. Mr. Babylon held out his hand, but when I put my hand in his I received an electric jolt and jumped a good three meters into the air. The reporters snickered and my host said, “I’m so sorry. Some static electricity, no doubt. Tell me, what do you think of my boutonniere?”

In his lapel was a fine purple anemone, one of my favorite local flowers, but when I bent down to inspect it I received a spurt of water in my face. The reporters guffawed. As I wiped my face with my handkerchief, Cindy brought in a chair for me. I gratefully sat down, only to hear a very loud fart resound through the room.

By now the reporters were in hysterics and Leslie Kisser of The Jerusalem Retort was actually rolling on the floor having a conniption fit that required his evacuation by the team of medics that stood at hand.

“I’d like to welcome the distinguished ambassador of Freedonia to the foreign ministry of the Jewish state,” said Mr. Babylon. “E’s-hay a eal-ray uck-schmay. And make sure you get the frizzy wig in your photos.”

Babylon foolishly thought that I did not understand. But if he had done his homework he would have known that this particular ambassador holds an advanced degree in the language of which he thought I was ignorant. Perhaps, if I may be so bold, Mr. President, I will send you a copy of my prizewinning PhD dissertation: “Say ‘Ay’: The Problem of Rhyme in Pig-Latin Poetry.”

Nevertheless, despite the clown costume, the hand buzzer, the squirt flower, and the whoopee cushion, I did not lose my diplomatic poise, and acted as if I expected Mr. Babylon to conduct a formal diplomatic dialogue with me. Indeed, as the reporters filed out, he welcomed me graciously.

“Mr. Watzman, it’s always a pleasure to host you here in the Foreign Ministry.”

“The pleasure is entirely yours,” I said politely.

“I’m a busy man, so I’m afraid this will have to be brief.”

“That’s an even greater pleasure,” I said.

“I have called you in to protest your nation’s vile dissemination of anti-Semitic stereotypes on the silver screen,” Babylon glowered.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “We’ll paint the screen.”

“Don’t mock me,” he shot back. “My government will give no quarter in defending the Jewish people.”

“That’s okay, a dime will be plenty,” I said. “But you must understand that my country’s filmmakers are accustomed not to portray the world as it is, but as it ought to be.”

“Are you insinuating that in an ideal world Jews should be forced to wear fake mustaches?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Just that it might be nice if some of you were mute.”

“This is outrageous! I must refer this incident immediately to the foreign minister!” He lunged for his phone and barked into it: “Cindy, tell Igor to come immediately.”

From somewhere there was a trumpet blast and the door burst open to reveal Avigor Tuberman. I might mention, as an aside, that if you ignore the shag-carpet beard, the paunch that inevitably makes any diplomatic tête-à-tête into a nombril-a-nombril, and the fact that you can’t look him in the eye unless you pick him up, he rather resembles your typical mid-20th century Italian dictator.

“Vat is matter?” he said. “Fery buzy day. At ten I yem scheduled not participate in negotiations with Palestinians. At yeleven I yem made non-person by conference of non-aligned nations. At twelf ze French foreign minister come to snub me, and at vwun I make nasty remarks about Israeli Arabs. Vwhoo is dis idiot?”

Babylon made the introductions. “It’s the tapeworm from Freedonia. The country with the movie that libels the Jewish people.”

Tuberman puffed out his chest and slapped me in the face.

“Take zat!” he crowed.

“Nonsense,” I said. “People often compliment me on my clear complexion.”

“I ave-hay ublicly-pay umiliated-hay im-hay,” Babylon informed his boss.

“Fery good. Fery good.” He turned to me. “Your country’s histoory wis-a-wis ze Jews well-known to me.”

“I’m afraid that you are quite mistaken,” I corrected him. “Freedonia has a large and contented Jewish population, living happily under the administration of our august President, Rufus T. Firefly. And they didn’t do badly in July, either.”

“You can’t fool me,” Tuberman hissed. “Don’t forget zat I know exactly what is like to grow up in Marxist country.”

I kept my cool. “That covers a lot of ground, Mr. Tuberman. Say, you cover a lot of ground yourself. In fact, I hear they’re going to tear you down and build a settlement.”

“Just last week I speak wiz Bibi and we plan special operation to rescue Jews of Freedonia. We send in our special forces.”

“Are the special horses the ones you’re made up to look like?”

Tuberman turned as red as a bowl of borscht and screamed “Zis means var! Cindy!”

Cindy scurried in carrying a large white bakery box, which she opened before Babylon. Babylon carefully lifted up a large cream pie and, holding it in his right hand he, with considerable agility — he had certainly done this many times before — smashed it into my face.

But, President Firefly, I had come prepared. “Bob!” I shouted. He ran in with two bakery boxes. I aimed a coconut pie at Babylon, hitting him squarely in the mug, and a banana cream — my favorite — at Tuberman. By then Cindy was back with four more boxes and Bob fetched our stash from the limousine. It wasn’t long before everyone in the room was dripping whipped cream and meringue.

President Firefly, as you read this you may perhaps be concerned that I have ruined our country’s relationship with the state of Israel and brought us to the brink of war with a country known for its large and powerful army. This is not in fact the case. In the peculiar Israeli system of government, the foreign ministry does not actually set policy. Tuberman and Babylon are charged rather with sullying Israel’s reputation at home and abroad and acting irresponsibly in ways that make Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu sound like the voice of reason.

So I was not at all ruffled by Tuberman’s threat.

“I really must be going,” I told my two hosts. “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful morning. But this wasn’t it.”

And I turned and walked slowly out of the room, my and Freedonia’s dignity intact. In the outer office I thanked Cindy and headed out to my waiting limousine, wiping my face clean of diplomatic invective.

It was only afterwards, when I saw the rather surprised looks on the faces of the strapping young athletes of our elliptical machine team, that I realized that I had forgotten to take off the Bozo costume. But no matter. I demonstrated once again that no man may disgrace Freedonia without bringing greater disgrace on himself. Babylon and Tuberman didn’t realize this morning that they were meeting their match. This time it was cream pies, but if they ever again dare to tangle with our great nation, it’ll be duck soup. Hail Freedonia, land of the brave and free!

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The three judges looked at me impassively.

“Next but one,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s my third time,” he said. His eyes searched the floor. “I just can’t seem to get it right.”
Now it was 2400.

“I gotta get it right,” he said desperately. “Help me get it right.”

But my number had appeared on the screen. I got up and strode confidently into the room where I would take my loyalty oath.

“Remain standing,” said the thickset policewoman who closed the door behind me. I was in a small courtroom. At the high bench before me were three figures of stern demeanor, their names engraved on the brass plates on the bench before them. On the left sat Loyalty Justice Yehuda Shomron, a heavyset man with a bushy gray beard and a large knitted kipa; on the right, Loyalty Justice Nimrod Re’alitisho, a young man of about 30 with a ponytail and a fashionable four-day growth of beard. In between them sat Presiding Loyalty Justice Manya Porat, a dour woman with close-cropped hair and a lined face. She looked up from the papers in front of her, surveyed me from head to ankle, and curtly asked: “Watzman?”

That’s right,” I said jauntily.

“Yes, your Honor,” the policewoman corrected me.

I found myself in the crossfire of three judicial glares.

“Yes, your Honor,” I repeated, with all due humility.

“And what brings you here, Watzman?” Justice Porat asked me.

I puffed up my chest. “I have come,” I said confidently, “to declare my loyalty to the State of Israel.”

Identity Justice Re’alitisho leaned back in his leather chair and smiled. “And why,” he asked me, “do you feel a need to declare your loyalty to the state of Israel?”

“Being a good citizen,” I said, “and seeing as our duly-elected parliament has legislated that citizenship is conditional on taking a loyalty oath, I have come to declare my allegiance to the Jewish state.”

The three judges looked at me impassively. It was the first time that a shadow of doubt fell across my mind. I steeled myself and repeated:

“Being a good citizen…”

Identity Justice Shomron cut me off. “We’re the ones who will decide if you are good citizen.”

“But I am,” I said. “I sing ‘Hatikvah.’ I pay my taxes. I served in the army.”

Identity Justice Re’alitisho’s ponytail undulated as he guffawed. “He pays his taxes!” he noted to his colleagues. “And he claims to be Israeli.”

Justice Porat brought down her gavel three times, hard. “I will not have levity in my courtroom,” she announced, eyeing her younger colleague. “Now let us proceed with the matter at hand. Watzman, before we allow you to swear your fealty to the state of Israel, we need to establish some facts. Mr. Justice Shomron, would you like to begin?”

“Thank you,” said the judge with the large kipah. He opened the large dossier in front of him. “Watzman, my clerk has obtained a large number of documents in which you advocate handing over the holy, historic territories of Judea and Samaria to Israel’s mortal enemies. Is that correct?”

“Well,” I said, “I believe that Israel’s future as a Jewish state depends on…”

“Yes or no, please. No equivocation.”

I looked nervously at the impassive faces before me. “Yes,” I send, with a quaver in my voice.

“And you call yourself a Zionist.” Justice Shomron shook his head sadly. “I also see that you have advocated the dismantling of the official state rabbinate. Would you care to deny that?”

My knees felt weak. “No,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” Justice Shomron asked, cupping his hand to his ear.

“Listen, I’m a good Jew,” I protested. “I observe the Sabbath. I eat kosher.”

“But you used to drive to synagogue.”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. It’s how I was brought up!”

“Not at all surprising,” said Identity Justice Shomron. “Mrs. Justice Porat, I have taken the liberty of tracing Watzman’s ancestry, along the matrilineal line, back to the granting of the Torah at Mt. Sinai. And I have two testimonies to the fact that, when God and Moses pronounced the Ten Commandments before the assembled Children of Israel, Watzman’s maternal ancestor’s response was ‘Oof!’ We may take this to indicate that she did not accept the yoke of the Torah and mitzvot. I submit that the man before us is neither a Zionist nor a Jew.”

“Thank you, Identity Justice Shomron,” Porat said. “Identity Justice Re’alitisho, would you like to continue?”

“I’m fascinated by the results of Justice Shomron’s investigation,” the young judge said, “because my own research, while pursued in quite a different direction, leads to much the same conclusion.”

“But this is outrageous,” I objected.

Justice Porat banged her gavel. “If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll jail you for contempt!”

“My informers indicate that Watzman here refrains from engaging in a number of pastimes that our society views as defining characteristics of Israeli identity. Watzman, when was the last time you visited a pub?”

“A pub?” I asked.

“And I see that you did not watch a single episode of ‘Big Brother.’”

“I prefer to read,” I said.

“And can it be true that you don’t boast to your friends about your sexual conquests?”

“Conquests? I …”

“Watzman has been faithful to the same woman for twenty-five years,” the young identity justice informed his colleagues with disdain. “We have no recorded evidence of any sleeping around.”

“It’s none of your business!” I exclaimed.

“You only say that because you’ve got nothing to brag about.” He shook his head in pity. “You didn’t even try.”

“And Mrs. Identity Justice Porat, are you aware that Watzman has never been to Thailand? Not even Peru.”

“Not even Peru?” Porat gasped.

“Not even Peru,” Identity Justice Re’alitisho stated. “Need I say more?”

“I’d like to thank my colleagues for their thorough investigation,” Justice Porat said. “Now I have a few questions of my own.”

“I’m not feeling well. May I sit down?” I asked.

“You’ll be finished in just a moment,” the presiding justice said. “Watzman, you claim to be Israeli, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then perhaps you could recite for us Natan Alterman’s poem ‘The Silver Tray.’”

I gripped the bar before me.

“Watzman?”
“I can’t.”

“Your country’s Declaration of Independence?”

I shook my head.

“Perhaps you’d rather sing? Maybe the Palmach anthem?”

“I don’t know it by heart.”

Justice Porat cast a knowing glance at her two colleagues. “What do you know by heart, Watzman?”

“Um … well, I used to know ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.’”

“Paul Revere. I see.” She clasped her hands in front of her and addressed her colleagues. “What say you?”

“He’s a traitor to the Land of Israel and his Jewish ancestry is doubtful,” Identity Justice Shomron said.

“His everyday conduct is notably un-Israeli,” Identity Justice Re’alitisho observed.

“His knowledge of the classic texts of Zionism is virtually nil,” Presiding Identity Justice Porat pronounced.

They shook their heads in unison. Justice Porat banged her gavel three times, slowly. I jumped at each resounding crack.

“This loyalty court hereby declares you un-Israeli,” ruled Justice Porat. She and her colleagues stood and filed out of the courtroom.

I looked desperately at the policewoman. “What does it mean?” I cried.

“Prime Minister Lieberman is quite clear about that,” she said. “If you aren’t a true Israeli, you cannot enjoy the benefits of Israeli citizenship. You can’t vote, receive social security payments or health care, or enjoy other government services. Furthermore, your home may be annexed to the Palestinian state.”

***

“What number you got?” I asked the guy in the metal chair next to me. I envied his clean-cut, neat appearance, his innocent enthusiasm. Me, I hadn’t shaved for four days or showered in two. Blue and white stripes flashed across the LCD screen hanging on the far wall, then resolved themselves into the digits 2399.

“Next but one,” he said. “Is something the matter?”

“It’s my third time,” I said. My eyes searched the floor. “I just can’t seem to get it right.”

Now it was 2400.

“I gotta get it right,” I said desperately. “Help me get it right.”

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Why do I really dislike Avigdor Lieberman? Because he’s forcing me to write about politics. When Gershom and I started this blog, I thought he’d take the political beat and leave me free to write about my country’s diverse and exciting culture and literature. But who can concentrate on books when the wolves are howling at the door?

A couple days before the election I had a long conversation with a young Palestinian-Israeli woman I often see at my favorite South Jerusalem café, The Coffee Mill. Like me, she was in despair over the likely results of the impending election, although unlike me, she wasn’t planning to vote.

I told her something that I’m afraid may shock some of SoJo’s readers, those who seem to measure us by the extent to which we conform to left-wing clichés. I told her that the Israelis who voted for Lieberman and his party aren’t evil people.

She was taken aback, too. After all, we’d just agreed that Lieberman spouted totalitarian rhetoric and racism. Isn’t that enough to make him a fascist? And aren’t people who support fascists themselves fascists. And aren’t we, excuse me, supposed to hate fascists? Aren’t we supposed to execrate them, bare their true faces to the world, and defeat them?

I respectfully disagreed both with her analysis and her strategy.

The great majority of people who voted for Lieberman are not ideologues. They voted him not because of his political philosophy, but because he knows how to appeal to their most basic fears. Lieberman’s voters are scared stiff—they fear war and terror, they fear Muslims and Arabs, and they have felt horribly insecure under a government that has talked a lot about peace agreements but which has actually led the country into two wars.

If we rational, peace-loving lefties stage lots of demonstrations where we shout “Fascists! Fascists!” at Lieberman’s voters, we’re going to scare them even more and ensure that Avigdor the Terrible gets even more votes in the next election.

On the contrary, we’ve got to accept that their fears are real. And, Israel being a democracy (yes! despite it all!), we need to present a convincing case to Lieberman’s voters. We need to find ways to explain to them that some of their fears are justified, but that some are overblown. We need to persuade them that accommodation with the Arabs and an open society at home are better guarantors of their long-term personal security welfare than is the leadership of a belligerent and benighted strong man.

The best friends of totalitarianism, whether of the right or the left, are fear and instability. When people fear for their lives and don’t know whether they’ll have a job tomorrow, they grasp at what straws they can, and a glib populist can exploit them. If we simply dismiss these voters as evil, we’ll never engage them. And unless we engage them, we’ll never have a chance of changing the way they think.

It’s not going to be easy, because we live in a dangerous and instable region and face problems so difficult that any possible solution necessarily involves great risk. But if we want, some day, to be able to ignore politics and relax with a good book, we can’t just condemn Lieberman’s voters. We must understand them.

Ben-Gurion

Avigdor Lieberman’s Yisrael Beitenu party seems almost certain to become the country’s third largest parliamentary faction and, as such, a member of whatever ruling coalition the new prime minister forms. Lieberman is not new to the Knesset and he has held cabinet portfolios, but with between 15 and 20 parliamentarians in his faction, he will be far more powerful than he has ever been before. Ehud Olmert and Tzipi Livni of Kadima and Ehud Barak of Labor already granted Lieberman legitimacy by agreeing to sit in a government with him, but in the new government he will possess both legitimacy and power.

Press reports about Lieberman have focused on his promise to require Israel’s Arab citizens to sign a loyalty oath in order to preserve their citizenship. Stripping citizens of their rights because of their political views and ethnic origin is manifestly anti-democratic, but that’s hardly where it ends….

Read the rest on Jewcy–Comment there or here.