Get Salty!

It rained this morning. When I woke for class and walked into the kitchen I was shocked at the absence of light and the preponderance of gray outside the windows. This was the first time since I've been in Israel that the entire sky was gray. And while it is an all too common occurrence back home, it is a very rare phenomenon over here.

Today also marks the fourteenth anniversary of the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. Perhaps this was a heavenly way of denoting (mourning) the occasion.

In a strange way, it was the ideal weather to end one heck of a long week.

***

Arabic is by far the best class. Dr. Hakim is loud, abrasive, witty, and brilliant. One of the girls in our program told me yesterday that he is the top Arabic teacher in Europe and Israel. I believe it.

He interjects humor seamlessly with discipline. He expects the best. He accepts nothing less. He told us yesterday that everyone must understand everything and that we cannot and he will not go any further until we're all on the same page.

To quote Titus, it was basically a declaration of "Leave No Student Behind"--or perhaps a take off part of the Army Ranger Creed.

Now that all the students have finally arrived, we number a little more than thirty people from all over the globe. And I've noticed that there are definitely small groups forming within our program. Whether or not things will stay that way until the end remains to be seen. Some of these people I've mentioned a great deal since I've been here. Others I have not.

I think it's appropriate at this juncture to mention a discussion that's caught on in the past few days. Dustin and Ryan were joking earlier this week about the "positions" everyone in the class would play if we were all on a football team.

So with that context in mind, I'll get down to business.

***

Titus and David are both former Marines in their early thirties. They're both married. They're both from Oklahoma. They both know each other from back home. And they both moved to Israel with their wives for the extent of the program.

I am not certain what nickname Titus had when he was in the Marines, but I imagine "The Professor" could have easily been one of them. There are few people I've met that know more history than Titus. He can tell you troop movements during the 19th Century Great Game between Britain and Russia. He can rattle off Churchill quotes on a whim. He knows an impressive amount of U.S. history. And he never speaks without thinking.

One of the most impressive things about Titus is that he served in the Marines before going to college. His stint ended just two months before 9/11. In Fall of 2001 he took his military scholarship money and enrolled at the University of Oklahoma. When the towers fell just a few weeks later he signed up for the Army National Guard. There's not enough good things to say about the guy.

In my view, I think Ryan and Dustin are spot on. Titus is definitely the quarterback.

David is quiet and reserved, but extremely analytical. And when the situation arises, he has shown a propensity to come up and get the job done if others cannot. This makes him a defensive back. I'm thinking free safety.

There's also Tyler. Tyler is from Florida and graduated from Florida State. He didn't come to the Ulpan during the Summer. He knows a decent amount of Hebrew and apparently studied Arabic for a while. He's extremely laid back and effuses a fraternity vibe that is familiar and comfortable. Tyler is our tailback.

Tatianna is a native of Florida also. She spent her undergrad years here in Israel at the Interdisciplinary Center (IDC) in Herzliya where she received her degree in Counterterrorism. Now that is what I call a practical major.

She's never shy about asking a question and she knows a great deal about radical Islam. Like the rest of us, she is frustrated by the pace with which we've hit Arabic and she lets Dr. Hakim know it. She is astute, confident, and pretty. And I get a distinct impression that she doesn't take any crap off of anyone.

In her own words, she claims herself to be one of our outside linebackers.

Peter is one of Dustin's roommates and hails from the Netherlands. He has an insatiable appetite for learning that has as much to do with nurture as it does with his natural intelligence. He is from a small Christian hamlet that apparently few people have heard about. And Peter is here because of 9/11. He told me this one day during a walk and it literally caused me to stop mid-stride. I had never heard a European make such a statement.

In fact, 9/11 apparently affected Peter a great deal. And the thing is, he never saw the actual footage. His family doesn't own a television. It wasn't until years later that Peter ever watched what happened that day. But he knows all too well what occurred thereafter. The ensuing Islamist chaos that has spread throughout the Netherlands with the murder of Theo van Gogh, the death threats on Dutch parliamentary members by radical Islamists, the exile of outspoken reformists like Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and the growing Muslim population has Peter worried about his nation's future and the future of the Dutch identity.

I don't think there's any doubt that Peter is our kicker. He's the one that is often overlooked but is the guy you may have to rely on to put you over the top.

***

Huoshin is a graduate of the University of Washington. He is ethnically Taiwanese, but is an American citizen. He speaks fluent Mandarin, German, and English. He is a Christian. And he spent time doing research in Washington D.C. for the U.S. Navy on "future warfare technology." Pretty freaking sweet huh?

Huoshin has a great sense of humor and is always up for basketball. He's also in our krav maga class where he routinely shows up a few minutes late--much to the chagrin of Sinsei Avi (aka Splinter). Huoshin is just one of those guys you know you're going to like as soon as you meet him. I didn't have to see his devotionals or his Bible at his apartment to know that he was a Christian. You can just see it in him.

He's definitely one of our wide receivers.

Then of course there's Ryan, Dustin, and Dominique. Ryan's quizzical tendencies and curiosity allow him to excel in this environment. He is not afraid of being wrong or being corrected. He just wants to get it right. It's a trait that I both admire and envy. He of course is a phenomenal roommate and a very devout Christian. He's definitely one of our wide receivers and is willing to risk going after the long ball.

Dustin more or less has maintained his status as BMOC in both a literal and metaphorical sense. His Midwest sensibilities keep things "real." He works hard, doesn't like being bad at anything he does, and is willing to push through even when it gets difficult. Yea, he may wait a little longer than he needs to (as a fellow procrastinator I respect this), but he's going to get the job done. Dustin is the foundation. This makes him our center.

Dominique (aka The Quebec Cowboy) is...well...Dominique. The Dominator is even-keeled whether we're being bombarded in Hebrew, lambasted in Arabic, or bludgeoned in any of the other ME seminars. Dom is a defensive end. Contain. Contain. Contain. Seeing as how he's a Canadian, I think this makes perfect sense.

And according to Dustin and Ryan, I'm apparently the strong side tight end. I know my job. I know my area of responsibility. And I know it well. And if need be, I guess I can get us a few yards along the way. I'll accept that role happily. It's better than being the slow, space-filling hog of a nose guard.

There are many others that comprise our eclectic contingent that hopefully I'll get to know better. And there are some folks that I'm certain will crop up from time to time in the future. People such as Naomi from the Netherlands, Shoshi from New York, and Matt (his real name I will not disclose ). Matt was/is in the U.S. Army and spent the better part of five years (2003-2008) in Iraq. He speaks Arabic. And just from talking with him briefly a couple of days ago, I can tell that he has seen a lot. Maybe too much.

I hope to get to talk with him some more and learn about his experiences. He seems like a really interesting guy.

As time goes on, we'll see what kind of team has been assembled over here. In the immortal words of Coach Sprouse, we're gonna have to be "salty" if we're going to succeed.

The Iranian conference is about to begin in a couple of hours. I'll be sure to provide details of it later this weekend.

Shabat Shalom,
Drew

P.S. There are 1,730 ways to say "camel" in Arabic.

But there's only one way to fry them.

Juniper Cobra: UPDATE

I just returned from a late night workout. En route to the gym it sounded like World War III near the coastline. The din of constant automatic machine gunfire, helicopters churning through the night sky, and F-16's carrying out their sorties pretty much dominated the walk to the gym.

I don't know what war sounds like, but I imagine that it's something very akin to that. Regardless, it's definitely not something one hears or experiences everyday.

Tomorrow after class, I'll be attending a seminar by an Iranian dissident on democracy in Iran and the Iranian threat to Israel, the region, and the world. The fact that an Iranian is on Israeli soil at an Israeli university pushing for regime change in his own country is a big deal.

I find it interesting that it is coinciding with Juniper Cobra.

In other news, Dustin and I may be going to an Israeli Football game this weekend. And by football, I mean real football. Not that communist sport of soccer masquerading under the nom de guerre of "football."

I hope to have a post up about both events sometime this weekend.

Juniper Cobra

A very brief post as I have to get back to reading about how the Ottoman Empire imploded on itself.

Currently, a joint exercise between the IDF and the United States is being conducted just a few kilometers from our dorms at one of Tel Aviv's many beaches. This is the fifth consecutive year that the U.S. and Israel have held these maneuvers. This is the largest joint exercise ever between the IDF and the U.S. military.

Dubbed Juniper Cobra, the exercise includes testing Israel's newly-developed Arrow 2 as well as the United State's THAAD (Terminal High-Altitude Area Defense) and ship-based Aegis Ballistic Missile Defense System.

The only logical reason for the conduction of these exercises is preparation for any potential conflict with Iran--a scenario that seems ever more likely.

Yesterday, Ryan and Dominique rode their bikes out to a beach we typically visit only to be turned away by a streaming contingent of IDF soldiers. I'm withholding the name of said beach out of precaution. It's unlikely that divulging the information would cause harm, but it is a possibility. There are people in Brazil, France, Jordan, and elsewhere reading this blog.

And just a few moments ago, the tell-tale roar of F-16's reverberated overhead. We've been told that U.S. Marines are on maneuvers throughout the coastline of Israel and in portions of Tel Aviv. I've yet to see them around, but the number of uniformed IDF personnel in and around Ramat Aviv has definitely skyrocketed in recent days.

The exercise will continue through Friday.

להתראות

-Drew

Never, Never, Never...

WARNING! The following post contains unabashed conservative political commentary. If prone to fainting at the mere mention of the Obamessiah's name, this post may be hazardous to your health. Take proper precautions and please consult your DailyKos(sack) handbook before proceeding any further.


***

Don't be afraid to see what you see. -Ronald Reagan

As of this writing, U.S. forces in Afghanistan are slugging it out with Taliban and Al-Qaeda forces throughout all of southern and eastern Afghanistan. In Helmand Province, where around 90% of the world's opium comes from, U.S. Marines are weathering a grueling battle royale with the most hardened jihadists on the planet. Every day, they are engaged in firefights. Every day, they are struck by roadside bombs and mortars. Every day, they take back to the streets in an effort to show the people of Helmand that they are in the fight.

But the people of Helmand and throughout vast swaths of Afghanistan are no longer convinced that the tenacity of the Marines and the U.S. Army is going to result in a prolonged presence in their towns and villages. They used to believe our commitment was an undaunted one.

What they know--what thirty years of constant warfare has taught them is that the "crazies" (to quote Charlie Wilson's War) aren't going anywhere. They can't go anywhere. Because Helmand Province is Taliban country. The people of the region are Pashtuns. The Taliban is a Pashtun movement. The Taliban are home.

And the people are wary of choosing the losing side. Right now, most of them think the losing side is the West. And right now, they're absolutely correct.


***

This is not a war of choice. This is a war of necessity. Those who attacked America on 9/11 are plotting to do so again. If left unchecked, the Taliban insurgency will mean an even larger safe haven from which Al Qaeda would plot to kill more Americans. -President Barack Obama, August 17 2009

Those were the days. Just over three months have passed since Barack Obama made that statement to the Veterans of Foreign Wars. And since then, we have received General Stanley McChrystal's assessment of the war in Afghanistan. It is a bleak one. If we do not implement a new counter-insurgency strategy, reinforce our commitment to denying the Islamists a safe haven, and surge in the appropriate number of soldiers to carry out this strategy, then we will lose.

After General McChrystal, Obama's hand-picked general (and interestingly enough my third cousin), presented his assessment to the Administration, they began to waffle. Having already announced a "comprehensive new strategy" in March, a strategy which observers noted looked a helluva lot like President Bush's strategy in Iraq, the Obama Administration dumbfounded critics and supporters alike by announcing that they would be reevaluating our mission in Afghanistan.

Why? What is there to reevaluate? We either win or we lose. And I don't mean we just as in the United States. British, German, Canadian, Australian, Danish, Polish, French, and many other nationalities are embroiled in the conflagration. Failure to defeat the potency of the Taliban insurgency, failure to deny Al-Qaeda safe-haven in the AfPak region, will result in catastrophic consequences for the West and for the world.

NATO seemed to share this belief as just a few days ago they heartily endorsed General McChrystal's strategy, pledging to send more troops for the effort once America makes up her mind. Days have turned into weeks into months since General McChrystal asked for 40,000 more troops to turn the tide in Afghanistan. Still no word from our Commander-in-Chief.

Pakistan this past week launched their largest campaign yet to quell the Taliban and Al-Qaeda forces rampaging through their western hinterlands. 30,000 Pakistani troops are now engaged in a campaign in what many analysts believe to be the last, best hope of the Pakistani government to defeat the zealots.

Can you believe it? Europe is pushing America to show resolve. Europe is promising us that they are willing to see this through. Pakistan has finally thrown in the towel on the idea that the Islamists can be negotiated with and they have gone "all-in" to defeat them. But our Commander-in-Chief wavers and dithers as our Marines, our soldiers, and our allies' soldiers die for a mission that they are no longer sure our President supports.

What if President Obama had shown courage months ago and followed General McChrystal's advice to deploy 40,000 more soldiers? Our allies would have followed suit. And many thousands more soldiers would already be in place to complement a new counter-insurgency strategy in Afghanistan and a daring Pakistani offensive on the other side of the border.

The Hammer could already be falling on the Anvil. But alas, it is not. Instead, there is only uncertainty colliding with desperation.


***

On the one hand, Obama's narcissism and paranoia grows daily. At home, the "Chicago Way" dominates American lives. Critics must be silenced. Agendas must be rammed down the throats of the masses. America must be reformed. And he, our dear leader, is the one to do it. If only we could see as much.

The number of radicals that surround and shape our President, both now and in the past, have become so numerous as to be laughable if it wasn't so frightening. Forget Jeremiah Wright and Bill Ayers. That was Election 2008.

Now we have over forty shadowy "czars" (interesting word choice) designated with the task of bypassing inconvenient constitutional checks and balances and crafting the Administration's big government agenda--an agenda to be forced upon a kicking and screaming American people.

We have czars like Van Jones, a man who believes 9/11 was an inside job and an avowed communist, who until recently was tasked with pushing climate change regulations on the private sector and small businesses. That is until FOXNews uncovered Van Jones for the radical he is and the Administration was forced to shove him under the bus.

We have a White House Communications Director who brags about "controlling" the media and who admires Mao, a brutal communist dictator responsible for more deaths than Stalin or Hitler, as her favorite philosopher. This woman, Anita Dunn, responsible for the message of the White House has declared a war on FOXNews for daring to criticize the Administration and expose some of the truth behind the curtain.

We have Chief of Staff Rahm "Dead Fish" Emanuel trying to strong arm the free press into towing the Administration line. All while implying consequences should they fail to adhere to the will of Obama.

We have a Titanic sized health care bill being drafted, not in the interest of improving the system, but rather in the interest of securing votes and solidifying power for the Democrat Party. Again I ask, if the concern is about the 10% of Americans who don't have insurance then why haven't we taken part of the "stimulus" package and just paid for health insurance for these Americans?

For years, the Bush Administration was excoriated by the left wing as being tyrannical. I cannot recall the number of times I personally entered debates with liberals who were convinced that George Bush would abolish the Constitution and declare himself dictator.

Since the election of Barack Obama, the government has either taken over or become partial owners of the banks, become shareholders of the car companies, targeted the insurance companies as villains, spent trillions of dollars on insoluble and ineffective bailouts, attempted to create a massive health care bureaucracy/takeover costing over $1 Trillion, taken our previous record deficit and tripled it, and waged war on media outlets critical of all of the above.

What we have learned since the election of Barack Obama, what many of us knew even before then, is that the accusations leveled against President Bush were merely the left projecting their behavior on President Bush.

The contrast between the iron fist of the Administration at home and the limp wrist of the Administration abroad reflects the mindset of our President more than anything else. Abroad Obama is liked by all and feared by none. To paraphrase Mark Steyn, he has taken America the hyper-power and spayed us into America the hyper-poodle.

Four months into his presidency, Barack Obama took a time-out from his role as thrall herder at home and embarked on his grand world apology tour overseas. Lacking both moral clarity and historical accuracy, our President sought and continues to seek an America that is pacified and neutered, one that revels in its sins and takes the blame for the world's ills. President Bush's foreign policy agenda was to defeat radical Islamists, promote liberty, and advance the values of the West in the face of our adversaries. President Obama's foreign policy agenda is to make our enemies like us by making our enemies like him.

And the world has responded by lavishing praise on him for things he hasn't even accomplished (i.e. the Nobel Peace Prize). They like an America that no longer sees itself as a leader. For our allies, it automatically elevates their prominence on the world stage with regard to their relative power in the West. For our enemies, it creates a vacuum with which they can fill.

What does this mean?


***

In effect, as an American living abroad in an already dangerous area of the world, having my Commander-in-Chief hovering at only 50% approval ratings at home and having failed to gain the respect and fear of our adversaries abroad results in a sentiment of extreme unease.

Forces are already on the move to take advantage of our self-imposed weakness. Syria is shipping long range missiles into Lebanon for Hezbollah to use against Israel. Arms smuggling to Hamas has increased through the Sinai Peninsula. Iran moves ever closer to acquiring nuclear weapons while stringing the West along with its international Sideshow Bob routine. Russia consolidates more power throughout eastern Europe and Central Asia. Left-wing despots in Latin America continue to form their anti-American alliances on our back doorstep. The War Formerly Known As The War On Terror still rages like a firestorm from Manila to Morocco.

We tire. We falter. We begin to fail.

Four years from now, I can't help but think of what we could be seeing in a new world order. President Obama must turn his Administration around. He must abandon his radical agenda to transform the U.S. into a socialist dystopia. He must tame his desire to "community organize" American society. He must step into the role of leader for the American people and leader of the Free World. He must abandon the idea that America is the problem and accept the idea that America has been and can continue to be the solution.

The path we're on is treacherous. Four years from now, we could be facing a world that has terrorists in control of a collapsed Pakistani state's nuclear weapons, an Afghanistan that is torn asunder and breeding radical Islamists for export, a reignited Iraqi civil war, a nuclear Iran that is fully armed, operational, and ready to finish what Hitler could not, a Russia teeming with oil wealth and craving its former place as a superpower, a coalition of hardened leftist nations in Latin America ready to challenge Western hegemony, and a decaying Europe no longer willing or able to challenge these threats.

And America in disastrous economic straights from the depletion of wealth due to the shrinking of the private sector, from the encumbered weight of deficits too large to control, from the insatiable appetite of an ever-growing government behemoth, and from a society subjugated by the priorities of an Administration seeking to supplant individualism with collectivist control.

That is what I see for our future if things are not turned around.

So if the Administration will not abandon its current path, it is imperative that conservatives, independents, Blue Dogs, and other concerned Americans continue to push back. It is a fight that has to be won. But conservatives must offer convincing alternatives and they must fight back as Reagan did--as happy warriors with a vision of a future in the hands of free men and women.

There is a profound moral difference between the West and our adversaries. And at home, there is a stark contrast between conservatives and liberals. We must not lose sight of that even if our leaders have. Things look bleak all around. But we can change that.

It's just going to mean digging in for the fight. And adhering to some wisdom from a man who knew what it was like to live in a time where hopelessness characterized the day:

But for everyone, surely, what we have gone through in this period -- I am addressing myself to the School -- surely from this period of ten months, this is the lesson: Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never -- in nothing, great or small, large or petty -- never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy. -Winston Churchill, 1941

Turn up the pressure. There is much at stake.

Tel Aviv: Take Two

This week was the beginning of my two year study in Middle East History and Arabic at Tel Aviv University. After nearly three months here going through the intensive Hebrew Ulpan and immersing myself into Israeli culture, the real schooling began this past Monday.

My initial thoughts and perceptions about the Program are positive. Arabic has thus far been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Dr. Hakim, our Arabic professor, is both an academic and national treasure. He is in his early 70's. Raised in a Jewish community in Lebanon, Dr. Hakim studied at Jesuit boarding schools in both France and England before returning to Israel to make aliyah. He speaks Arabic, English, French, and Hebrew fluently. And he has a wicked sense of humor. His loud and cutting quips constantly draw laughter.

"I will BREAK you," he yells at us the first day. "You and I are stuck with each other for TWO years! This means that we will suffer TOGETHER! This means that no one will miss my BLOODY class!"

Silence. Followed by a smirk.

After the first week, it's apparent that no one will want to miss the class.

In many ways, Dr. Hakim reminds me of granddaddy Jack. He has a similar wit and sharp mind and even if he's quick to pronounce when you've messed up, he is just as quick to sing your praises when you succeed. And there's always an underlying smirk--as if he knows something that no one else does.

Arabic class is going to be the most difficult course I've ever taken. With 29 letters in the Arabic alphabet and with each letter having potentially up to four different ways to write it depending on where it is in a word (independent, beginning, middle, and end), writing Arabic will be a mentally consuming challenge.

We resumed Hebrew this week as well. And this time, most of the Master's students from class A (which was divided into three classes during the Ulpan) are together. This means that Dominique and Ryan are now in Hebrew with Dustin and I. This means competition. Competition is good.

And despite an onslaught of new vocabulary, our ability to speak, read, and write the tongue of Abraham has improved dramatically.

The other courses, the Middle East History courses, should prove to be enlightening. The first semester, all of the MAMEH students are required to take the same classes. This means we're all taking seminars on the History of the Ottoman Empire, Selected Topics in Islamic Society, and Selected Topics in the History of the Modern Middle East.

There will be fireworks.

There are students from every corner of the globe in this program: Canada, Germany, Britain, Lithuania, France, Denmark, The Netherlands, Taiwan, and of course the United States.

This means the political views and world perspectives vary wildly. This became evident the second day of our Modern Middle East class when the topic of Iraq came up in the context of how people in the ME identify themselves.

Our professor, Dr. Litvak, argued that most people in the ME identified themselves by religion, a point I hardly disagree with. However I made a point of suggesting that that may not be true in Iraq where I stated that many sources indicate Iraqis tend to identify themselves as Iraqis first and Shi'a/Sunni second, suggesting Iraqis to be much more nationalist than sectarian.

As Ryan described it, it was as if a cold front suddenly blew through the room as an American dared to speak about Iraq. Dr. Litvak and a bevy of others were quick to say that wasn't true. I fired back that that information came from reliable sources on the ground and asked who was lying.

"After all the sectarian bloodshed, Iraqis are naturally going to shy away from telling people if they are Shi'a or Sunni for fear of being killed," one kid said. "They're lying."

Professor Litvak agreed.

I was about to fire back, citing the Iran-Iraq War where Iraqi Shi'ites willingly slaughtered their Iranian Shi'ite brothers and the recent operation ordered by Shi'ite Prime Minister Maliki to have the mostly Shi'ite Iraqi Security Forces destroy the Shi'ite militias in southern Iraq and destroy their Shi'ite trainers from Shi'ite dominated Iran, but a strangely unfamiliar sensation of restraint seized me and I no longer felt compelled to cite historical evidence to back up my point. It was only the second day. It could wait.

"That's not true," I said. "But I digress."

The week is over now. All of us are mostly trying to relax before our seminars and courses start again next week. Each night this week saw about four to five hours worth of reading articles for our history courses and studying Hebrew and Arabic.

After speaking with a group of second year Master's students, a group whittled down to 18 from their original group of 40+, we discovered that such a week is considered light. Even after their first year, most of the second year students are still up to their necks writing papers from last year's classes.

One second-year girl summed it up pretty succinctly.

"It's a time sink. This program literally consumes your life. And the only thing that keeps you sane is the fact that you're in a country where there's so much to do and something exciting can happen at any moment," she said as she drained a glass of Guinness. "And if you don't drink heavily, you will."

A great one-liner I suppose. I didn't quite believe that her propensity to consume didn't exist prior to coming to Israel.

But when I forgot how to write an "L" in English today during Arabic class, I started to wonder if maybe she wasn't on to something after all.

More to come.

The Goldstone Report: A Lesson In Inverse Moral Calculus

The travesty that is the Goldstone Report has made headlines across the globe in recent days. The report accuses Israel of committing war crimes during Operation: Cast Lead this past January. The accusations are broad-based and blatantly one-sided. Thus, some context is needed.

After suffering years of rocket attacks by Hamas from inside the Gaza Strip, Israel decided to launch an offensive to neutralize the terrorist organization's offensive capabilities. Towns and cities in southern Israel lived in perpetual fear. Children going to school continue to suffer from the trauma induced by the warning blare of the missile sirens. It is said that once the sirens go off, people have but fifteen seconds to find cover. This was daily life in Sderot, Ashkelon, and surrounding towns.

Any other nation suffering from this sort of terror would have made the same decision Israel made to defend her citizens. Operation: Cast Lead saw thousands of IDF troops pouring into the Gaza Strip in an effort to neutralize and punish Hamas. Prior to the invasion, Israel dropped some 2 million, I repeat 2 million, leaflets warning civilians to flee the area. In addition to the leaflets, over 100,000 phone calls were made warning civilians to flee or risk being caught up in the crossfire.

Colonel Richard Kemp, a former British commander in Afghanistan, stated that the IDF "did more to safeguard the rights of civilians in a combat zone than any other army in the history of warfare."

The battle between Israel and Hamas resulted in mass destruction within Gaza. Hamas suffered heavily as did the civilian population. However, as overwhelming evidence and video footage has shown, Hamas deliberately used its own civilians as shields, utilizing elementary schools as weapon depots, elderly homes as booby-trapped death houses, and hospitals as command centers. During Cast Lead, Israel knew that the Hamas leadership was holed up in an underground bunker built beneath Gaza City's primary hospital. They could have taken them out. But the result would have been catastrophic loss of civilian lives.

Despite Hamas' complete disregard for the sanctity of life, Israel chose not to make the strike. The Goldstone Report fails to acknowledge these facts and thereby creates a moral equivocation between Israel and Hamas when there is none.

Did Israel kill civilians during Operation: Cast Lead? Yes. Did Israel target civilians during Operation: Cast Lead? No. There is a stark difference between mistakes and war crimes. If the world cannot make this distinction, particularly the UNHRC which recently endorsed the Goldstone Report, then the depravity of global institutions has reached such a state that they can no longer be considered as worthy of financial and intellectual investment.

The U.N. Human Rights Council voted 25-6 to pass the Goldstone Report and move it to a "higher U.N. body." The breakdown of the vote was as follows:

Voted Against The Resolution:
1. United States
2. Italy
3. Hungary
4. The Netherlands
5. Slovakia
6. Ukraine

Voted In Favor Of The Resolution:
1. China
2. Russia
3. Saudi Arabia
4. Egypt
5. Jordan
6. Pakistan
7. Djibouti
8. Qatar
9. Bahrain
10. Chile
11. Bolivia
12. Argentina
13. Cuba
14. Brazil
15. Nicaragua
16. Bangladesh
17. Ghana
18. India
19. Indonesia
20. Mauritania
21. Nigeria
22. Philippines (<-- This one surprises me)
23. Senegal
24. South Africa
25. Zambia

Abstained:
1. Belgium
2. Bosnia
3. Japan
4. Mexico
5. Norway
6. Slovenia
7. South Korea
8. Uruguay
9. Cameroon
10. Burkina Faso
11. Gabon

Declined to Vote:
1. France
2. Great Britain
3. Kyrgyzstan
4. Madagascar
5. Angola

If presented before another U.N. Body, then there is a distinct chance that other more interesting nations will be able to cast their votes. The thought of Iran, Libya, Saudi Arabia, Syria, and Turkey (I'm thinking of a word, Turkey, starts with Ar and ends with a menia) accusing the state of Israel of war crimes and being joined by a majority of the West in that accusation would be funny if it wasn't so pathetically plausible.

More to come.

Golani Brigade

The Golan Heights has long been a source of tension and controversy. In the Six Days War in 1967, Israel seized the strategic land on the eastern shores of the Galilee all the way up to Mount Hermon, decimating Syrian opposition and driving them back to their modern-day borders. It was a stunning success for the outnumbered and beleaguered Jewish state, one that to this day is routinely celebrated as one of the greatest triumphs in the young history of Israel.

The seizure of the Golan secured total access to the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) and to the mountains overlooking the valleys into Galilee and western Syria. The acquisition of an invaluable water source and a strategic overlook been a source of embarrassment for Syria ever since. And almost all of the various "Peace Plans" brokered in the region have demanded that Israel return to its pre-1967 borders by returning the land to Syria, an idea that strikes a majority in the Jewish state as unfeasible at best and suicidal at worst.

The thinking in Israel seems rational to me. On four separate occasions, the Jewish Eretz has been besieged by its neighbors, all of whom at one time sought its total annihilation, some of whom still do. Israel conquered the Golan whilst defending itself from Syrian aggression therefore it is viewed here as rightful Israeli territory. The audacity of the world, including the United States, in pushing for Israel to give up land that it legitimately acquired is ideologically rooted not in concern for peace or stability but rather in the quiet belief that the state of Israel is in and of itself illegitimate.

This is not to say that the United States government espouses this view. Fortunately, it does not. This is to say that a substantial segment of the United Nations careerists subscribe to this view and have thus succeeded at pushing for policies that reinforce this belief, policies which our nation has sadly immersed itself in. The anti-Israel obsession at the UN borders on a kind of mania--irrational, wildly unfettered, and unequivocally immoral. This was something that I logically knew long before coming here. But it is now a fact that I can fully understand and appreciate. Under these conditions, I can see how there is no other recourse but for Israel to stand its ground against the vast forces arrayed against her.

It was in to this environment that Dustin, Stefan, and I stepped into this past week. As the final week of our month-long break comes to an end, the three of us decided to take a hiking/camping excursion to the Lower Golan prior to the start of classes.

The journey started in Tel Aviv from the Arlozorov Central Bus Station. We had planned on taking a bus, but an excitable and adamant sherut (service) driver approached us when he saw that we were looking to go to Tiberias. The sheruts in Israel are like mini-van taxis that are faster and slightly cheaper than the bus system. The downside to the sherut system is that you almost always have to wait for one to fill up before the driver takes off for your destination. This means you could be waiting anywhere from a minute to a couple of hours.

Fortunately, our sherut filled up rather quickly as this driver, who doubled as a kind of Billy Mays salesman to the passers-by at the bus station, rounded up ten people needing to get to Tiberias.

From the ancient city of Tiberias, which sits on the western edge of the Sea of Galilee, we had to procure a bus ride to Yehudiya. Yehudiya was to be the site of our camping trip and the central point from where we would hike. One of our Madrichim (counselors), Liran, had told us that Yehudiya was amazing. Liran lived in the Golan for a year and is an avid outdoors man. He enthusiastically pressed for us to go and advised us that we wouldn't even need a tent due to the fact that it was still warm in Israel.

The bus ride from Tiberias was only around forty minutes and essentially circumvented the Sea of Galilee. I lamented not being able to spend time around Galilee. As the sun sparkled off the water's surface, Dustin and I joked about a mock conversation between the disciples. We imagined Peter and Andrew casting their fishing nets to no avail and in completely hillbilly voices having to plead with an exasperated Jesus to help them out. For some reason, everything is more amusing in a southern accent these days.

As we entered into the hills north of the Kinneret, I watched the still, crystal waters of the Galilee and promised myself that I would come back soon.

Stefan had gone to the Dizengoff mall the day before and decked himself out in camping gear. Sporting a 60 liter hiking backpack, a new sleeping bag, new hiking boots, and an outfit that would make Indiana Jones or the late Steve Irwin jealous, Stefan certainly looked the part.

We arrived in the afternoon on Monday and set up camp. We had bought food and supplies that morning in Tel Aviv to last us for a few days. Meals would consist of summer sausage, dried fruit, and nuts for the duration of the stay in Yehudiya. That night we were besieged by mosquitos and fire ants. The advice that Liran had given us about the tent did not account for the veritable army of blood-sucking insects that plagued the land.

Fortunately, the morning arrived sooner than anticipated. We met an Israeli named Elad who invited us over for tea before we began our hike on the Upper Zavitan Trail. Elad had made aliyah from South Africa and along with his girlfriend, Adi, had served in the IDF and then journeyed to South America. The two of them literally hiked across the entire continent after their military service had come to an end.

We spent a good hour and a half with these two young Israelis. Their English was impeccable and their sense of humor characteristic of not only their experiences but of the reality of their nation. Elad joked that it had been a long time since Israel had been at war, nearly a year. Adi corrected him that it had only been nine months to which he marveled as still being "impressive."

The two of them lived in Haifa where Elad attended the University of Haifa. He knew a great deal about the United States and had spent time in New Orleans doing relief work following Hurricane Katrina. We talked a little about the fallout from Katrina and about the United States as a whole over some more tea.

Before we departed, Elad gave us his information in case we ever came to Haifa and gave us a bit of advice concerning our security. We thanked him for his hospitality and debarked for the Upper Zavitan.


***

The landscape of the Golan was unlike anything I could have imagined. It was as if it belonged in Lord of the Rings. The hills contained high grassy plains littered with wicked thorns and boulders impervious to human meddling. Literally hundreds of thousands of boulders, seemingly older than time itself, made the hills impossible to develop for any type of agriculture. Old stone walls, marking the site of long-forgotten battlements and homes, could have sat in silence. Where one moment, a golden field spreading across a hilltop came to an end, a cavernous ravine would begin.

I had begun the hike with the Army boots I procured at Fort Benning before leaving the States. But my lack of foresight in breaking them in properly prior to the hike resulted in twin blisters on my heels that had literally peeled the skin off after just the first mile. I thus had to navigate the unforgiving landscape in sandals.

The trek took a solid four hours. We covered some ten kilometers, descending from the uneven hilltops down boulder-laden hillsides into bamboo-like jungles that covered the lower parts of the Zavitan.

There were more than a few Israelis out that day hiking along with us. We came to a large group of them once we reached the Black Gorge, a treacherous but beautiful canyon covered on either side by thick vines. Near the bottom of the gorge, there were two pools, a large alcove, and Israel's largest waterfall.

The entire time we trekked through the Golani outback, I couldn't help but wonder how any military campaign could have been waged in this terrain. One moment you could be running through a field of high grass and boulders, the next moment you could be plummeting to your death. It was insane and awe-inspiring all at once.

We took a break at the bottom of the Black Gorge for lunch and resumed our trek after about forty-five minutes. The hike culminated with a march back through the Sheikh Hussein Run. The Sheikh Hussein Run was a path that criss-crossed on the hilltops and ran past an old Syrian home from the pre-1967 days. To our surprise, there was still an occupant of presumably Sheikh Hussein's house--a large red bull.

Stefan had called it a cow at first. I instantly corrected him when I saw the horns and the less-than-amicable expression on the beast's face. We took a few pictures and departed for fear of provocation.

When we finally arrived back at Yehudiya, we were too tired to do much of anything. We had the luxury of taking a shower, but the misfortune of learning that some one hundred and thirty Israeli teenagers would be camping at our site that night. This meant we had to relocate our sleeping bags from beneath the coverings to the back corner of the site.

That night resulted in little rest due to the noise and the bugs. The lack of a tent and the pain from the bites enveloping all three of us resulted in having to return to Tel Aviv sooner than we would have expected. However, the hiking itself was fantastic and the landscape was something straight out of a fantasy realm. There will be a return trip. And next time, there will be a tent.



The Yehudiya camp site during the late afternoon.



Do you think I got my beauty sleep?



The Upper Galilee/Lower Golan from our camp site.



Two Orthodox kids beneath a tree on the Upper Zavitan Trail while Dustin looks on. This is one of my favorite pictures.







Looking down into the Black Gorge.



A view from the bottom of the Gorge.



Insane Terrain.



Insane Terrain: The Remix.



Dustin concurs.



Chance of VietCong Ambush: High.



Stefan and I achieving victory in the jungle.



Just a little more to the left. Little more...Little more...



Sheikh Hussein Run.



Stefan showing everyone why he is the French-Irish badass. Our Krav Maga master would be most pleased.



Approaching the ruins...



Oh hi there, Mr. Bull. I see this is your estate. To quote the scene from Animal House:

Large Black Man: "If I were you I would be..."
Boone: "...leaving! What a good idea!"










Now that we are officially back "on the grid" physically, reality has set in that our Master's courses begin on Monday. I'll be sure to have an update on my first impressions of these classes and of the program itself next week. However, the strong sense that most of us share is that once school begins anew, we will be back "off the grid" mentally.

Vacation's over, boys. Time to cowboy up.

P.S. Full disclosure. About half of these pictures are courtesy of Dustin. Thanks chief.

Murphy's Law Has Global Jurisdiction: Part Two

Sinai Divers-Backpackers was one of the many shops that lined the back side of the Dahab Promenade. The staff was comprised of four Egyptians, a German, and two Swiss. The Egyptians were heavily westernized, sporting t-shirts and attitudes that would blend seamlessly in with the surfing establishment of the West Coast.

Our instructor, Ahmed, went over the medical and liability forms with the five of us. It was early on Monday morning. We were all eager to do what we came to the Sinai to do: scuba dive.

As I went through the medical form, I came to a series of Yes and No questions that each of us were required to fill out. One in particular stood out:

"Do you or have you ever suffered complications from Asthma?"

Heh. Is Bear Bryant still dead?

Dustin, the Stefans, and Elana cruised through their paperwork. I stared at mine for a bit longer and finally turned to Ahmed and informed him that I had Asthma, but had not suffered from an attack since I was around eight years old.

"Okay," he said. "Just say no, but sign your name by it."

After finishing our paperwork and making sure that they would accept my credit card, we were fitted for our gear and taken up to the roof of Sinai Backpackers to watch a two-hour instructional video on how not to die underwater.

Everything was going great. The weather was perfect. The difficulties of the previous day had all but vanished from my thoughts and the prospect of scuba diving was sending a thrill through me that would have made even Chris Matthews envious. Despite my debit card being out of working order, at least the dive center took the credit card.

Stefan's theory on why all the stores and shops would not accept a credit card was an interesting one. Cash was a more difficult money trail to follow than credit.

"And it's easier to buy AK-47's with cash," Stefan said half-seriously. His gregarious personality seemed to thrive on having the next tongue-in-cheek quip.

Following the video, which essentially just reminded us that we were not fish, a cart was loaded with our gear. Ahmed took us down the promenade to an area known as the "Lighthouse." There was no physical lighthouse there, but the reef near that particular stretch was apparently particularly bright with exotic fish and plant life.

The first test we had to pass was a 200m swim. Dustin was naturally the first to leap off the pier and into the water. Stefan K was next. I followed. Then Elana. Then Stefan. I decided that I wanted to finish first and quickly caught up with Stefan and then Dustin. Our finishing area was a roped off zone that at its deepest was only 9m. Once we finished swimming, Ahmed had us tread water for ten minutes.

"I saw some competition out there," Ahmed said with a laugh as he shook each of our hands. "Let's go over the signals for when we're underwater."

We sat down at a beachfront restaurant. Ahmed rattled off some Arabic and secured our own private booth for the afternoon. We had two dives to make that day. But first we had to make sure that everyone could communicate with one another underwater. The signals were pretty easy. Although the sign for "I'm okay" was the Little Rascals version as opposed to a typical thumbs up. The thumbs up apparently meant "I need to surface." I would accidentally conflate the two later.

Ahmed showed us how to assemble our gear and made sure that we knew how to inspect each other. Dustin was fired up. He had been looking forward to this for months. After thirty minutes going over the signals and inspecting and re-inspecting our gear, we suited up and went down the final checklist. Dustin and I were teamed up as dive partners followed by Stefan with Elana and Stefan K with Ahmed.

Our German friend, upon hearing he had been partnered with Ahmed, looked at us and laughed. "Good. This means I will live."

The wetsuit felt strange. It certainly repelled the sting of the Red Sea's colder water, but the slick nature of the material made my skin crawl. We moved out into the roped off zone and following Ahmed's instructions, raised our BFD and descended a couple of meters down.

The first time I inhaled with my respirator, it was a surreal feeling. I was breathing underwater. It was like I was somehow cheating the natural system that had been put in place. This struck me as particularly awesome.

Ahmed had to put some rocks in Dustin's vest and in my vest to weigh us down properly. Apparently our 12kg weight belts weren't quite up to the task. At the bottom, the five of us sat on our knees and linked arms so Ahmed could go through some of the basic procedures and maneuvers. We learned how to utilize our BCD underwater, to raise and lower ourselves, to recover our respirator if knocked away, to use a buddy's emergency air if needed, to clear our respirator of water, and to swim underwater with our gear.

At one point, immediately following my test to recover my respirator, I signaled to Ahmed that I was okay with a thumbs up. He cocked his head sideways and even through our masks I could read his "What did I tell you earlier expression?"

I shrugged and threw up Spanky's "O-tay" gang sign.

Old habits die hard.

The final maneuver for the first dive was learning to swim underwater loaded down with all of our gear. Dustin seemed to struggle a little on this part. I figured it was okay. I had struggled with the respirator recovery. Dustin swam the 25m to Ahmed and then took his place at the bottom awaiting the four others. I was next and for reasons that elude me, the swimming technique came naturally. I surprised even myself at the speed and fluidity of motion I had underwater.

Ahmed seemed fired up when I reached him, shook my hand and slapped me on the arm. I linked up with Dustin who slowly raised a one-fingered salute as a cacophony of bubbles warbled out from his respirator.

After we finished swimming with our gear, we finally surfaced after about an hour under the water. We removed our flippers, trudged up the ramp, and unloaded our gear. We sat back at our table and Ahmed gave us his views on how we looked. Stefan K seemed to be the best at the moment. He had easily performed all the tasks required with little difficulty. Ahmed felt my respirator control needed work.

After lunch, we suited back up for our second dive. Elana asked us if we felt weird breathing underwater.

"Yea, the air is weird," I replied.

"Anyone else get a little feeling of panic when we have to practice recovering our respirator?" I asked.

"No."

"Nope."

"No."

"Not really."

"Huh. Probably just a residual thing from my asthma."

We took back to the water and this time prepared to go a bit deeper. Ahmed took us out to 6m and had us lower ourselves down. We were preparing to practice clearing our masks of water, breathing without a mask, and exhaling through our nose.

When we settled at the bottom, I found that I was breathing harder than the previous session. There were a lot of bubbles popping from my respirator that were obfuscating my vision. Ahmed reached me and had me practice clearing water from my mask. It took a couple tries, but I was able to successfully pull it off.

As he went back down to Stefan K at the other end of our arm-linked formation, I noticed that my breathing was becoming labored. We were now on to practicing exhaling with our nose. As the minutes elapsed and the others performed the task to various degrees of success, I couldn't help but notice that oxygen flow seemed to be decreasing.

Calm down. It's probably just the deeper water.

When Ahmed reached me, I felt as if everything I knew about breathing for the past twenty-four years had been an illusion at best and a lie at worst. Suddenly, I couldn't control the exhalation from my nose. Water was being sucked up through my nose and drained into my mouth. This caused me to cough violently. I pressed the front button on the respirator and cleared my tube of the water. I tried once. Twice. A third time to breathe out my nose without flooding my mask. Nothing doing.

My assiduous concentration on breathing was clouding everything else. I had stopped paying attention to Ahmed. This was not good. I signaled to him that there was a problem and that I needed to surface. He nodded and took us both to the surface.

Blasting to the top, I tore my respirator out and gasped for sweet oxygen, which rushed ferociously into my lungs.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You're breathing so hard down there."

"I know. It's like I can't get any oxygen."

"You're okay. You know how to exhale out of your nose, right?"

"Yea yea."

"Show me," he demanded.

I did as instructed.

"Okay, let's do it again. You're okay, man."

Rejoining the others at the bottom and linking back up with Dustin was not as easy as the previous times. My breathing felt constrained. The slower I breathed, the less oxygen I received. The faster I breathed, the less oxygen I received. The harder I breathed, the less oxygen I received.

Ahmed came back to me a second time. At this juncture, the old sensation returned. I was suddenly four again. I was in the backseat of the car as Mom and Dad sped toward East Alabama Medical Center. I was gasping for air. I knew I was going to die. I was four, but I knew that I was going to die.

I was six. We were on a dirt road in Tennessee riding with the back window open of Dad's new Ford Explorer. The dust was caking my lungs. I was coughing. The fire inside was burning me alive. I was dying.

I was twenty-four. My lungs had lava coursing through them. My alveoli were bursting into flames. I was dying.

I signaled Ahmed and reached for my BFD, sending air into my vest and shooting to the surface.

"What's wrong?!" he asked.

I don't even remember what I said. I remember telling him it was an attack. I remember being unable to breathe even after surfacing. I swam for shore, gasping for air, which came in fits the closer I got to land.

God, don't let me die here. It's not my time, yet.


***

Tuesday was marked by hours in the hut by myself. The others were on their final dive to receive their 12m diving certification. Ahmed had been terribly upset about what had happened. Ahmed told me he was sad since I showed a lot of potential and struck him as a good leader.

I didn't see any of that. All I saw was failure.

The dive center told me I didn't have to pay them anything. They had even allowed me to use their computer to send Mom an e-mail about my debit account. With $6 to my name and the primary reason for going to Sinai eviscerated, the entire trip seemed like a waste.

Plus, the conditions of the hut were leading me to feel sick. My ears and throat were killing me.

I spent most of the day reading. When the others returned, we went to one of the seaside restaurants for lunch. We arrived at 3:00 in the afternoon. We wouldn't leave until nearly 11:00 that night.

It was a better afternoon. My bank back home activated my account for Egypt, so I was able to finally receive some Egyptian pounds from the ATM.

From our seat at the restaurant, we literally sat on a small cliff's edge overlooking the Red Sea. Saudi Arabia could be seen in the distance. It was another sign of the insanity that characterized the trip thus far. Fortunately things brightened considerably. Lunch and dinner was phenomenal. We had seafood for the first time since arriving in the Middle East. We were treated to more food than we could possibly eat comfortably.

And a little Bedouin girl arrived to sell us her trinkets. She had handmade necklaces and bracelets. She was smaller than the other girls, but was clearly a little firecracker. She took Dustin's camera and started snapping pictures. She took a picture of her sister and then kissed it. She also jumped in a picture with me.

"I think Drew wants to keep her," Elana said with a laugh.

Her English was fairly impressive for a girl no older than seven or eight. I told her I would buy from her, but I didn't have a bill smaller than 200 pounds.

"Come. I take you to bankman," she said.

She grabbed my hand and walked me to the nearest branch for the Central Bank of Cairo. I exchanged my pounds for smaller bills and gave her the money for the necklace and bracelets.

"My name is Farah. If you want anything else, you come to me. Not to them!" she said pointing at a motley collection of other girls.

"Farah!" one of the others yelled at her in exasperation.

She smiled and skipped off to more potential customers.

When I returned to the table, the others were wearing smirks.

"Kid's adorable," I said as I sat back down.

Dustin had a shit-eating grin on his face.

"What? So I want to liberate her from this hell hole? I'm an American. It's what we do."

Laughter.


***

The blood poured from the wounds on my foot. The two Arab "medics" looked at it in confusion. Neither of them could speak English. Neither of them seemed to be versed in the latest techniques in field medicine. And neither of them seemed to give a damn.

It was Wednesday. As part of my consolation, the dive center had allowed me to go with the others to the "Islands," a renowned diving spot. I had been given snorkel gear to entertain myself while the others plunged into the depths.

The coral reef that served as the ocean floor extended some forty meters out into the water before dropping off and becoming a sheer cliff face. It was described as being akin to a continental shelf. the force of the Red Sea became extremely violent at the point of impact and the current was strong enough to sweep inexperienced swimmers away. All of that I was keenly attuned to.

They had failed to mention the reef itself. A laceration a half-inch deep ran from my middle toe to the middle of my foot. Two massive pieces of coral protruded from my heel and from beneath my pinky toe.

"No!" I barked. "Back off."

The Egyptian looked puzzled and then complied. He put the scissors back in the box.

There's no way in hell you're digging in my foot with rusty scissors.

I had the other medic splash iodine on the wounds while I attempted to pop the coral out from my heel and from beneath my toe. Anyone who has seen the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall knows what happened after I finally plucked them out. Blood spurted out as if from a hose.

I'm beginning to think higher forces are tormenting me.

I reached for a water bottle from a trash bin nearby. It had some dirty water still left in it. I pointed at the bottle and asked the two men if they had any water. One of them nodded, grabbed the bottle from my hand and started to approach my foot.

"Hell no! It's dirty! Dirty. Luh. Luh. Luh," I said with a mixture of pain and indignation.

An Australian diver came walking up. He had just finished his forty minute run near the "Islands."

"Ah! Mate that looks bloody awful!"

"No joke. These guys have no clue what they're doing, either. You have any water?"

"Yea mate, let me grab a fresh little pint," he said as he jogged toward a truck.

"Just keep it," he said sympathetically.

I poured the water over my wounds and cleaned the sand out. I then reapplied the iodine and bandaged the wounds as best as I could with the out-of-date medical kit.

The others came up out of the water shortly thereafter. When Dustin saw my foot all he could do was shake his head.

"This is not your week," he said ruefully.


***

The afternoon was spent at an outdoor lounge on the beach. There was no one on this side of Dahab. It was away from the tourist region and I was struck by the fact that if I had spent the entirety of the trip here, things might have been much improved.

We had already checked out of the Green Valley Camp. I had bought some more medical supplies, including rubbing alcohol, to help clean up my wound. We had to rest because at 10:00 p.m. we were departing for Mt. Sinai. It was a two hour drive in the night to Sinai from Dahab. And from there it was a three hour hike in the dark to the top. I had contemplated leaving Dahab and returning to Israel on my own, but I knew I would never get another chance to climb Mt. Sinai in my lifetime. I really wanted to just quit and go home after the reef incident. But I decided against it.

As 10:00 p.m. drew near, we left the beach and made our way to the King Safari Center. It was a small business on the main strip that specialized in trips to Sinai, Cairo, dune-running excursions, and the like. It was also run by one of the few Christians in the entire city. I was relived to see a giant portrait of Jesus on the wall when we first entered.

The owner of the business, Joseph, had arranged for our drive to Sinai and had arranged for another driver to pick us up the next day and take us back to the Taba Crossing so we could make our way back into Israel. He was an extremely gracious and kind man and stood in stark contrast to the other business owners that permeated the strip.

As we prepared to debark, I took a seat at some tables next door to clean my foot and reapply the bandages again before heading off to Sinai. It seemed like a prudent idea. What occurred thereafter shocked and enraged me. Looking back on it, it was a wonder I didn't do something exceedingly...stupid.

The five of us sat in the outdoor chairs at the empty Desert Divers shop next to King Safari. I pulled out my medical supplies and began to remove the current bandages. As we were sitting there, an Egyptian man, in his mid-to-late forties approached us. He was drinking something. Whether it was tea or alcohol was undetermined.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Cleaning up my foot," I responded.

"I want you to leave," he replied.

"He's just treating his foot," Stefan interjected.

"You don't need to be here for him to do that."

"We're just waiting on him to get done," Stefan K replied back.

"I want you to leave," he replied again. His tone was stern and cold.

I looked him up and down as I poured alcohol over the open wounds. He turned and looked at me. Stefan K, Elana, and Dustin announced that they would wait outside. Only Stefan remained seated with me.

"Where are you from?" he asked me. His tone was intended to be intimidating. At this point, I was impervious to whatever it was he was trying to pull.

"I am from America," I said, condescension dripping with every syllable.

"Well, American, you are not respecting my shop," he said.

"And you're not respecting the fact that I'm injured," I shot back.

He took a swig from his cup and glowered at me.

"You will see me at the end of this year."

I started applying the foam. My blood might as well have been ice water. A tingling sensation ran down my spine.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"You will see me at the end of this year in Miami. There will be a big operation in Miami," he said as he took another sip.

"Is that so?"

Stefan was looking at both of us. We exchanged concerned glances before returning to the man. This look was later described by an observing Stefan K as one of "pure rage" on my face.

I gotta speed this up. This is not gonna end well if it continues much longer.

"Yes. Have you ever heard of the Undertaker? He's an American wrestler. I'm going to murder him and everyone around him," he said. "You will see me again."

"I'll be sure to inform the appropriate authorities that you're coming. What's your name?"

"Get out of my shop," he said gruffly.

I finished applying the bandages and put my shoe back on. Stefan was already up and heading around the banister toward the others.

"You will see me again," he said quietly.

"I'll let the CIA and the FBI know that," I said as I stood up. He was slightly smaller than me. I unwisely stood up in front of him as we stared at each other for a moment. We were no more than a foot apart from each other.

"Toda raba ata ben zonah," I said angrily.

Speaking Hebrew, in hindsight, was not wise. Telling him "Thank you very much you son of a bitch" in Hebrew was definitely not something to be replicated in the future.

He glared at me as I walked out. He could have just as easily shanked me.

The owner of the King Safari, when told about this, promptly apologized. Apparently the man was not the owner of the Desert Divers shop, but rather a part-time security guard with a penchant for violence and an extreme hatred for Westerners.

At the time I didn't care. That was nearly the last straw. Of all the people to threaten a terrorist attack to, I was precisely the last person who would brush that off.

As Dustin would later quip, "You should have told him that you'd see him in Gitmo."

The nature of the incident spawned a lot of discussion. Stefan K remarked that that was precisely why the West was on edge. Whether he was joking or not, I didn't care. Because what the idiot didn't realize was that I jotted down both the address and his physical description.

He doesn't know where to find me. I do know where to find him.


***

The culmination of the trip to Sinai made it all worth it. We were taken up a treacherous and physically exhausting journey by a bedouin guide named Ali Baba. The hike up Mt. Sinai was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. It was long. It was difficult. It was dangerous. Every step was steeper and sent fire shooting through my foot. But the top, which pinnacled at an awe-inspiring 7,500 ft. was glorious.

Seeing the sun rise from the top of the mountain was like seeing the face of God. It calmed me. It made me appreciate that sometimes things don't go the way you would like. And that sometimes, you just have to keep plugging along. Sometimes you need a reminder that life is comprised of its own mountains and valleys, that life has times of impenetrable darkness and times of brilliant light.

The trip began with uncertainty. Conditions deteriorated. For a time there was no money. For a time there was no air. For a time there was pain. For a time there was fear. For a time there was anger. For a time there was the desire to pack it all up and go home. For a time the climb was too much.

But sometimes, you remember that the climb is what it's all about.



Farah!



From atop the mountain.



Team Moses (minus Stefan).



Cresting over the horizon.



The Dawn.

Murphy's Law Has Global Jurisdiction: Part One

The white van careened through the darkness of the night. Its speed was considerable. Its turns were undisciplined. Its occupants mute. Its driver insane.

"Sorry about that business earlier my friends," the driver, Arabi Shawafah, said to no one in particular.

There was no immediate response. It was 2:00 a.m. And the driver had done a magnificent job of introducing us to Egyptian "hospitality." His reward was silence.

After a few moments, I finally answered.

"An bayah. Col behsehdur." I said in Hebrew, telling the driver that there was no problem and everything was okay.

My Hebrew was intentional. It was designed to offend. He had crossed the line within the first few moments of meeting our group. He would receive no response from me in English, only responses in the tongue of the hated Jews.

The driver looked back at me. I was sitting in the second row next to Stefan K, our German friend from the Hebrew Ulpan at Tel Aviv University. Stefan (the French-Irishman) and Elana sat behind me, huddled together in a vain attempt to sleep. Dustin was laying down in the first row of the taxi van, his Notre Dame hat pulled over his face.

"You speak Hebrew eh?" Arabi Shawafah asked with an arched eyebrow. He knew that there were three Americans, a Frenchman, and a German in his bus. We had had to fill out our information and give it to Egyptian border police before leaving the Taba Crossing. I imagine the sound of an American speaking Hebrew came as some surprise.

"Anahnu medebrim k'saht Ivrit. Ken."

A brief acknowledgment and a grumble on his part was all that passed for conversation between us for the remainder of the journey. We had come to Sinai to scuba dive and relax, not to suffer the intransigence of this man.

When we had crossed into Egypt proper, we had been approached by two Egyptian cabbies. One was a younger looking gentlemen. The other was Arabi Shawafah, an Egyptian version of Borat minus the good intentions and indefatigable cheer. He was in Dustin's face telling us that we would be taking his taxi to Dahab. The young cab driver announced that he would take us to Dahab as well.

A group of three Israelis had crossed into Taba in front of us. One of them, a teen aged girl, approached our group asking if we wanted to travel with them in order to split the cost and pay less.

Arabi Shawafah turned toward the girl and began yelling at her in Arabic and Hebrew. I heard the word nashim (woman) followed by what sounded like an expletive. Judging by her reaction he had obviously called her something akin to a whore. She tried to ignore him and continue speaking with us, but he was in her face and waving his finger at her whilst yelling in Arabic.

We were too shocked to know what to do. Egyptian police stood by and watched with indifference. Elana made the mistake of walking past Arabi Shawafah to find out how much the other cabbie wanted.

Arabi stopped yelling at the Israeli girl, who by then had turned away and run back to her bus, and bolted after Elana, jumping in front of her and yelling in English.

"No! This is the system! You come with me. He goes to Nuweiba. I take you to Dahab for one hundred pounds."

Dustin interjected.

"She just wants to..."

Arabi turned his attention to Dustin, barking at him that "this was the system" and that only he was taking people to "Dahab." Elana used the chance to scamper to the other cabbie. The two Stefans and I looked at each other in annoyance. It was 1:00 a.m. We were in a foreign country with a barely tolerable attitude regarding the country we had just left. We had just finished a five-hour bus ride from Tel Aviv to Eilat and were tired.

"The other guy said he'd take us to Dahab for eighty pounds," Elana announced as she jogged back over to us.

"No! He goes to Nuweiba! Get in the van, now!"

"We're not going with you if you're going to act like that," Elana protested.

He turned again to her and began yelling at Elana in Arabic. At this point, my blood was boiling. I wasn't alone.

"The other van is already leaving," Stefan said in his unique French-Irish accent.

The belligerent cab driver turned back to us and pointed at everyone except Elana.

"You come with me. This is the system. Not her," he said referencing Elana.

"Screw you, man!" Stefan said. "She's with us."

"She's with us, buddy," I fired back at the same time.

He looked at us and started marching toward his bus.

"You come with me," he said angrily.

"Not until you apologize to her," I said sternly.

He stopped walking and looked at me in disbelief; his bushy mustache wrinkled up in disdain.

"No! No apologize."

"Yes you will," I responded.

Gruffly he continued marching toward the van, muttering an indecipherable apology to himself. The five of us followed reluctantly. We had been in Egypt for all of ten minutes.

If this is any indication, the next week is going to be one hell of a headache.

It turns out that that thought was the understatement of a lifetime.


***


Arabic music blared through the van. Intermittent techno sounds burst through the staccato of chants in whatever song our driver was playing.

Stefan K, from Germany, leaned over and whispered.

"Perhaps this is why he is so angry," he said with a grin. "Having to listen to this music."

"You're probably right. This can't be good for one's sanity."

The van soon pulled off to the side of the road. I had been keeping my eyes open the entire ride. I could barely see the landscape around us, but I knew it was desolate. High, craggy mountains and desert were pretty much the only thing around for miles.

Arabi opened the door, turned off his headlights and put the blinkers on. He walked around the backside of the van and looked down the road. A pair of headlights were coming up behind us.

"Why did we just stop?" Elana asked with a rising note of concern in her voice.

"Uhhh," Stefan said with nervous laughter.

"To give us time to take pictures of course," I muttered.

Dustin and I traded concerned glances. I started scanning the outside. It was pitch black in the desert. The driver was still standing there.

First sign of trouble, we're hijacking this van and getting to a checkpoint as fast as possible. Better in the custody of Egyptian police than Gaza gunrunners. Or worse...

Another white van zipped past us. I looked back to find our driver casually relieving himself beside a large boulder. In a sordid way, this also relieved all of us.

We were back on the "Egyptian Autobahn" a few minutes later. The next hour was quiet. I spent most of my time listening to my mp3 player and mulling over the possibility that our driver was going to be an all too typical personality type during our week in Dahab.

We passed checkpoint after checkpoint. I wondered just what purpose they served. These checkpoints were little more than a concrete hut manned by a single underpaid and disinterested guard whose sole responsibility was raising the cross guard by pulling on a string.

At around 4:00 a.m., we passed through yet another checkpoint. This one was manned by many members of the Egyptian military. Our driver bribed his way past any potential hassle by handing the guard a pack of cigarettes. A large billboard to our left welcomed us to Dahab. Byzantine style artwork displayed various sea creatures and men in Arab dress on a beach. In the center of the picture, a large portrait of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak waved at us.

Some originality could really spice this whole dictator thing up.

"Hilton?" our driver asked us.

"Uh, we're staying at the Green Valley Camp," Dustin answered. "It's near Masrat."

"Hilton?!" our driver repeated brusquely.

Babel, you are the bane of man's existence.


***

Arabi Shawafah killed the lights of our van and got out for the second time. He approached a group of men sitting around a table. They were all between the ages of 20 and 35. Their stares did not induce warmth.

"I didn't know Fallujah had scuba diving," I quipped quietly.

There was garbage everywhere. Rubble was scattered throughout the streets and alleys as if a giant child had disassembled his Lego village in a titanic temper tantrum. A pack of wild dogs watched us warily from behind a half-collapsed wall. More than a few feral cats were pawing through a trash bin behind us. And then there were the stares. An older man in a kaffiyeh smoked a cigarette and watched our van with too much interest.

"Seriously, did the Marines just clear this city?"

Stefan laughed.

"It could be worse," he added. "We could have been kidnapped by terrorists back on the highway."

Ha. Ha.

Arabi returned to the van and backed out of the dirt road alley. We had been looking for our "hotel" for the better part of an hour. When we pulled into a parking lot back off the main highway, I found myself enamored with the sight of a camel grazing from a pile of trash on the other side of the street. For a brief moment, my spirits were lifted by the actions of this pea-brained desert bovine.

A teenage Egyptian boy exited a white Isuzu pickup truck and hopped in the passenger side of our taxi.

"What's up guys?" he asked in passable English.

His lucid linguistics would have come as further relief had the young man not been wearing sunglasses at 4:30 in the morning, glasses that upon removal revealed a solid white bandage covering the young man's right eye.

"We're going to the Green Valley Camp now," he announced.

Cool. That must be where we get our eye patches, too.


***

"You have to be kidding me," I said. Incredulity seeped out with every word uttered.

Stefan, always of good cheer, cackled deliriously a few feet away. Stefan, Elana, and myself were in the small hut that the Green Valley Camp offered as a room. The size didn't bother me as much as the the conditions itself. The hut next to us contained Dustin and Stefan K, both of whom I could hear laughing.

Our fan was broken which made the hut unbearably hot. My blue jeans were being used as a pillow due to the presence of dirt, dead skin, skin follicles, and other goodies that the leper who had just vacated my bed felt inclined to leave behind. The hut's roof was basically straw and thatch, portions of which were falling down on my face due to the epic duel two feral cats were having on it directly above me.

Just when I thought sleep had reached the zenith of its unattainable nature, the 5:00 a.m. call to prayer blared through the darkness like a clarion trumpeting its arrival from the underworld. A dismal pall enveloped me.

"Hey Stefan. Elana."

"Ye-yea," Stefan managed to reply despite uncontrollable laughter wracking his body.

"First one to kill me wins."


***

"Wery nice choice, Dustin," Stefan K said in his German-accented English.

We stood in front of the entrance to the Green Valley Camp, an entrance which exited on to the beachfront promenade of Dahab. The water was beautiful. The promenade was extremely nice. Western tourists crisscrossed all around us.

It was as if the previous night had all been a really bad nightmare. It was warm, but the rush of the wind off the Red Sea created a crisp breeze. Restaurants lined the shoreline all the way down the promenade. Shops and lodges comprised the other side.

Our scuba diving course didn't begin until Monday. It was around noon on Sunday. We had all managed to get a few hours of sleep following the call to prayer, but fatigue was evident on everyone.

We spent most of Sunday getting our bearings and looking around. I was immediately struck by the manner in which the shop owners and restaurant owners approached everyone. Brazen by anyone's definition, these men would approach everyone walking by, get in their face, and try to convince them to come inside.

It was always "Hello my friend, come have a look..." or "Sit down. Look at my menu. I'll give you a discount..."

The never-ending barrage of solicitation was intriguing to behold and experience for the first thirty minutes. It soon became apparent that behind their smiles and friendly gestures was a greed that would make Bernie Madoff blush.

We spent the afternoon hanging out at the Egyptian "Captain Ron's" shoreline restaurant. Abu was the most relaxed person I met while in Egypt. He kept his hair long and in a braid, wore a sleeveless shirt, and old shorts. He was the only person who didn't hassle us while we meandered down the promenade, thus winning our instant affection. We ate a great lunch/breakfast. Abu even allowed us to rent his snorkel gear and told us we didn't have to worry about payment until we left.

Having only come into the country with 370 Egyptian pounds ($74) and under the illusion that I would be able to withdraw money via my debit card, I didn't worry too much about my financial situation. The scuba course and diving certification would comprise the majority of the expenses. And with five pounds equal to one dollar, everything else theoretically would come fairly cheap. Unfortunately, I had had to relinquish 175 pounds to our insane cab driver and to the Egyptian government during the previous night.

In the process of trying to purchase a hand-woven rug for Mitch late in the afternoon, I realized that I only had around 30 pounds following lunch, snorkeling, and the purchase of a stuffed camel for Mahal. The tenacious but slightly dim owner of the rug shop didn't quite understand the dilemma.

"You like this one?" he asked.

"Yes I do. How much is it?"

"250," he said flatly.

"200," I countered.

"250."

"Okay. 175," I deadpanned.

He laughed. I didn't blink.

"Alright, see you later," I said as I spun on my heels to leave.

"150," the store owner said desperately.

"Deal. Let me go to the atm and I'll get the money and I'll be right back."

"How much you have now?"

"Not enough. Let me go to the atm and I'll get the rest."

"But how much now?"

"I have 30. If you want to sell it to me for 30, that would be just great."

"Ok. But how much now?"

"He only has 30 in his wallet," Stefan interjected.

"I'll be right back with more money," I said as I backed out of the store.

"He's worried you're not coming back," Elana said.

"You wait?" the store owner asked Stefan.

"Yeah sure. I'll wait here," Stefan said with exasperation. "I'm now human collateral..."

I hustled to a nearby atm and inserted my debit card. Punching through the appropriate procedures, I waited patiently for the transaction to go through. And waited. And waited. And waited. Losing my patience, I sought another atm. Dustin sauntered up and asked what was taking so long.

"It's not going through for some reason."

"Did you call your bank and get them to activate your card for Egypt?" he asked.

I turned my head slowly toward him.

"No, Dustin. No I did not."

"Yea..." he said with a grin.

"Shit. Well, that means I only have $6 to my name. And no one around here takes credit card."

"And Stefan's still at the shop."

"And we need to go rescue Stefan."

Upon returning to the rug store, we found Stefan sitting down and looking as if he would rather have been anywhere else. I tried to explain to the store owner that my card didn't work. He refused to accept this as a plausible scenario and instead walked all of us to another atm outside a branch of the Central Bank of Cairo.

Once again, there was no luck. And once again I tried explaining that my card wasn't working.

"Ok. 125," the shop owner said.

"You can't be serious."







Moments after arriving in our hut...



What would be the high point for the next four days. From Left to Right: Stefan K, Stefan, Me (with camel), and Dustin.



"But how much now?"