All In All Not Too Bad

The twilight hours of 2009 are upon us. Tonight, hundreds of millions will celebrate the beginning of a new year and a new decade in the hope that tomorrow will bring with it a new promise, a fresh start, better days.

Of course if the Mayans and Nicholas Cage are to be believed, all of this jubilation will be futile in a few, short years when we all die in a spontaneous cataclysmic event of superbly choreographed special effects. But that is neither here nor there.

We will look back on all the events of this past year that have shaped us as a people and shaped us as individuals. Some were good. Some were bad. Some were hard to categorize at all.

America got a new President. Twitter took over our social lives. Iranians took to the street to stand up against their oppressors. Americans rekindled their revolutionary roots with 21st Century tea parties. Israel fought a grueling battle with fanatical Islamists. Afghanistan returned to the headlines. Tiger Woods bogeyed his personal life. A homely housemaid in England became an overnight superstar. The classified section suddenly became relevant again.

2009 will for me be the year that I was able to free myself--from uncertainty, aimlessness, unhealthy entanglements, and fear. It has been a year of invaluable experiences, personal triumphs, and intellectual and spiritual growth.

Coming to live and study in Israel has been and continues to be the best decision I have ever made. And I am forever indebted to those who have made this two-year journey possible.

My gut feeling says that 2010 will be another challenging year for all of us. But after hurdling the obstacles of 2009, I believe that if faced with confidence and conviction these too will be overcome.

Thank you all for following my experiences here in the Promised Land. The support I have received from back home has been overwhelming and humbling.

I look forward to a whole new year of travels, encounters, and shenanigans.

I hope everyone has a great New Year's. And War Eagle!

Cities of Kings

The diminutive, white-haired man entered the chamber to murmurs and gasps. There was one bodyguard in front of him and another behind. Cameras flashed in a cacophony of flutters, snaps, and clicks.

The entourage moved quickly to the front of the sanctuary to take their place amongst the various Anglican and Greek Orthodox clergymen assembled. The bespectacled, white-haired man took a seat on the left-hand side of the burly bishop seated in the center of the dais.

Wearing the facial expression of a rattlesnake, an expression that suggested he was permanently pissed off, Mahmoud Abbas, President of the Palestinian Authority, was a reminder to the gathered that in the Middle East religion and politics have been forged together through blood and fire.

There was no separation. There was no escape.

From the back of one of the many chapels in the Church of the Nativity, my view became obfuscated. I didn't fight it. There was only one reason to come to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve and Mahmoud Abbas was about as far from that reason as I could imagine.

But a thought began to work its way into my mind. It snaked through the deep recesses and wound its way to the forefront. And then it seemed to whisper, softly and certainly and reassuringly "...that every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord."

Welcome, Mr. President, I thought with a smile.

The silence was replaced by the greeting from Canon Robert Edmunds. All the formalities were addressed, albeit briefly, and soon we were turning to our pamphlets to sing the first of many songs, "Once in Royal David's City."

***

The sun was falling faster than the last time I had been in Jerusalem. It had been almost exactly four months--far too long. Ryan, Dustin, and Tyler moved toward the Old City as traffic zipped past us. It was the warmest Christmas Eve I had ever experienced.

The Jaffa Gate leading into the Christian and Armenian Quarters was off to our left. The Zion Gate into the Jewish Quarter was down to our right. An IDF armored carrier rolled past us as we crossed the road toward the Zion Gate.

A stream of IDF officers and other command personnel moved past us. A civilian stood in front of them, occasionally turning to address them.

"There go the generals getting their tour," Tyler said indifferently.

As we approached the Zion Gate, one of the eight entrances into the Old City, an entrance still pock-marked with bullet holes from the 1967 Six Day's War, the familiar feeling returned. It was as if we were near the very heart beat of humanity. And the closer one got, the closer one was to both life and death.

This was Jerusalem.

***

Inside the Church of the Nativity, we listened to a reading from Isaiah 9: 6-7. Ryan stood to my left. Beyond Ryan were German Stefan, Benjamin, Liz, and Dustin. Tyler was out of sight, around a bend in the sanctuary leaning up against a wall by himself. An older man and his family, of a nationality I could not discern, were crowded in front of me. Stefan, Elana, and Dominique stood behind me.

The sanctuary was small. Almost too small. Ancient portraits and paintings, hundreds of years old, hung throughout. Dating back to the Byzantine era and beyond, it was like being in a swirling vortex of history. Above Dustin were four paintings, one of which commemorated Constantine. On the wall behind us were three golden crosses. The one in the middle, which contained a depiction of a crucified Jesus, was larger than its two escorts.

The singing began again.

The first Noel the angel did say...

***

"You sure we're supposed to be going this way?" someone asked. It was either Ryan or Tyler.

Pressing ourselves against the stone walls, we kept close as we walked in to oncoming traffic within the Old City.

"An ignominious way to die don't you think, fellas?" I pontificated aloud.

We were heading back to our left after entering the Zion Gate. Left took us toward the Armenian Quarter. Ryan, Dustin, and myself had never been outside the Jewish Quarter and were completely in the dark as to where we were going. I wasn't certain about Tyler's past expeditions. I knew that he was the most well-traveled out of all of us and possessed a natural military mind for things such as direction, movement, and efficiency with how he spent his time.

We entered into a narrow street. The wall to our left was easily twenty-five feet high. On top, coils of barbed wire, like vines, seemed to grow out of the very rock itself. We passed an Armenian seminary and I started noticing an increase in the number of crosses.

We had no game plan save to rendezvous with our bus at St. George's Cathedral at 7:00 p.m. for the journey in to Bethlehem. Passing by store and shop owners clearly looking to take advantage of Christian tourists, we eventually took a right down into the winding back alleys.

The echo of "My friends, have a look in my shop," was reminiscent of the dark days of Dahab. I momentarily shuddered and renewed my vow never to return to Egypt without an armored escort.

Our wandering took us through long, narrow shop-laden streets and past hovels of hidden houses and dormitories. Both sides of the streets contained stores designed to sell wares to tourists, travelers, and wanderers. But the Armenian Quarter soon gave way to the Christian Quarter.

And our aimlessness followed suit as it gave way to finding a place to eat.

***

The second reading came from Isaiah 7:10-15. It was exhilarating and bittersweet all at once. This was the first Christmas not spent at home.

Having received a Christmas package from Mom and Dad earlier in the week, I was jolted then by the realization that it had not felt like Christmas.

There were no decorations or lights or Christmas activities in Tel Aviv. Everything was going on as usual. Even the weather was like autumn back home. And upon opening the box in the kitchen, I was shocked at the sight of my old stocking. It was as if I had been transported back to another time and existence; as if everything prior to the arrival in Israel had been a dream state that the stocking helped me remember.

In the sanctuary, I glanced across the way. As the second reading came to a close, I saw a girl sitting near the window sill with tears streaming down her face.

***

The top of Papa Andrea's restaurant was breathtaking. Located in the heart of the Christian Quarter and directly across from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the rooftop view provided a panoramic view of all of Jerusalem.

The sun dimmed and the skies grew gray as night approached. We ordered some food (falafel and hummus bowls) and then went to stand by the railing overlooking the great epicenter. The bells on the Church of the Holy Sepulcher rang out as we listened.

The throng reverberated throughout the city, a celebratory and seemingly defiant pronouncement of the King's birth. In the distance, as the chimes from the bell rang out in perfect synchronization, the green lights of the Arab Quarter's minarets flashed to life, as if awakened from a deep slumber by the Christians.

The Golden Dome over Al-Aqsa was soon splashed in verdant light as the minaret to its right lit up. In the distance, far away on the hills of East Jerusalem, another minaret flashed green.

As the sun started to set and the Church bells began to fade, a third mosque's minaret flashed green. A fourth atop another hill. A fifth. A sixth. A seventh.

And then there was silence. I had remembered a story someone had told me about the lights of the mosques reflecting their allegiance: green for Hamas and white for Fatah. I was unsure of the veracity of the statement. Green was also the color of Mohammed. That seemed a more likely explanation.

The silence hung in the air for just a few minutes. We chatted idly and ate sporadically. I changed out of my sandals and donned closed shoes and a jacket as the cool mountainous air took charge of our comfort.

And then the call to prayer blasted across the great city in a hauntingly beautiful and chilling counter cry to the bells of the Christian Quarter. Tyler raised his eyebrows and chuckled to himself as he pulled out his camera to record the scene. Dustin did the same.

Ryan stood against the railing, looking as if he was absorbing everything down into his very core. When Dustin's camera finally landed on me, as the cries from the mosque and the calls to Allah grew to their crescendo, I could think of only one thing to say.

"Hey Dustin. Merry Christmas."

***

In the Church of the Nativity, we finished singing "See Amid The Winter Snow," a carol I wasn't familiar with, and prepared for the next reading from Isaiah.

But that was not to be.

The Reverend Suheil Dawani (Ret.), Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem, stood up and took his turn to address the audience. He opened up with comments about peace and praised Mahmoud Abbas for his role in the "peace process."

My jaw tightened.

Something was going very wrong, very quickly. As Suheil Dawani continued with his speech, phrases such as "justice for the oppressed" and "determination in the face of one's oppressors" were casually bandied about. There was praise for the Anglican Church's role in standing with the "Palestinian people." There was self-aggrandizing praise heaped upon the church for its worldly endeavors. The praise for The King had ceased.

The Church of the Nativity had suddenly been hijacked. Christmas Eve had been hijacked.

The speech continued on. People started to look at me: Benjamin, Ryan, Dustin, Liz, Stefan, Dominique, others I did not know. I could feel their stares. Occasionally, I would see their looks, some sympathizing with me and others giving me placating smiles. I could feel my anger swelling.

As the speech continued on, lavishing praise upon a man who had risen to power based upon his hatred and prejudices, I could not help but feel as if I had been used; that my faith had been used in order to make me an unwilling pawn in the great charade taking place before me, in the very place where the Great Gift of God had been given.

I could feel the undercurrent of anti-Semitism. There was no mention of hope and peace for the "other side" (i.e. Israelis), there was implicit blame and the all-too subtle suggestion, inconspicuous and sinister, that Christians and Muslims were struggling together against oppression...Jewish oppression.

It was not stated. But it was disguised.

It was as if Satan had taken over the evening's ceremony, his voice taunting and mocking. As if he was saying "See what I can do? Even here. Even now. Does this make you angry, Drew?"

I turned inward, willing myself to calm down. My fists were balled up and I hadn't even realized it, jaw locked in what probably would have been an identical impression of my old man during the few scary occasions he would become angry.

The old nemesis was rearing its head in the very birthplace of Jesus: anger. Pure and raw and untamed. It was like lightning had struck and sparked an inferno. The war within was battling for control. I could not let the anger win, but I could not let this continue without doing something.

As Suheil Dawani continued on with his deceptive words, I finally said out loud to those within earshot.

"Can we get back to worshiping Jesus?!"

***

The Kotel. The Wailing Wall.

As we approached, memories of the first time I had visited flooded forth. The Wall carries with it immense importance to Judaism. It derived its name from the historic behavior of Jews throughout the 2,000 year Diaspora when they would come to the Wall and weep in front of it because of the Second Temple's destruction in 70 A.D. by the Roman Empire.

The Wall is all that remains of the Temple. And in a way it is a metaphor for the Jewish people. The old Temple may have been ravaged and destroyed, but part of it still stands defiantly to this day. The Jews, despite thousands of years of persecution and suffering, also still remain.

As we approached, Tyler pulled four kippahs out of his backpack.

"You can wear these instead of the little paper ones they hand out," he said. Tyler was the only one of the four of us that was Jewish. He was coming with us to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. We were going with him to the Western Wall. This is as things should be.

The area around the Kotel was well lit. Hundreds of Orthodox Jews in their black hats, pants, jackets, and white shirts recited prayers in front of the Wall. Their devotion was just as impressive as it had been the first time I had seen it.

An Orthodox man approached us and asked us where we were from.

"Florida," Tyler answered in his matter of fact tone.

"Welcome home!" the Orthodox man responded enthusiastically. "And you?"

"Alabama," I answered.

"Ah. Birmingham?" he asked.

I chuckled to myself. Most of the Jews in Alabama were indeed from Birmingham, including a sizable group in the Mountain Brook area.

"No. Auburn."

"Ah, never heard of it. Will you be here for Shabat tomorrow?"

"No, just for the night," Tyler answered for us.

During this exchange, Ryan had slipped away to the Wall. I followed. As I stood there, it occurred to me that this was truly an amazing moment. It was Christmas Eve and here I was in the very heart of the Old City of Jerusalem standing amongst the Chosen people of God before going to Bethlehem to the site of the King's birth. Most people would never get a chance to do this in their lives. Most people would never be able to experience this.

So I stood in front of the Wall. And I prayed for the Jewish people, for Israel, and for God to keep His hand steady as the swirling storm clouds gather all around.

***

The firestorm raged within. Suheil Dawani brought his speech to a close. And then Mahmoud Abbas and his entourage exited without so much as a word. But the damage had already been done. I couldn't beat the anger. I couldn't find the joy that had been there before the service had been usurped. And some of those around me were well aware that I was now a veritable boiler plate.

And as others read passages from Isaiah 11, Luke 1, and Matthew 1, I found myself consumed with the depravity of what had transpired. I could focus on nothing else.

And then came Silent Night.

I don't know how it happened. I just know that it did happen. Ryan reached out and put his arm around my shoulder and started singing. And the still, small voice inside managed to sift its way past the emotional minefield and fix itself front and center. I could almost hear it telling me that "The battle had already been won."

I could relinquish the outrage.

I let the anger begin to subside and threw my arm around Ryan's shoulder with a nod, content that there would be no victory for the Enemy tonight. Tomorrow. Ever.

***

It was 6:00 p.m. We had exactly one hour to find our way to St. George's Cathedral. Dom had met Ryan, Dustin, Tyler, and myself outside the security gate leading down to the Kotel. He had taken a later bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Typical Dominator behavior--ever the lone wolf.

Having spent a lot of time in the Arab Quarter, Dom wanted to show us around. And the map he had in his possession suggested that we would need to go through the Damascus Gate to reach St. George's anyway. Thus we followed.

The thing about Jerusalem is that there are no dividing lines within the Old City. There is freedom of movement between each Quarter. You know you've gone from the Jewish Quarter to the Arab Quarter when the Hebrew graffiti on the walls gives way to Arabic graffiti. Simple enough.

A small Arab boy, no older than two, played outside the door going into his home as we worked our way through the narrow side roads.

"Walidu," I said as we passed.

The boy recoiled with a shocked expression on his face. I laughed and smiled at him.

"Walidun," Dustin corrected. "Case ending, man."

"Whatever. Hakim's not here to yell at me," I said as we continued onward.

The little boy ran around the corner and made a face at Dustin, along with growling noises.

We dodged foot traffic as best as we could. Shops began to shut down for the night. Dom weaved in and out, avoiding a tractor (yes, an actual tractor) rumbling down the narrow enclosed street. A man stood on the back of the lumbering behemoth and plucked wares down from the guide wires crisscrossing above our heads.

As we rounded a corner and made our way up an incline toward the Damascus Gate, a pair of IDF soldiers stood off to the side next to a fruit vendor.

"Just two of 'em on duty," Tyler said offhandedly. "Their job has to suck."

"I expected to see more of them over here to be honest."

"Nah, dude. They don't need the manpower over here anymore. That's what the cameras are for," he answered tersely.

The mezzanine outside the gate was starting to empty. As we made our way toward the main road in the modern part of Jerusalem, Dustin spotted his fellow rotary ambassador eating falafel with one of her friends. Sasha, a dual U.S.-Russian citizen, was on the same scholarship as Dustin and was studying up in Haifa at Haifa University. She had come to Tel Aviv several times to hang out with us and indulge in her favorite hobby of salsa dancing. She is a semi-professional salsa dancer.

We stopped to talk for a few minutes. Sasha and her friend were also planning on going to Bethlehem, but were coming later. I looked at my watch and realized we had thirty minutes to find the church and get on a bus.

The trek to St. George's was guided by Dom's map. We had to find Nablus Road and we had to do it fast. Time had gotten away from us while we were in Jerusalem and the possibility existed that we would miss the bus to Bethlehem.

With just ten minutes to go and little idea where we were going, I spotted two pedestrians and approached them.

"Hey guys," I started. "Do you know where..."

One of the men, an older man with a rough disposition interrupted. In a thick accent he responded.

"We are not from here," he said with a chuckle. I thought he sounded Russian, but couldn't be certain.

"Do you speak English?" I asked bluntly.

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea where St. George's Cathedral is?"

"Yes!" his companion answered. "We passed it coming from this direction." He pointed east.

"Well, do you know where the Damascus Gate is?" the rough looking man asked.

"Yes!" we all responded in unison. "It's back up this road."

There was a pause and then laughter. Neither of us knew where we were going, but we did know where each other should be going.

"What are the odds of that?" Ryan blurted with bemusement.

I shook my head. We picked up the pace.

By the time we reached the church, the first bus was full and the second was nearly full. A third and final bus was coming, but it was going to be late. Dustin's phone rang and the rest of our crew, who had also left Tel Aviv later than anticipated, had been dropped off by a taxi near the church, but couldn't find the area where the buses were taking people.

Dustin charged off to find them while we checked in with Canon Bill's wife.

A few minutes later, Liz, Stefan, Elana, German Stefan, and Benjamin came running up the side of the Cathedral.

"Merry Christmas!" Benjamin said with a wide grin.

***

We exited the sanctuary through the Door of Humility. Every person had to bend over or kneel to enter or exit. The service had ended on a high note with readings in Greek from John 1: 1-14 and Arabic from Luke 1: 26-49. And the Anglican bishop, Canon Bill, led everyone in singing Joy to the World and O Come, All Ye Faithful.

Standing outside the sanctuary in an outdoor promenade, we took some photos and discussed what we wanted to do.

The buses that had dropped us off were preparing to depart. If we wanted to leave Bethlehem we had to leave right then and there.

The decision to stay was an easy one. Manger Square was bustling with activity. And the consensus was we might never be back in Bethlehem on a Christmas Eve. A few of us decided to go down into the Grotto where it is thought that Mary gave birth to Jesus.

German Stefan was already there when Dustin, Ryan, Liz, Tyler, and myself arrived. There were about twenty or so people there aside from us. There was complete silence. Even the noise of the revelers outside in Manger Square was completely deafened within the confines of the Grotto.

Ancient Byzantine ornaments and crafts adorned the walls and ceilings. An area that looked like a fireplace had been engraved with a silver star. Candles burned in the back. This marked the spot of Jesus' birth.

We took our place at the back of the Grotto. A young man sat down directly to my left. He was American and no older than twenty. His Bible was turned to Luke.

And as he was reading from it, he began to uncontrollably sob.

Liz would ask me outside if I was moved like this young man since we were in such a special place. It was a good question. I answered in the only way that I knew how, an answer that I suspected was lost to both the din of the Manger Square celebrations and to the introversion of my own thinking that night.

"God is not found in one particular place," I answered.

Jesus was born in Bethlehem. And because of that, Bethlehem would forever be the birthplace of the King. But that's not where Jesus lives. Christianity is not a building or a body or a tradition. These are attributes of a religion.

Christianity is not a religion. It is a relationship.



The afternoon sun over Jerusalem on Christmas Eve.



Ryan, Dustin, and Tyler on approach to the walls of the Old City.



Papa Andrea's Restaurant in the Christian Quarter.



The Church of the Holy Sepulcher from atop Papa Andrea's. Check out the satellite dish on the roof.



The Al-Aqsa Mosque at dusk. Can you spot the three green lights of the minarets?



Masters of the domain.



From Left to Right: Dustin, Me, Tyler, and Ryan.



Dustin snapped this picture of me at the Kotel.



Palestinian Security Forces in their trucks. These guys did a very good job of looking intimidating. I felt like they did their job well. And they took their duty extremely seriously.



Manger Square.



Excited about 6 lbs. 8 oz. Baby Jesus whilst waiting for the service to start. Stefan is laughing behind me.



Abbas entering the chapel.



The Grotto.



Merry Christmas from Bethlehem!

Let Us Now Go Even Unto Bethlehem

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. -Luke 2:8-15

Merry Christmas from the Holy Land!

Last night some of us had the once in a lifetime experience of going to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve where we took part in a service inside the Church of the Nativity.

The story of our trip to Bethlehem in its entirety will be coming shortly as it is long and worth more than a cursory examination.

However, I just wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas from where it all started.

The picture below was taken last night from the basement of the Church of the Nativity and is the exact location where it is thought Jesus was born:

Eilat Of Fun

The bus to Eilat was supposed to leave from the Einstein dorms at 7:15 a.m. Dustin had other plans.

As the chorus of groans from the undergraduates grew louder, a thoroughly disheveled and half-asleep Dustin jogged out of the main gate and threw his stuff in the baggage compartment.

The Madrichim (counselors) shook their heads in a mixture of surprise and bemusement and followed him aboard.

"Sorry. Sorry," Dustin said with a laugh.

It was 8:00 a.m.

Dustin's alarm had failed to go off. Ryan had bolted off the bus and back upstairs to Dustin's room to wake him up. Dustin and Ryan made their way to the back of the bus where I sat in a delirious state of partial cognizance.

"Get here when you can," I quipped as Dustin sat down.

"I set my alarm on my phone, but left it on silent," Dustin answered with a laugh. He glanced down at his phone and saw about eight missed calls within a ten minute time span.

"Whuh!" he guffawed in disbelief.

"If you had stayed behind and slept, I was gonna be pretty pissed off," I said groggily. "Because that's exactly what I want to do."

"Couldn't do that. I've got a Rotary presentation in Eilat on Sunday. I just hope all my clothes got packed. Ryan woke me up and said we were leaving and he literally threw all my stuff in a bag in about five minutes."

The speaker phone on the bus crackled, drowning out the whines of about a half dozen undergraduates. One of the Madrichim, Moshe, stood at the front of the bus and smiled. He adjusted his eye glasses before speaking.

"Good morning guys," he said in his thick Israeli accent. "Everyone smile."

Audible groans echoed in staggered intervals. A few of the girls, curled up next to their temporary overseas boyfriends in stomach curdling examples of PDA, started whining.

I hope there are more people from our Master's program on this trip, I thought unrepentantly.

"Sorry about the late start," Moshe continued. "We're about to leave now. We just need to go over a few things, okay? Some of you need more sleep I see."

"It's cool. Dustin got an extra hour for all of us," I said as I pulled my hat down over my face.


***

The Overseas Student Program (OSP) had organized the weekend excursion to Eilat a few weeks before. Having briefly crossed through Eilat en route to the Sinai during what will henceforth be known as Welcome Week In Hell, I was excited to spend a few days in Israel's southernmost city and most popular resort location.

Situated on the Red Sea at the southern edge of the Negev Desert with the Jordanian mountains as its backdrop, the city of Eilat has been transformed into a beach resort getaway for thousands of tourists. It's one of the most popular destinations for Europeans and given the landscape, it's understandable.

We had been looking forward to this trip since hearing about it. If one thing was needed, it was a break from the monotonous grind of the MAMEH program, Hebrew, and Arabic.

The bus ride from Tel Aviv to Eilat was a solid five hours. We made a pit stop in Dimona about two hours into the ride. It was of great relief to see a half dozen other Master's students had tagged along for the ride: Brian, Danny, and Alona among them.

The inaugural entries into Fried Camel for these three fine individuals is long over due. Brian is a graduate from the University of Delaware (Da Blue Hens!) and is one of those rare individuals that radiates intelligence within moments of first meeting. One of the most astute members of our program, he is capable of taking entire discussions thought condemned to the abyss of the mundane or pointless and salvaging them with a single insightful question or quip. His dry sarcasm also provides much needed levity.

Possessing both dual American and Israeli citizenship, Brian was also a member of the distinguished Golani Brigade of the Israeli Defense Force.

For more information on the valiant history of the Golani Brigade, go here and here.

Danny hails from northern Chicago and is straight up the most good-natured person around. With a flair for the stylish and an artistic aura, Danny is always ready for a good time. He enjoys being around people and good conversation. This is convenient given his general propensity for conversing.

And he's a shoe-in for the Chris Daughtry look-a-like competition. Seriously, it borders on frightening.

Alona is from across the pond as it were. She is a dual citizen in the UK and in Israel and possesses the revered British sense of humor that we so enjoy back in the States. A serious student who possesses a cheery disposition, Alona is a refreshing member of our program.

The stop in Dimona didn't last long. We had enough time to use the bathroom and have breakfast at a coffee shop before loading back up onto the bus. And for those of you keeping score, Dimona is the location rumored to house all of Israel's "special weapons" that "Israel will neither confirm nor deny to exist."

Ryan and I joked as we drove through, imagining the sand dunes and hills to be artificial constructs hiding silos with big boomers inside.

Meanwhile, Dustin, like Chewbacca before him, was thinking with his stomach. He picked up a carton of Pillsbury rolls which he would later try to force me to eat in an effort to alleviate the feeling of guilt that only comes from injecting infinite grams of Trans Fat into your system. I will not bend, good sir.

As the morning gave way to the early afternoon, the landscape changed immensely. Approaching Eilat through the vast expanse of the Negev Desert, I was able to take the Negev in in all of its day light glory. The craggy Jordanian mountains stretched for as far as the eye could see to the East. Swaths of arid, no-man's land were dotted with patches of agricultural wonders.

The Israelis have quite literally figured out how to make the desert blossom. Fig and date orchards, along with verdant patches of grass, lay scattered about. It was surreal. The technology and innovation required to make such a thing work was nothing short of miraculous and added yet another element of admiration for the Israeli people.

The bus pulled into Timna Park on the outskirts of Eilat. We were subjected to a brief movie explaining the significance of the land around us, including its richness in copper. Copper had been used by both the Egyptians and the Midianites in ancient times as a prime resource for their metalworking endeavors. The movie was fairly mundane, but it did have a spinning seating construct that, while utterly useless in its utility, did succeed at making a few of us dizzy.

After the film and some brief instructions by the Madrichim, we loaded back up on the bus for the five minute drive to our starting point for our first hike.

***

"We need to put some distance between ourselves and the complaining," I said to Dustin as we marched up the rock and shale-laden Eilat mountains.

"I'm not complaining!" Liz objected with a barely stifled laugh.

"Good. And don't start," I added quickly. "Dustin, Stefan, and I marched for five hours through the Golan Heights and there was nary a peep of complaint because we're men and we're awesome. Elana hiked up Mount Sinai with us in the middle of the night for three hours. She didn't complain either."

"Blah blah blah."

Our guide took us to the top of a vast ridge covered in granite. There were a few falls along the way and Liran (one of our favorite Madrichim) reminded us of the girl who had fallen off a cliff the previous year only to catch herself at the last moment.

My money for this year's victim was on Liz.

As was repeatedly articulated to us by Liran, we had to have a hat, closed shoes, two liters of water, and the ability to put one foot in front of the other at all times.

The trek from the top of the ridge took us down through a valley and into a shadowy canyon. The hike down was slippery as bits of rock and loose shale tumbled from underneath our feet with every step. Falling was a distinct possibility. Fortunately, no one suffered anything more than a slight trip or scrape.

Dvir, another one of the Madrichim, who will feature prominently shortly, brought up the rear of our formation in his characteristic blue jean shorts (i.e. jorts). He is your typical Israeli in that he is physically lean and amusing in his views on the world. However, he is not typical in that his Give-A-Damn is busted. Dvir doesn't sweat anything.

"Look at Dvir in his jorts," Dustin pointed out at the base of the ridge.

Taking his sweet time to meander down the mountain side, Dvir ushered others in front of him.

"He looks like Krusty the Clown with that hair coming out from under his hat," Dustin added.

Our guide took us out from the shadowy canyon and into the open Negev desert. There, we found massive rocks that jutted out from beneath the sand. A group of Israelis were scaling one of the rock faces in the distance.

When we gathered near the ruins of an old Egyptian sanctum, I literally felt as if we were in the middle of an Indiana Jones movie. The desert wind, the mid-afternoon sun, the ruins, and the ancient rocks crafted a nearly perfect enigmatic vibe. All that was needed was a slow playing flute eerily echoing off the rocks, blowing through the sand, and carrying up into the air.

The rock pillars in the distance were known as the Pillars of Solomon. In fact, most of the sights in the area were named after Solomon despite the ancient king having never ruled in the southern tip of the Negev.

And the base of the Pillars of Solomon proved to be our final stop of the hike before returning to the bus and in to downtown Eilat. The Madrichim had procured most of the second floor of the Red Mountains Hotel for our crew.

The hotel restaurant served up a phenomenal Shabat dinner to close out the last day of Hanukkah. As we were eating, Liran got up and announced a "special surprise."

"Guys, we will be leaving at 9:00 to get on the bus," Liran said with a smirk on his face. "I suggest bringing...uh...clothes that...uh...should you get hot, you can dance in."

All the girls started clapping and shouting.

"Guys, guys, I'm not saying anything. I'm just suggesting wearing something under your jacket that...again...should you get hot, you can remove your jacket and dance in."

I flashed Dustin a raised eyebrow.

"Ruh roh Raggy."

***

"I've seen this movie before," I said as we stepped onto the massive boat docked at the marina. "It doesn't end well."

As the OSP students filed onto the boat and climbed up the dual ladders to its upper deck, we found it exposed to the elements. Off to my immediate left was a bar. An assortment of chairs and couches lined the railing around the outdoor deck.

Party Boat. On the Red Sea. Score.

The Madrichim explained that the drinks were not free and we would have to procure our liquid courage on our own shekel. But that didn't seem to bother anyone.

As the vessel revved up and exited its berth for the open waters ahead, it became readily apparent that Dustin and I were going to have to show everyone just what we were capable of on the dance floor.

Dvir came strolling past us toward the bar. He had changed out of his jorts into something slightly more acceptable in the public sphere.

"Hey Dvir," I called out.

He turned around.

"Gonna need you to go ahead and call the cops. Because I'm about to murder the dance floor."

He paused for a moment and grinned.

"I'll be sure to let the Coast Guard know to shine a spotlight on you, Andrew."

"Oh yeah! Challenge accepted," Dustin added.

Shortly thereafter, the music started. The combination of flashing lights and loud music out on the open water of the Red Sea made me grin. The civilizational divide couldn't be more apparent as the relatively dim lights of Aqaba, Jordan and the utter darkness of Saudi Arabia and Egypt loomed off in the distance.

"It needs to be loud enough for the Saudis to hear us," I quipped to Liz.

"Why not just go park off their shore and give them another reason to hate us?" she responded as the captain turned on some rap.

"All we need is some flashing lights that say 'Infidels Aboard.'"

***

"Damn! Go son!" Danny yelled.

Dvir was not about to outdo me on this one. Dustin and I had already been busting out river dance. And I had only gone through a half dozen endzone celebrations. There were plenty more utterly humiliating moves left in our considerable repertoire.

As others surrounded us, laughter and cheers nearly threatened to drown out the music.

Wearing his hooded jacket, Dvir looked as if he was trying to pull off an Israeli version of Eminem from "8 Mile." But aesthetics were not going to be enough to triumph on this night. Utilizing Steve-O's infamous "motorcycle crank," footwork achieved only through years of watching Cody, and what was essentially nothing less than coordinated retardation, Dvir bowed out and accepted defeat to cheers and applause for both of us.

Dvir strolled over toward me with a sly grin.

"Andrew, the Coast Guard is on its way."

"Tell 'em to wait. It looks like its Dustin's turn."

Boom! There came the thunderous fury of the "Grundy"-- a move that quite literally sent ripples through the deck. It was nothing less than a full fledged gorilla thunder clap. A chorus of laughter erupted. Dustin rode the waves of cheers with a formidable rendition of the "Cowboy."

We had essentially adopted the U.S. Army slogan of "Own the night." For that night and the subsequent night, we certainly did.

But what happened next, no one could have predicted.

Oshrat, one of the other Marichim, announced a very special surprise. From behind the captain's cabin, bounded a certifiable, barely clothed...belly dancer.

Everyone spread out and allowed her to perform her...ritual. At this particular juncture, I would be remiss if I did not mention that an item on my Bucket List had been crossed off.

Ryan moved over next to me, pumped beyond belief.

"This is a blast!"

The belly dancer continued on her own for a few more minutes. But soon she targeted Danny. Standing off to the side, Danny was inadvertently pulled onto the floor with her to a roar of mixed laughter and surprise.

She soon made her way over to Dvir and then to another person. And before I knew it, she grabbed me by the hand and walked me out onto the middle of the deck. Dustin whipped out his camera and began recording. I detected a chortle coming from him almost immediately.

Many things were flashing through my mind at that moment, not the least of which was the fact that I have a wonderful girlfriend and relationship which I would never compromise.

But figuring that it would make for one helluva funny story and knowing that Allison would have encouraged it had she been there, I threw caution to the wind and decided that this belly dancer needed a lesson in how to break it down, not to mention career management.

She would have to join Dvir on my casualty list. And she did.

As I walked back to join Dustin, Ryan, and Liz, I found that they were all cackling.

"That's going on Facebook!" Dustin exclaimed with a burst of laughter.

"Dustin, do you want to make it to 24?"





Scaling the Eilat Mountains.



Dvir. And the infamous jorts.



The Pillars of Solomon.



Israelis scaling the vertical face of the mountain.

To The Bat Cave!

And thus it begins.

Today marked the first step toward developing my thesis--a two year long process that will entail the consumption of vast amounts of knowledge, paper, and coffee. This morning, Ryan, Huoshin, and myself went on campus to start doing research for the first of ten papers.

The MAMEH program has its own library for us to barricade ourselves inside--the Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies. It's not particularly big, but it is full of thousands of books, articles, and periodicals in various languages for us to dig through.

After placing our bags in a cubby, the two women operating the front desk were eager to find out what topics we were interested in and what we needed to get started. Ryan is apparently doing a biographical piece for our Islamic History seminar on Saladin. One of the women, apparently a huge fan of the story of Saladin, literally talked Ryan's ear off as she started to pile books his way.

Huoshin, unsure of what he was going to try to tackle, perused through copies of the Koran. I was about to join him, until a red book caught my eye. My first paper for Modern Middle Eastern History is going to deal with the history of radical Islamic movements.

"What's this?" I whispered as I approached the shelf.

The title was Beyond Al-Qaeda: The Global Jihadist Movement. It had been compiled by the RAND Corporation in 2006. As I started to flip through it, I realized it had been compiled for use and consumption by the U.S. Air Force and Special Operations Command. After I found charts and graphs denoting complete breakdowns of dozens of global Islamist organizations, I realized I had just hit jackpot. This book had everything in it: leadership biographies, areas of operation, ideological positions, financial activities, goals, shared values with other groups, relative strength to their opponents in their area of operations.

"Can I help you with anything?" the second woman asked as she appeared at my elbow.

It took a concerted effort to tear my eyes away from a section dubbed The Al-Qaeda Nebula: a sort of Venn Diagram of affiliated groups displaying the ideological and tactical strength of their relationship with Al-Qaeda Central.

"Yea...yea," verbally stumbling over the words. "I'm doing a paper on Islamic radicalism. What do you have on Mohammed Abduh?"

"Abduh? Abduh," she repeated as she spun on her heel. "Was he in the Muslim Brotherhood?"

"No, he was a disciple of Afghani in the late 19th and early 20th centuries," I clarified.

"Oh, right. Try this one," she said as she handed me what looked to be a book that could have been written by Abduh himself; it was in such a deteriorated condition. "And I believe the Oxford catalog on Islam will be useful to you."

By the time I walked away toward the desks, I had a half dozen books in hand. Ryan was already seated, flipping through what looked to be a recent biography on Saladin. He looked busy scribbling notes down on his paper.

"Where's Huoshin?" I asked.

Ryan looked up and around.

"I think the books got him," he deadpanned ominously.

"A moment of silence for our fallen comrade," I thought.

Scanning through the RAND Corporation's impressively detailed opening salvo on Al-Qaeda's ideological heritage and aspirations, I couldn't help but be fascinated by a wandering thought--the thought of the reaction of a radical Islamist knowing there was an American "infidel" sitting in their backyard dissecting them from within the confines of a center named in honor of an Israeli war hero.

I grinned as I started to delve deeper.

"Among the common themes of jihadist-salafist ideologies is the notion of America and the West creating injustices, oppression, immorality, and seeking to plunder...," I read before coming to a halt.

"Plunder," I mouthed with an escaped grin. I looked over at a copy of the Koran sitting on our table. It was written in English.

It was all I could do not to laugh aloud at the irony.

Ani Margish Kmo Mavet

So this week has easily been the most trying one physically. The weather in Tel Aviv is changing rather rapidly and it has become very cool during the night. The sun is down by 4:45 p.m. and even the height of daytime is only slightly warmer than what it is back home.

This past Sunday I started to come down with a little bit of a sore throat and a fever. By Monday morning, I was positive I was swallowing knives and by Tuesday night I was a full-blown biological weapon with legs. Shallow-breathing, congested sinuses, congested lungs, and long bouts of hacking had me pretty much adopting the Eric Foreman mentality of embracing the "sweet release of death."

Needless to say, I missed all of my classes this past week and have only just recently started to feel better. Perhaps no Middle East experience is complete without a bout of the plague. All I can say is thank God I don't have a first born son and it's no longer locust season.

Huoshin dropped by on Wednesday afternoon to check in on me. We had a brief discussion on the Bible during which he provided some cool new insights about how each of the four Gospels details a particular attribute of Jesus. I just finished reading Mark and was trying to figure out which book to read next.

Given my debilitated state at the time, we both joked that Job was the obvious choice. I settled instead on Isaiah in order to curtail any possible onset of depression.

The next day, I visited a doctor during his visit to TAU. He comes by the school twice a week at selected times. As part of our mandatory medical insurance plan that we had to buy for the program, this is considered a "perk." I didn't really see it that way. The doctor was cold, disinterested, and completely lackadaisical in his approach to my situation. He factored in little of what I was telling him about my symptoms and proscribed the equivalent of Dayquil/Nyquil.

But hey! It's free!

Or rather, it's not because it's included in our tuition. But that's beside the point because everyone thinks it's free so therefore it has to be free!

*Insert argument/analogy against socialized health care here*

Fortunately, Titus called me up Thursday night. His wife had made some homemade Oklahoma beef stew and he brought it by the dorms along with packets of tea, vitamins, and some good ole' American Mucinex! Thanks to Titus and his wonderful wife, as opposed to Doctor Dontcare, I was finally able to get the decongestants needed to ward off Pharaoh's revenge.

This is fortunate considering the sheer amount of reading piling up on all of our desks, with our second Hebrew test coming up on Thursday, and with Arabic now essentially taking the form of the heat necessary for the fusion process to melt our brains, one can scarcely afford to miss classes.

Right now, we're in the beginning phases of figuring out how to get to Bethlehem for Christmas following a scheduled trip to the Negev desert with the Overseas Student Program (OSP).

Updates to come shortly. I hope everyone is doing well.

-Drew

A Letter to President Obama

Dear President Obama,

As the 44th President of the United States and the 43rd beneficiary of an uninterrupted peaceful transition of power, unprecedented in the annals of mankind's history, you are the heir of the Republic's finest traditions. You are a symbol of the Founder's greatest hopes and aspirations. You are the leader of our people, a people bound together by an unshakable faith in the eternal truth of human liberty and the eternal promise of freedom.

You were elected to office in the hopes that you would fashion a new way forward following the impact of sudden economic decline and years of bitter partisan warfare. You were elected to office in the belief that you were beyond the petty "gotcha" politics of the past era. You were elected to office in the belief that you could and would repair our strained relationships with old friends and new allies. You were elected to office in the belief that you could finally alleviate lingering racial tensions and bridge residual societal divides.

You were elected because you characterized yourself as a savior. Your followers grew weak in the knees at your very presence. Your message was Messianic. You became the living embodiment of the hope that you espoused. The people swooned. And the people rewarded you for your self-imposed greatness with the most powerful role on the planet.

But some of us knew different. Some of us could pierce through the narcissistic facade of your self-aggrandizing rhetoric. Some of us knew you were a charlatan from the very beginning. And some of us decided that you had to be fought.

We sensed that your past connections with radical minds ran as deep as they did wide. We argued fervently, sometimes at the point of impassioned incoherence, the alarming lack of substance in your shallow resume. We sounded the alarms on your comfortable willingness to characterize your own nation and people as part of the problem instead of part of the solution. We recoiled in terror at your proud promotion of social engineering and your adulation for expanded government control over the lives of your fellow citizens. We felt the tingling chill run up our spines as we contrasted the other guy's emphasis on reform of government with your zeal for reforming America.

And with clenched jaws of distrust and disdain, we read your cool disassociation from your past and your flippant denial of your true ideological allegiances as proof of your desire to gain power at any and all costs--a harbinger of a future clouded by the machinations of a man whose oratory gifts had been used for the sole purpose of acquiring power over others.

In the year since your election, you have revealed your true face to a broader public. At home you spend your energy crafting new measures of control over the populace under the guise of "reform" and "social justice." You expand your reach into ever more sectors of American enterprise, from the automobile industry to insurance agencies to Wall Street itself. You wage class warfare by demonizing the successful and the rich as agents of chaos against the poor and middle class.

You spend money we don't have in record amounts we don't grasp for reasons we don't understand. And when the results for this profligate behavior fall spectacularly short of your ephemeral promises, your Administration lies and obfuscates with the numbers. Imaginary statistics, like "jobs saved," are invented in an effort to discredit those opposed to your reckless schemes.

And when you are presented with evidence of your policies' failures, you resort to blaming all your travails on your predecessor, reneging on your promises of a post-partisan presidency.

When you're not spending your time schmoozing on the late night talk shows or giving interviews to GQ magazine and Men's Health, you're lecturing the American people in press conferences on the necessity for your social engineering. Despite 90% percent of Americans possessing health insurance, 80% of Americans satisfied with their medical care, and most Americans opposed to the entire idea, you continue to mislead the public and demonize your opponents. If the concern was about insuring those without insurance, part of the travesty that was your $787 billion "stimulus" package could have been allocated to simply buy the insurance for the uninsured.

But that has never been the aim nor the true concern. The goal has always been government control over the insurance industries and health care itself. A goal that when achieved would force the lower and middle class into a state of dependence upon the government for their very livelihood--a goal that would finish what was begun by FDR and LBJ to cement a permanent voter majority for those touting government solutions to societal ills.

Thus is the true nature of you and your Administration on all of these issues, from healthcare to cap-and-trade to the bailouts themselves. And those who refuse to bow, as you so assiduously have done to monarchs abroad, to your great scheme are categorized as fringe elements, branded as potential "domestic extremists" by your Department of Homeland Security, or characterized as the discredited proponents of your predecessor's "failed" policies.

You talk to Americans one way at home and another behind our back. You speak of America's potential for greatness at home (as if we have never been considered great before) whilst condemning our alleged sins to foreign audiences. You publicly berate our democratic friends in Honduras, Colombia, and Israel whilst publicly seeking warmer relations with our sworn enemies in Iran, Russia, and Venezuela.

When you're not bowing to despotic oil barons or neutering our allies in Europe at the behest of imperialistic, kleptocratic neo-Kossacks in Russia, you're watching with silent disinterest at the plight of those quite literally dying to be free in the theocratic nightmare state of Iran.

Where once we were at war with radical Islamists, we now refer not to war or victory over our enemies, but rather of meeting our "obligations" in our "overseas contingency operations." Where once we committed ourselves to meeting their tyranny and dark vision with liberty and all the resources of our overwhelming might, we now speak of withdrawals, time lines, and compromise. Where once we called acts of terrorism for the heinousness that they are, we now only refer to ambiguous, morally neutral "man-made disasters."

Nowhere else is this more evident than in your Administration's decision to try the perpetrators of the most heinous act of war ever inflicted upon our shores in civilian courts reserved for American citizens. Here, the jihadists, who just a few months ago looked forward to the sweet release of death, will instead use the venue as a forum to eschew their hate for America and twist the truth and sow the seeds of self-loathing into the minds of the people in the hopes that we come to believe that somehow we deserved their barbarism.

And just last night, as you stood before hundreds of our finest and brightest men and women preparing to engage these barbarians overseas, you announce a plan bred of blatant cognitive dissonance. Ignoring the advice of your own generals, you have spent the past three months crafting the exact same policy proscribed in March, with the caveats of it being less robust in effort and placed within the strictures of a limited time frame. This "strategy" is designed to set our troops up for failure while giving you political cover.

You prepare to send our men and women into harm's way after months of feigning serious deliberations, while at the same time announcing that the rug will be pulled out from under our effort, their effort, at an arbitrary date of your choosing--a date that one can't help but notice comes just before your bid for reelection.

And as if this wasn't enough, you add insult to injury by lamenting the $30 billion price tag needed to continue the fight. This on the heels of $787 billion of fraudulent and ineffective "stimulus" spending and in the wake of your proposed $2 trillion plan to create a new government health care monstrosity for reasons that are misguided and financially unsustainable at best and duplicitous and economically disastrous at worst. Coming from the man who has spent over double what his predecessor spent in his first year in office, the regrettable $30 billion is only regrettable because it has come so late and with so little priority in your Administration's calculus.

As a citizen of the Republic you pretend to lead, as an appalled observer of the vacuousness of your character, and as a man who believes in the sovereignty of an Almighty God, the pressure building inside from all of these actions threatens to break me, the fire of my outrage threatening to burn me.

As I think back through the course of human history and to the establishment of our great nation, to the shot heard 'round the world at Lexington and Concord, to the constitutional assemblies of truly brave and great men risking everything to forge a new path for mankind, to the distant shores of Tripoli, to the star-spangled sky above Fort McHenry, to the fated clash of brothers at Gettysburg, to the blood-soaked beaches of Normandy, to the flag raising at Iwo Jima, to the righteous cause of Martin Luther King, to the quest to walk upon the very surface of the moon, to the unflinching demand to a dictator to tear down that wall, and to the small man from Texas, bullhorn in hand, standing atop the burning rubble of the tallest buildings and the bodies of his fellow countrymen to declare to the whole world that our dead would be avenged and that our cause was just, I cannot help but think that you are going to undo all of it. That you are the one who will bring it all to an ignominious end.

For you it is hope with despair, change by force, and unity through division.

I am far from home, but as an American living abroad I finally understand the full extent of the power and grandeur of our republic. The aura of our presence and the ripples of our decisions stretch far beyond our boundaries with tangible effects on our friends and our foes.

We can and we have used this power to protect the eternal truths of human liberty, truths shared by our friends. We can and we have used this power to promote the eternal hope of freedom, a hope shared by billions.

But not with you as our leader, Mr. President. Because your loyalty is not to these truths or these hopes. Your loyalty is only to yourself. And when the leader of our Republic fails to share the interests and values of the Republic, he has become not an embodiment of the people's will, but an impediment.

This is no longer about Republicans and Democrats. This is now about liberty and tyranny, classical liberal ideals versus modern statist ambitions.

Thomas Jefferson stated boldly and unequivocally that "Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God."

You, Mr. President, are a tyrant and an impediment.

As a deeply distraught citizen of this Republic, I am obligated to affirm my allegiance solely to the Constitution of the United States and to no other entity, office, or man.

God save us all,
Drew White



U.S. Forces reacting to your Afghanistan "strategy," Mr. President.

Turkey Day in Tel Aviv

"Right now we're looking at about twelve people," Chris said over the phone.

Twelve?! Ma pitom!

"Twelve people?" I repeated, a bit of incredulity creeping into voice. "I was thinking there would be no more than eight. I'm not sure we have enough food for that many people."

"Well I invited a few of my friends. Plus you've got my roommate and his lady friend," Chris explained. "But that is true. I don't know how much food my mom sent over here."

"Yea, my Aunt Jeanie sent a box of food, but it hasn't come in yet either. I imagine it's meant for maybe five or six folks."

There was a very brief silence.

"Ah crap..." Chris said with a sigh.

***

I tore through the tape and popped open the cardboard flaps like I was a six year old opening the first round of Christmas gifts.

"Dude! Bubble wrap! Sweet!" I yelled as I rummaged through the contents of Aunt Scout's supply crate. "Two boxes of taters! Four boxes of stuffing! Gravy! Beef jerky! Cookies! Aunt Dorenda sent cookies! Dude, this is awesome!" I exclaimed from the kitchen of our dorm.

I turned around, expecting to find Dominique or Ryan coming out to see what all the fuss was about.

Empty.

I rapped on Ryan's door. No one.

I poked my head into the bathroom. Vacant.

I unlocked my bedroom door to find everything precisely as it had been that morning. No sign of Dominique.

It was just me.

Glancing around one more time just to be on the safe side, I snatched a sleeve of Aunt Dorenda's molasses cookies and tucked them behind the cereal boxes on my computer desk.

""Score!!!" I yelled again, confident my voice was ringing out from the top of our building, carrying through all of Ramat Aviv, and bouncing off the very skyscrapers of downtown Tel Aviv and beyond.

***

Chris had moved out of the dorms a couple of months ago after the Ulpan had finished. As part of his research with Save A Child's Heart, he needed to be closer to the hospital where he would be pulling on and off 24 hour shifts for the better part of six months. Fortunately for Chris and for all of us, he had managed to secure an apartment only one block from the Mediterranean Sea and the Tel Aviv beach promenade.

Count it.

Dustin and I opened up the iron gate. I had emptied my backpack of every piece of academic kitsch and replaced it with all of Aunt Jeanie and Aunt Dorenda's Thanksgiving contents. I tried to open the door into the apartment complex, but found it unsurprisingly locked. The electronic security device on it made sure that tenants and tenants only could access it.

There were call buttons for all of the apartments off to the right. I reached up and pressed the #1 button without thinking.

"You sure that's Chris' apartment number?" Dustin asked.

"I think it is, yea..." I responded as the front security door was opened by a churlish, grizzled Israeli man. He looked like his bad day was having a bad day.

"Sorry, we're going to the other apartment," I offered in a vain effort to ameliorate the man's irritation.

He let us step inside. Then he muttered something indecipherable as he went back into his apartment and slammed the door shut.

I looked back at Dustin as we approached Chris' door.

"Idiot," he said with a half-grin. "You should have just called Ryan."

"Ah, he'll get over it."

We knocked on Chris' door. Beyond we could hear some sort of music blaring. It was either Christmas music or classical music or a combination of the two. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. Ryan had already come over to the apartment to start preparing the turkey that Liz had managed to secure.

We knocked again. No answer.

Dustin pulled out his phone and dialed Ryan's number repeatedly. I rang the doorbell. There was no response. Except for the opening of the door behind us.

Another very upset tenant, easily in his 70's, glowered at us.

"Ma?!" he asked with a raised voice.

"Ani mits'taer," I replied.

He shut the door once he realized that we were retarded Americans trying to get into the apartment being occupied by our absent-minded American friends.

"No answer," Dustin said. "Are you sure Ryan's in there?"

"He's gotta be, man. I hear music. It's Ryan. You know he's cooking Thanksgiving dinner to music." I responded.

We tried calling and knocking and buzzing for another five minutes. There was no answer. We figured Chris wasn't home yet from the hospital. He had left his key out for Ryan to get into his apartment after we got out of classes because he wasn't sure what time he would get off work.

We walked back outside the apartment complex and took a seat on a bench. A young Israeli couple walked past us. Traffic was relatively light. The commotion of the beach front found during the summer months had given way to a sort of urbanized tranquility that both of us were unfamiliar with.

"Wanna go walk on the beach and grab a beer?" Dustin asked after about a minute.

"Yep."

***

"Yea, we were grabbing some things at the store," Chris replied. "Like I said, you should have just called me, dude."

"Well, we thought you were still at work getting peed on by babies," I quipped. "And I'm pretty sure we pissed off all your neighbors."

"Yea, that's not good."

I unloaded the contents of my backpack. Chris was thoroughly pleased to see the amount of food and seasoning that had been sent over here from my family. Dustin and I were equally pleased to see a glorious turkey, stuffed with vegetables, cooking in the oven.

Ryan had even jury-rigged a pair of forks to keep the legs up.

"That's impressive, Rinoblaster."

"We'll see how it turns out," he said as we all gathered around the oven to stare.

The turkey looked like it had been seasoned well. Ryan had taken the salt and basil that Aunt Jeanie had sent. Liz had bought some thyme and given it to Ryan the day before. We could hear the glorious bird sizzling through the oven window.

Chris broke our reverie with his characteristic humor--a mixture of West Coast wit and dry medical perversion that is truly Chris.

"It looks like it's getting a gynecology examination," he said nonchalantly, his arms crossed over his chest, face contorted in deep scrutiny.

Yea. This is the guy in charge of saving your life should a medical emergency arise.

***

By the time Stefan and Elana entered, things were already in high gear. Liz was in the kitchen making pumpkin pie crust from scratch. Ryan was tending his turkey like it was his child. Dustin and I were trying not to screw up instant mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, and gravy.

Liz was brilliant. Doing only what women can do, she was literally handling six things at once. Chris, Dustin, and myself were just trying to stay out of her way or help her as best we could, whilst not letting the instant food explode.

Stefan and Dominique were both fired up to have their first Thanksgiving meal. Already a model for European excellence in his appreciation for his American brothers across the pond, Stefan's sense of child-like wonder has remained firmly intact. He was getting a kick as the five of us scrambled around the kitchen pretending we knew what we were doing.

Soon some of Chris' friends arrived to round out the crew. They were all non-Americans: Eloise from France, Alberto from Spain, and Gabriel from Colombia.

Liz was mixing the pumpkin mix and pouring it into the pie pans. She walked back over to the stove top where I was stirring the mashed potatoes.

"This is where a woman should be, right?" she asked sarcastically. "In the kitchen, cooking?"

"Yea, but you're not preggers and you still have your shoes on," I replied without even looking.

"The only reason I'm not hitting you is because it's Thanksgiving," she replied.

Everything was coming together nearly perfect. Except for Chris accidentally pouring out the first batch of gravy into the sink, the rest of the food was of a quality that surpassed most of our abilities. Ryan pulled the turkey out at around 8:00. It smelled absolutely perfect. He called me over as the official taste tester, no longer a dubious honor associated with monarchical paranoia, to see how he had done.

Mom would have been proud. Ryan knocked it out of the park.

When everything was finished by 8:15, we gathered around. Ryan said a few thoughtful words regarding the meal and Thanksgiving tradition and I rounded it off with a prayer. There were six Americans, two French, a Canadian, a Spaniard, and a Colombian. There was phenomenal food. There were Christians and Jews; all friends in a very far away land.

It wasn't the same as being home. Not by a long shot. But it was definitely something to be thankful for.



Liz, Dustin, and I manning the kitchen. Chris is being relegated to dish duty to make room for more stuffing and potatoes, hence his sad face.



Dustin gives Chris a Papa Bear hug to make him feel better. Liz is clearly befuddled.



Aside from Elana, everyone else is curious what this American Thanksgiving deal is all about. From Left to Right: Elana, Stefan, The Quebec Cowboy, Eloise, Alberto, and Gabriel.



The masterpiece is done.



The girls getting as much food as they can before Dustin, Dominique, and I tear back into it.



Ryan kicks his feet back. As Master Chef, he earned it.

Toda Raba

There is no doubt that we have entered the shroud of a challenging epoch. The strain of the world bears down on all of us a little more each day. And as this burden increases, it can become easy to forget how fortunate and blessed we are.

Difficult times can sometimes cloud our outlook. A sense of vulnerability and hardship can increase one's tendency to fear, to resent, and to worry. This can in turn cause us to look beyond what we have to what we do not or what we once did.

And once this process begins, it reinforces the very negative qualities that started us down that path in the first place. It is a circle of despair.

It is precisely during the difficult times when we should take heart with what we have--not lament that which is gone. It is this mindset that I'm trying to adopt on this Thanksgiving Day in the Holy Land.

There is nowhere else I'd rather be today than at home, watching football, eating Mom's broccoli casserole, and getting ready for the Iron Bowl tomorrow. But this is not to be. Nor is it likely to be next year either.

I am fortunate to have family and friends that have tried to give us some semblance of a traditional Thanksgiving in this far away land. A few of us are planning on getting together at Chris' house tonight and celebrating with the food that we have.

It's going to be strange sitting in a Tel Aviv apartment absent family, home-cooked food, and fighting the Old Man for whatever is left of the dessert. This is the first Thanksgiving I that spent away from home. I realize it won't be the last. My choices, few of which I regret, make that an unfortunate certainty. However, I take heart knowing that many of you have kept us in your prayers and have kept an interest in this blog and what's going on in my life and in the lives of those in the program.

It has been a very humbling experience and I am extremely thankful for all of the support that I've received. And I'm excited about what the future holds, even if things appear to be daunting in the present.

I'll leave everyone with this picture, taken from our balcony a couple of weeks ago when Israel experienced some much-needed rain. I think it pretty much speaks for itself.



I'll try to have another post up this weekend.

Happy Thanksgiving!

-Drew

P.S. A special thanks to Aunt Jeanie and Aunt Dorenda for the care package! My inner fat kid couldn't be happier.

Specters of the Past, Keys to the Future

With most of the OSP students away this weekend on a camping excursion to the Golan, few of us remain in the dorms. I elected to stay behind in order to catch up on my readings and to ensure some extra attention to both Arabic and Hebrew. This has made for a quiet and studious weekend absent the typical noise and pablum encouraged by the undergraduates.

A few of the Master's students, like Dustin and Ryan, joined the trip to the north after finishing most of their homework on Thursday. I've been a bit behind on my seminars and thus made the uncharacteristically responsible decision to contain myself to studying and the gym. Fortunately Dominique and Stefan stayed around to provide a much-needed respite from the grind.

In Modern Middle East History, we're currently discussing the Islamic responses to encounters with the West. This is honestly the most interesting class I've taken in years. Dr. Litvak is an amazing professor. The first day he greeted us with this priceless quip:

"I am Dr. Litvak. I'll be your professor for Selected Topics in Modern Middle East History. I am like most Israelis in that I think I'm right. I am not like most Israelis in that I know I'm right."

His teaching style is half-lecture, half-discussion. Despite the obvious fact that he is confident in his conclusions and his analysis, he never discourages other points of view. He is just as quick to tell you that he likes what you have to say as he is to rebuff you. However, he never rebuffs a student without explaining why and providing a litany of historical examples and evidence to bolster his reasoning.

We're currently reading about figures like Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, an Islamic thinker from the 19th Century who traveled through the Middle East espousing the need for the Muslim people to unite against the West. One of the interesting things about Afghani is that he wasn't one. He was actually born in Iran and was a Shi'ite. But he knew that should this ever be discovered then his message of unification would not be well received throughout the mostly Sunni Middle East. So he crafted an entirely false background and set out on his mission.

The scurrilous part about al-Afghani is that there is a mountain of evidence to suggest that he was actually secular--that he didn't actually believe in the tenets of Islam, but rather believed Islam to be a tool (the perfect tool) to be used for the Muslim people to defeat the West.

The reason why I mention this is because one can draw a direct line from al-Afghani to his disciple Mohammed Abduh (who was a true Islamist believer) to Rashid Rida to Hasan al-Banna. Banna might be a familiar name. He created the infamous Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt in the early 1930's. The same Muslim Brotherhood that assassinated Anwar Sadat and spawned radical ideologies and terrorist organizations throughout the globe during the last century. The same Muslim Brotherhood that is still very much active in Egypt, Europe, and the United States to this day. The same Muslim Brotherhood with intricate ties to the controversial Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR).

The alumni of the Muslim Brotherhood include a veritable Who's Who of Islamic radicals, such as Sayyid Qutb, Ayman al-Zawahiri, and Osama bin Laden. So one can extrapolate why studying figures such as Afghani and figuring out his motives is of utmost importance if one is to have any hope of finding answers and coming to conclusions.

This is part of the weekend task--to familiarize myself with all of these various men and figure out why they did what they did, why they said what they said, and what impact it has had on the current state of the Middle East.

Following the massacre at Fort Hood by an Islamic radical within our own military ranks and the subsequent affliction of denial and political correctness that has so enraptured our media and society, there is ever more a sense of urgency.

Fort Hood revealed the greatest danger of all: ourselves. By refusing to call a spade a spade, we invite disaster.

Fort Hood was not a crime. It was an act of terrorism--another declaration of war on the West by a fanatical Islamist. The scandalous attempt by our media to avoid using Major Hasan's name, to ascribe obviously erroneous motivations like PTSD (Hasan had never even been deployed), and to preemptively warn the masses against "rushing to judgment," was nothing less than a premeditated, calculated attempt to hide the truth from an outraged and worried public.

It's like a doctor wanting to enjoy his weekend off by telling his patient that he doesn't have a disease (more like a...biological anomaly) despite the fact that the patient is clearly bleeding from his eye sockets. The nice doctor proscribes a little aspirin and tells his patient to go get some rest because there's nothing more annoying than having a clearly inconsiderate patient interrupting the big fishing excursion. And what's a little hemorrhaging anyway?

And the problem is when we (America and the West) finally come to it, because we obfuscated the truth from the very beginning, we will find our task at applying the right proscription all the more difficult because of our fatally inaccurate diagnosis.

This, of course, is the point of the MAMEH program. One has to learn about the past to understand the present and thus better the future. Hopefully whatever we learn here will help us provide a more accurate diagnosis in the future--one free from the shackles of a misanthropic mindset of misplaced tolerance purveyed by our culturally-misinformed "multicultural" elites. ( <-- Three cheers for academically accentuated alliteration!)



Jamal al-Din al-Afghani: The architect of Modern Islamism or just another snappy dresser?

להתראות

-Drew