Fried Camel

We've Seen This Movie Before

2010-05-18T17:22:00.003+03:00

In case there are any lingering doubts about who is interested in peace in this region, this should clear everything up.

Israel offered Syria the Golan Heights in exchange for Syria reducing its ties to Iran. Syria, of course, has rejected the Israeli peace offering.

Israel should therefore ignore any further U.N. resolutions regarding a return to the "pre-1967" borders because there is no serious partner for Israel to make peace with--in Syria or amongst the Palestinians.

Israel attempted to comply and the Syrians swatted the offer away. This is predictable and perhaps even sensible from the Syrian perspective. They are benefiting greatly from their alliance with Iran, the rising power in the Middle East, and likely will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. They just recently reached an historic arms agreement with Russia who is once again extending her tentacles into the Middle East. Syria sees herself and her benefactors as the strong horse.

Bashar Assed has clearly wagered that he and Syria's allies (Iran, Hezbollah, etc.) have the upper hand. With the United States behaving in an intractable and irresponsible manner toward its stalwart ally, Israel, these players in the region sense weakness.

And weakness in this part of the world means war.

This is yet another Israeli gesture in a long line of gestures that has gone unappreciated by the West and been rejected by Israel's enemies. From the 1993 Oslo Accords to the 2000 Camp David Summit where Ehud Barak literally offered ninety-eight percent of the West Bank to Arafat to the 2000 Israeli withdrawal from southern Lebanon to the 2005 Israeli withdrawal from Gaza.

Israel extends the metaphorical olive branch and receives a quite literal hand grenade.

The Progress of Delay

2010-05-02T17:45:00.003+03:00

Fried Camel has been on a more or less unannounced hiatus for the past few weeks due to impending deadlines for two of our papers. For the History of the Ottoman Empire seminar that our class took last semester, I'm currently writing about the British relationship with the Ottoman Empire at the turn of the 20th Century until the eve of the First World War.

It is with great candor that I admit the excruciating tedium with which this paper is being written. Of all the issues or topics that one could study in the Middle East, I personally find the Ottoman Empire to be quite dull. They were around for nearly six hundred years but had very little impact on the world. The Greeks left us great philosophers and early incarnations of our own political system that remain relevant some two thousand years later. The Romans gave the world the common derivative language of Latin which forms the basis of dozens of languages still in use today--ours chief among them.

The Ottomans gave us fez caps.

Truly, the only thing of great importance that I have been able to ascertain from the legacy of the Ottoman Empire is the composition of the modern Middle East following the Empire's collapse. The British and the French were able to carve the former Ottoman provinces up into mandates which then metastasized into nation states.

In essence, the legacy of the Ottoman Empire, unlike other truly great empires, is its death.

In time, perhaps the gifts of the Ottomans to the world will become more perceptible.

In the interim, their gift to me comes in the form of being required to write about them--a remarkably vapid gift that promises to continue draining valuable hours from my life.

Bereavement and Revival

2010-04-19T11:16:00.011+03:00

March 24, 2010

I hustled up the stairs, nearly out of breath, and opened the door to Dustin, Stefan, and Pieter's dorm. In Dustin's room, Liran, one of the five Madrichim (counselors) sat on the edge of Dustin's bed. He had been familiarizing Dustin with all the locations on the Golan Trail and giving him advice for our upcoming hike.

Over the course of the months here, some of us have become pretty good friends with the Madrichim.

"Liran, what's up?" I asked.

A former First Lieutenant in the IDF and a native of Ashkelon, Liran was known for his typical good cheer. Dark-skinned, bespectacled, with close-cropped black hair, and always bearing a grin, Liran had been the most approachable of our Israeli counselors at Tel Aviv University from the very beginning.

Over time that has changed as we have gotten to know the other four: Dvir, Moshe, Almog, and Oshrat.

"I wanted to see if you wanted to take part in a ceremony for Yom Hazikaron," Liran stated with a degree of stoicism unusual for him. "It's Israel's Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terror attacks. We do this every year and it's very, very important to everyone."

"I'd love to do it," Dustin responded without hesitation.

"It'd be an honor," I followed swiftly.

"Great!" Liran said as the infamous grin returned. "We were all hoping that you would do it. I should tell you though that the week before, we will be practicing every night for several hours. It's a big commitment."

"That's fine," we both answered.

"Excellent."

***

April 11, 2010

The bottom floor of Dorm Building Aleph contained several large rooms that served as makeshift classrooms. I was expecting to find an uninhabitable disaster zone littered with construction material and dust as I walked through the door at 8:00 p.m. Much to my pleasant surprise, it was clean, spacious, and well-lit.

Looks like the eight months of belligerent construction and the din of power tools at 6:00 a.m. finally paid off, I thought in bemusement.

As the only two Master's students participating in the event and at the behest of the Madrichim themselves, Dustin and I took a seat in the chairs ringing the walls. The rest of the students, all undergraduates and all either Americans or dual citizens, started to show up one-by-one.

Unlike the undergraduates from last semester, whom we all got to know very well (i.e. Liz, Mike, Elana, etc.), the new group was relatively unknown to us. In fact, I didn't know a single one of them. And with the exception of two guys carrying guitars, Dustin and I were the only other males.

After everyone had taken their seats and finished gabbing, the Madrichim walked over to begin explaining exactly what it was that we were about to spend a week preparing for.

Oshrat, the head Madrichim, thanked all of us for volunteering and explained that we would be putting on a ceremony for TAU students to be held in the massive complex of Dorm Building G on the eve of Yom Hazikaron. It was an annual event and it involved various readings (both in Hebrew and in English) and songs (all in Hebrew).

Dustin and I generously offered to sing a stirring duet, but Oshrat stubbornly insisted that the songs and singers had already been selected. Instead, we were asked to review the parts that were available and choose what we would like to read.

Or so we thought.

As everyone gathered around the fold-out table to go through the various Hebrew and English readings, Oshrat approached Dustin and I. She had a strange look to her--one that suggested there was more to what was required of us in particular.

"We wanted you to be the ceremony's host," Oshrat said bluntly to Dustin.

"Oh-okay," Dustin responded.

"Can you do that?" she pressed. "You'll have to read in both English and Hebrew."

"Hahaha," I mocked.

"And we wanted you to read 'Yizkor,'" Oshrat said as she spun quickly on her heel to face me.

She handed me a piece of paper with nothing but Hebrew on it. A lot of Hebrew. A lot of hard Hebrew.

"It's very important," she said as she watched the look of poorly disguised horror crossing over my face. "Can you do it?"

Dvir, guitar strapped over his shoulder, strutted up beside Oshrat and I. The most laid back of the all the Madrichim and a ready reserve paratrooper in the IDF, Dvir had an almost Zen-like aura of relaxation about him. Since our excursion to Eilat in December and our epic dance-off, Dvir and I had developed a steady and competitive back-and-forth sarcasm between one another.

"This is actually the most important part to an Israeli. So don't screw this up," Dvir said with a sly grin as he strummed a single hard chord on his guitar.

"So I should probably avoid you, then?" I responded.

"Drew," Oshrat said seriously. "Can you do this?"

"Absolutely," I said before thinking.

"Can you read the first two lines for me?"

So I started and sputtered through what looked to be Hebrew written by the Almighty Himself.

"How was that?"

Oshrat looked sideways and pursed her lips as if trying to buy herself some time.

"It was...acceptable," she lied. "But you've got a week to get it right, so it's okay. And we're going to work with you every night."

She walked away and I turned toward Dustin. He looked like he had just walked into a brick wall as he exhaled sharply in resignation.

"That duet idea isn't sounding so stupid now, is it?"

***

April 12, 2010

It was 8:00 p.m. again. We had spent two hours the night before sounding like the stars of the Hebrew Short Bus. We had spent all day in the classroom. Exhaustion was self-evident.

We were separated by the Madrichim to work on our parts individually for all of the second night. I spent most of the night giving Liran a headache. Oshrat spent most of the night turning Jack Jack Carmack into an ill-tempered sea bass.

"The 'Yizkor' is the most important part of the whole ceremony," Liran explained to me. "It's the remembrance for all of the fallen soldiers of the Israeli Defense Force. It's very important that you say it precisely correct."

I read the first three lines to Liran again. And again. And again.

"How was that?" I asked enthusiastically.

"Do it again," Liran responded tersely.

"That bad, huh?"

Outside of the bottom room in building Aleph, two of the girls practiced their singing parts. I wasn't quite sure if it was humans singing the first time I overheard them. To make an extreme understatement, it was incredible. Better than any of the garbage Americans eat up on American Idol.

Liran seemed to read my thoughts as I lifted my head up.

"They're very good," he said with a nod.

"They're not even Israeli and they're singing in Hebrew," I said distantly, lost for a moment. "That's unbelievable."

"I'm going to read it this time and I want you to listen to how I say everything, the...uh...the song of the words...the...uh," he stammered.

"The cadence and the intonation," I finished for him.

"Exactly."

Behind us, sitting in two black fold-out chairs, Dustin and Oshrat repeated his lines.

"You're saying it wrong," Oshrat stressed to Dustin, who was becoming stressed in his own right.

"Yom Hazikaron," Dustin repeated.

"Yom Hazikaron," Oshrat said again.

"Yom Hazikaron," Dustin repeated.

"Yom Hazikaron," Oshrat said with a smile.

I caught Dustin flashing her an angry glare. Or perhaps it was just one of frustration. The difference was likely a moot point.

"Okay, take a break for a few minutes and I'm gonna go check on the others," Oshrat said as she rushed off.

I had gotten up from my chair and was walking around trying to repeat the way Liran had said the first few lines. One of the girls, Becca, who was also reading in Hebrew, walked over. We had met the day before. She lived in northern California and was a student at UC-Irvine. She was ethnically Persian, which was interesting given the current dynamics going on between Iran and Israel.

"So I completely forgot your name and feel like a complete idiot," she said as she walked over.

"Alex," I quipped.

"I sense deceit," she responded. "It was Da...."

"Drew."

"Where are you from?"

"Alabama," I said with a smile.

"Really? Well your accent is hardly noticeable," Becca responded.

"Really?"

She smirked sarcastically.

"Shut up."

"Well on the bright side, even if your English leaves a lot to be desired, your Hebrew actually sounds pretty good," she offered.

"Well that makes sense seeing as how I don't speak English. I speak American."

"You are definitely from Alabama," she said with a laugh.

***

April 13, 2010

"You keeping rolling your R's when you say Yisrael," Liran said with a bit of incredulity. "You sound Spanish."

"You smell funny," I responded.

Liran shook his head.

"Read the last three lines again."

It was the last day of individual rehearsing. Out of the twenty or so people that had volunteered, or in our case, been asked to do this event, almost everyone had their parts down fairly well.

Everyone except for me and Dustin.

Oshrat, Almog, and Liran were switching off and on between the two of us, having us read for fifteen minutes on and then walk outside thereafter for a few minutes to avoid the impending brain cramp.

Moshe and Dvir were with the guitar players and the singers outside. I imagine that I speak for both Dustin and myself when I say that it was relatively easy to relax in-between reading while listening to those girls singing.

After an hour, everyone gathered together for a brief meeting. I took a seat next to Dustin and Becca and wanted nothing more than to go back to my room and sleep. The Madrichim seemed fairly worn out by this point, which was to say nothing for how I'm sure everyone else felt.

They wanted this thing to be perfect. And it was understandable. As Oshrat informed us the day before, all of the Madrichim knew someone who had been killed in the line of duty or been killed by a terrorist attack.

This ceremony was more than just a memorial for fallen soldiers and for innocent lives lost to Islamist terror. It was representative of the continual price Israelis have to pay for their basic right to exist. It was representative of an ingrained part of Israeli identity: heartbreaking loss and bitter determination to keep moving forward.

In America, the price paid for our way of life, our freedoms, and security is placed on the shoulders of a relative few. In Israel, it is a burden carried by everyone.

For the Madrichim, this was not just a tribute. This was and would always be personal.

Oshrat informed us of the dress code for the ceremony. For the guys, it was a nice white shirt and black pants. For the girls, a white top with black pants or a black skirt.

"This will be the first time I've dressed as an Orthodox Jew," I whispered to Becca.

"And hopefully the last," she whispered in return.

***

April 14-15, 2010

Wednesday and Thursday focused exclusively on rehearsing the actual thing. The ceremony itself was supposed to last about forty-five minutes. Oshrat wanted a full eight rehearsals before the Sunday ceremony.

Dustin and I arrived early on Thursday. We were supposed to practice from 5:00-9:00 p.m. Neither of us were particularly thrilled with this prospect.

"I'm not gonna be able to say my part much better than I can say it now," I pontificated to Dustin.

"Yea," he agreed.

Over at the table, Dvir and Liran sat around strumming their guitars. It was nearly quarter past 5:00 and only six or so people had showed up. I could sense Oshrat's frustration cutting through the room like a blade.

"Country roads...take me home...to the place I belong," Dvir sang, or butchered, depending on your perspective.

"You're new name is Denvir," Dustin said as Dvir just smiled and continued thrashing John Denver's classic hit.

A few people started trickling in as Becca came over to Dustin and I and asked if we wanted to practice one more time individually before we started. There was little enthusiasm for this peer review, but we figured that her Hebrew was much better than our own and that she would be more indicative of the audience on Sunday than the Madrichim.

Dustin read his parts aloud first and received general approval. His difficulties with 'Yom Hazikaron' had apparently been overcome--whatever elusive vocal technicalities that had caused Oshrat concerned seemed to be nonexistent as far as Becca was concerned. Dustin palpably relaxed.

Then I read my part for what seemed to be the thousandth time.

"So how did that sound?" I asked.

"It was good," she responded.

"Okay, now put on your white wig and tell me how it really sounded," I pressed.

"Little more work," she said with a laugh.

It was 5:30 now. Moshe walked past Dustin and I and noticed both of us with our headphones in. Our impatience at the lack of punctuality on behalf of the others was just as great as that of the Madrichim. We wanted to get this thing done and go home.

"Andrew, what are you doing?" Moshe asked me.

"Before football and basketball games, we would listen to music to get pumped up," I explained. "It's called getting 'crunk,' Moshe."

Moshe paused and gave me a befuddled look as Dustin imitated one of Tyler's infamous "rock star" kicks.

"You have your traditions. We have ours."

***

April 18, 2010

We assembled in the convocation hall of Building G. It was 1:30 p.m. We were going to rehearse three times, go home for dinner, and then meet back at 7:00 p.m. before the start of the ceremony at 8:00.

Some of us had already spent three hours that morning in Hebrew class. I had read the 'Yizkor' to our teacher Varda and much to my relief, she said I sounded great. At this juncture, I wasn't as concerned with how I sounded as much I was with just getting everything over with.

The rehearsal plodded along at a grueling rate. I felt like I was in the middle of a Ben Stein production. Every tick of my watch was followed by an hour long interval before the next. Reality had given way to the infinite purgatory that was the ceremony--a ceremony that we would forever strive to take part in but would in fact never reach.

I knew the 'Yizkor' by heart. I could say it in my sleep. I could taste it, I could drink it, I could breathe it. The most difficult part of the night was going to be the forty-five minutes required for me to stand on the stage, silent, stoic, and motionless.

In between the first and second rehearsal, the Madrichim brought in pizza. Neither Dustin nor myself were particularly hungry, so we opted to talk with Liran about war and politics--two topics which he's always up for discussing. He told us stories about the Gulf War and the rain of SCUD missiles that Saddam Hussein was lobbing on Israel, about how he and his family sat underground in a bunker wearing gas masks--his parents frightened out of their minds, his older brother focused on using the mask as a mask for his own fears, and Liran, being just six years old, finding the whole experience a lot of fun.

"My brother would make up games for us to play while wearing the masks in order to distract us from our parents' fear," Liran said with a smile. "At the time, I thought it was a lot of fun."

Of course, while Liran and his family, like hundreds of thousands of other Israeli families, were hunkered down in their shelters fearful of chemical and biological fallout from Saddam's onslaught, U.S. and Israeli Special Forces, alongside the CIA and Mossad, were frantically working to locate and destroy all of the SCUD sites to keep Israel from being drawn into the conflict and widening it to include the entire region.

I found conversing with Liran about American and Israeli military history to be the most interesting part of the afternoon. It was the proverbial calm in the frenetic storm of the Madrichim's repetitious drive for perfection.

Dvir walked around the stage and grabbed a slice of pizza. I turned toward him surreptitiously as he stuffed his face with a disheartening slice of flavor-challenged kosher pizza.

"So I've been thinking that with my hick accent, it's probably a good thing I'm not reading in English," I said.

"It'd be better if you weren't reading at all," Dvir responded without missing a beat.

Dustin belted out a laugh.

"You made your bed. Now you've gotta lie in it, Dvir," I said with my arms crossed.

Dvir smiled, crammed another piece of pizza into his mouth, and with his back turned shouted over his shoulder for me to remember "not to screw up."

Then break came to an untimely end.

"Alright everyone, back on stage," Oshrat drilled.

***

"I've decided to go for the "rolled-up sleeves Dubya" look," I informed Dustin over Gmail chat.

"I think I'll do the same," Dustin replied. "We'll bookend everyone on stage."

"Sounds good. Let's just hope it doesn't channel his speaking abilities."

I logged off of the internet and began to shut my computer down. I had twenty minutes to get dressed and get down to Building G. As I started to get dressed, the gravity of the event hit me full force.

The week had been arduous in every meaning of the word. It had also been fun despite being stressful and time-consuming. The Yom Hazikaron ceremony that was about to begin was in a way of culmination of all of my experiences in Israel up to this point.

I had decided to come to Israel to gain greater insight into the conflict between the West and radical Islam. It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made, but it was the right one. Eight months in Israel had taught me a lot about this country, my own country, cultures, religion, people, and the world. It had fully cemented in my mind something I had believed before I had ever left: that Israel had always been the epicenter of humanity's struggles and that her people were not alien or foreign--that their values and their ideals lined up identically with our own.

Over 20,000 Israel soldiers had given their lives for a land restored to them after 2,000 years in exile. The Jewish people finally had their home back, only to face onslaught after onslaught from their neighbors. The peace today is a tenuous one. And they, perhaps unlike any other nation on earth, understand the price of keeping their homes.

They are not uniform in their approach to solving the problems and crises facing their state. The fractional and fragile government of government is miraculous in that it somehow manages to stay together. Some Israelis want a just peace. Other Israelis seek just a peace. But they are united in their understanding of what it takes to preserve their society, their culture, and their home.

And that is what Yom Hazikaron is all about.

As we gathered in the hall and took our place on stage, the crowds materialized. Dustin's Rotary sponsors showed up. Tyler biked over from his house outside Ramat Aviv. Pieter, Ryan, David, and Andrew took their seat in the middle of the room. Stefan walked in and stood back under the large, arched entrance--leaning casually against a wall. Hundreds of students, Israelis and non-Israelis, took their seats or stood around the outer ring of the room. All of the Israeli students had just finished their stint with the Israeli Defense Force--some of them had been in Gaza or Lebanon. Some of them had lost friends.

Dustin approached the podium, speaking in Hebrew and in English, asking for everyone to turn off their cell phones and stand in preparation for the siren at 8:00 p.m. The sirens would begin Yom Hazikaron and the start of the most somber day of the year for Israelis.

And just as on Yom HaShoah, the sirens would blare out throughout the entire land of Israel. And everyone and everything would once again come to a halt. People would soon stand still on the freeways, in restaurants, on the streets, in their homes.

Not twenty seconds after Dustin finished reading, the siren rang out. And everyone froze. Some of the Israeli students were visibly shaking.

In my mind, I remembered what Oshrat had told us earlier in the day and the reaction to it.

"There are some people in here who don't like that the ceremony is taking place in this building and in the past they have tried to disrupt the ceremony by shouting or in various other ways," Oshrat had nervously explained to everyone.

"Are you serious?" someone had blurted out incredulously.

"Arabs," someone else muttered, making the word sound more akin to a curse.

"Security is going to walk above all of you and try to prevent this, but if it does, just keep going as if nothing is happening at all, okay?" Oshrat had said as she glanced at all of us.

Dustin had informed me earlier that the dorm building was the one in which the Arab students resided. This was unfortunate seeing as how the building was the only one in which the ceremony could be held.

As I stood on stage and as the siren mourned to Heaven itself, I couldn't help but feel the ember inside flare up at the thought of anyone disrupting the event. Last week, it had been a Muslim girl's flagrant refusal to pause in memory of the victims of the Holocaust. This week there was the prospect of denigration toward fallen Jewish soldiers.

And this from Muslim students attending Tel Aviv University--individuals reaping some of the greatest benefits of a society that they loathed.

I couldn't help but think that the idea that there are real "partners in peace" is a lie--an illusion being offered by dishonest an delusional politicians and pundits seeking to avoid the harsh truths of a conflict as old as time itself.

As far as I was and am concerned, there is only one party interested in peace. That has been the case all along. It was the case yesterday. It is the case today. It will be the case tomorrow.

The sirens came to an end. Dustin resumed his place back at the podium and announced the reading of Yizkor and the lowering of the Star of David to half-mast.

What butterflies had been in my stomach before evaporated as soon as I walked up to the podium. I had prayed all week for the ability to do this. Speaking in public was not something new--speaking in public at one of the most sacred ceremonies in an entirely different language was something else entirely.

But I had noticed beforehand an Israeli girl, in her early twenties, leaning heavily on the shoulder of another student. I didn't have to ask her to know that she had lost someone very close to her--her shaking despair told me more than words ever would.

I walked up to the podium and let the words flow as best as I knew how.

***

The ceremony went well from that point onward. Despite a few minor hiccups with the music, mainly due to things out of the control of the guitar players and singers, everything went smoothly.

We gathered afterward in a corner of the room. No one had interrupted the ceremony this year. No one had said a thing at all. I'd like to think that was more due to the otherwordly angelic voices of the girls who sang. I still don't know the lyrics to much of the music, but I can't imagine doing anything other than falling into a trance when listening.

Liran approached me after as I stood talking with Stefan and the others. Dustin was speaking with his Rotary host on the other side of the room.

"I just...uh...wanted to thank you for volunteering for this," Liran said as he extended his hand. "You and Dustin aren't even Jewish and you..."

"It was an honor, Liran," I interrupted. "Thanks for coming to us in the beginning."

The former IDF First Lieutenant nodded his head slightly as I slapped him on the back.

***

An hour way, in the holy city of Jerusalem, another ceremony was going on at the very same time as ours. I will end with the words of Lt. General Gabi Ashkenazi, Chief of Staff of the Israeli Defense Force, and President Shimon Peres.

“As I was making my way from the plains near the beach to the mountain, I gazed upon the changing views of the road leading to Jerusalem, all silent witnesses of the battles and, together, one immense memorial monument to the heroes of the land who gave their lives for Israel’s security.

Only minutes pass before I traverse the fortress at Latrun, between the canyon and the mountain, where warriors for Israel’s independence held bloody battles, where sabras fought shoulder-to-shoulder with new immigrants, survivors of the Holocaust fresh off the ships, who did not even speak Hebrew.

In Sha’ar Hagai, I silently looked at the skeletons of armored vehicles, memorials of those who broke a path to Jerusalem as their ranks were dwindling. I then passed the Harel interchange, named after the brigade commanded by Yitzhak Rabin, a brigade that fought to take hold of the Castel overlooking the routes to the city.

And as I reach the gates of Jerusalem, seeing in my mind’s eye the paratroopers fighting on Ammunition Hill and near Augusta Victoria, those who arrived here, to this place for which the Jewish people yearned over generations, I remember the sounds of shofar by Rabbi Goren and Mota Gur’s eternal call: ‘The Temple Mount is in our hands."

-Lt. General Gabi Ashkenazi

“Bereaved families, whose Remembrance Day does not start with the siren that calls for a minute of silence, or end with the kindling of the beacons; you who came to this place, in the nebulous light of dusk, in the chilly Jerusalem evening air, facing the remnants of the Temple, represent over 20,000 households in Israel who lost the most precious of all, in the storm of battle, and in the line of duty.

I am aware that nothing can compensate for the sound of the steps of a son you expect to hear on the staircase, which has suddenly turned silent. The son whose uniform you hung on a hanger in the closet, which generates a yearning to smell the smell of his body one last time.

Facing your tormented eyes – there is a loss of words. A testimony of the truth that destiny has inflicted upon you the heaviest of prices – bereavement. And bequeathed to our nation the greatest of achievements – revival."

-President Shimon Peres

Yom HaShoah

2010-04-12T11:38:00.003+03:00

Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day. It is known colloquially in Hebrew as Yom HaShoah. At 10:00 a.m. this morning, all over the country, sirens went off.

And everything came to a sudden, still halt.

People. Cars. Buses. Everything.

Those who were driving stopped, pulled over, and stepped out of their car as the sirens blared through the sky--a chilling reminder of the tyrannical butchery of the past, a haunting harbinger of what could lie ahead as the Jewish people look to avert a similar fate with Iran.

Standing beside Rehov Chaim Levanon (Chaim Levanon Street), Ryan, Dustin, Dominique, and myself stood still and watched as several young Israeli students, frozen in place, gazed up toward the sky, perhaps wondering the very same thing as us. The older Israelis, standing beside their cars and taxis, gazed down at the ground.

The wail of the sirens finally came to a halt after two minutes. As the final crescendo came to a terrifyingly poignant end, I noticed someone across the street walking as if nothing was out of the ordinary--in complete defiance, disrespect, of everything and everyone that was around her.

A young Muslim girl, covered head-to-toe in her hijab, strolled down the sidewalk toward class.

There was no need to confront her or ask her why she had not stopped. Her actions did all of the talking.

As she passed by, I fixed her with a knife-like glare. She shifted her gaze in my direction, eyes darting rapidly, and quickened her pace--the symbolism of her flippant inhumanity burning itself into my mind and my heart.

In Search of Eden: Part One

2010-04-10T10:43:00.019+03:00

"Time to saddle up, Betty," Dustin said with a smirk.

It was just after 1:00 p.m. on Yom Rishon (Sunday). The bus from Kiryat Shmona had just deposited us off in the Druze village of Majdal Shams, a mountainous redoubt situated at the base of the highest point in all of Israel--Mount Hermon.

The streets were bustling with vehicle traffic down what appeared to be the town's only real thoroughfare. A strong wind billowed our packs as we hefted them up onto our shoulders.

Stefan had opted to stay behind for the multiple day trek along the Golan Trail, which meant the eighty-one mile trail was left for just Dustin and I to conquer. I had been briefly disappointed in our French-Irish compatriot, believing he had given in to his French roots and their propensity for surrender. However, he had generously allowed me to make use of his hiking backpack. This turned out to be of huge benefit by the end of the trail, as Stefan's backpack likely saved my own back and myself from an injurious, bedridden week.

"Where to, Jack Jack?" I fired back.

Two weeks prior in Hebrew class, Titus and I had settled on Dustin's new nickname: Jack Jack, the superhero baby from The Incredibles.

"Liran said they have amazing Druze pita here," Dustin answered as he tightened the straps on his pack.

"Dude, we just ate lunch in Kiryat Shmona," I said with a laugh.

"I know, but it's one of those things you'll be able to say you did," Dustin responded as we strolled along the town's storefront sidewalk.

Majdal Shams had been annexed from Syria by Israel following the Six Days' War in 1967. Today, it was the center of Druze life in Israel. Young girls and boys were running all throughout the town square and the storefront. One girl, no older than three, was hopping up and down in the backseat of a Ford F-150 sitting in front of a convenience store and occasionally blowing the horn while her mother, the store's shopkeeper, sat out front and shook her head in frustration.

Two boys, one around twelve and the other around eight, played with toy air-soft pistols, pretending to be in a shoot out against the invisible forces assailing their town.

This was the first time that I had ever encountered the Druze people. As a people, the Druze consider themselves a reformist movement within Islam--a breakaway sect seeking to unify theological disparities. However, the incorporation of decidedly non-Islamic practices makes the Druze very non-Muslim in many ways. In the eyes of Sunni and Shi'a, the Druze aren't even considered to be a part of Islam.

I couldn't help but take notice that the people were exceedingly Westernized. The men were all a blast from the Ottoman past--wearing skullcaps and bearing the thick, bushy mustache once associated with men like Enver Pasha. The women, many of whom were strikingly beautiful, wore makeup, blue jeans, and had no veils or headscarves.

In contrast to Egypt and Jordan, it was the women who sat out in front of the shops and stores. This was an interesting marketing strategy to say the least.

"There's a pita place," Dustin pointed out.

The radar in his stomach was finely tuned.

We crossed the road, looking every bit like a couple of amateur hikers on a tourist visa, and asked the round-cheeked, mustachioed owner for a couple Druze pitas. The man flashed a grin, minus a few teeth, and invited us to sit down as he oven-baked the pitas for us. His daughter, sitting out in front of the store next to us, walked over and fixed some olives and tea for us as the man's five year old granddaughter examined the two American aliens sitting in her grandfather's pita shop.

The tea was piping hot. The pita was as fantastic as Liran had advertised. I was admittedly a bit concerned about the intake of such spicy food prior to a camping excursion into the Golan outback, but at the time found myself nonetheless content.

We finished up, paid the man, and set out in search of the trail's starting marker. Dustin had put together a packet filled with maps and checkpoints for the trail on his thumb drive. Unfortunately, there had been no time to go to a print shop before the Pesach holidays. This meant that we were essentially running the Trail blind.

He had had the foresight to tear a map of the Golan out of the MASA handbook given to us during our first week in Israel.

Passing the two "shootout" between the two Druze boys and the invisible forces of evil, we marched throughout the town for the better part of half an hour in search of the trail's starting point. Despite speaking Hebrew to the residents there, none of them seemed to know what we were referring to. And hardly anyone spoke English.

Circling back toward the pita shop and past a massive statue commemorating either an event or people from long ago, we decided to move back down the mountain-side interstate in the general direction of the south. We were lost. And people either didn't understand us or didn't know where we needed to go.

Along the way, Dustin informed me that there was a location about half a kilometer east of Majdal Shams known as the "Shouting Hill." Since the city literally sat on the Israeli-Syrian border, the Druze in Majdal Shams had been separated from the Druze across the border following the Six Days' War. Thus, they developed a megaphone system on a hill just inside the Israeli border that they used to "shout" to their Druze neighbors in Syria to tell each other about the latest news.

This, apparently, was a weekly ritual that had been going on for quite some time. Imagining something straight out of Dr. Seuss' Horton Hears a Who!, I quietly placed the "Shouting Hill" on my future to-do list.

Furthermore, Dustin explained that most of the Druze in Majdal Shams were actually Syrian citizens. In an effort not to upset the delicate balance in their newly acquired territory following the Six Days' War, the Israeli government had agreed to allow the Druze to technically remain Syrian citizens. In return, the Druze more or less assimilated into the Israeli political system and helped the Israeli economy via their cherry and apple orchards.

And should there ever be a peace agreement between Syria and Israel and a return of Majdal Shams to Syrian territory, the Druze living in Majdal Shams would have the "political cover" to avoid reprisal attacks from their brethren or from other Syrians. They would be able to claim that they had always remained Syrian despite being in Israel. Apparently, the Druze in Majdal Shams are quite a bit wealthier than their coreligionists just a kilometer over in Syria. In turn, a degree of resentment has been born within the Druze community.

Israel, knowing that the territory might one day return to Syrian hands and knowing that retribution might face the Druze, did their part to help protect them should the day ever come.

Apparently the kid's Rotary Ambassador experiences had paid off with a wealth of uncommon knowledge. I was fairly impressed with the degree of detail that Dustin had concerning the Druze--a group we had rarely discussed thus far in our MAMEH program.

I glanced down at my watch to see that it was almost 2:00 p.m. As we continued to shuffle along the road and down the mountain, Dustin finally let out an exclamation of surprise.

"There it is!"

I turned to my left, shielding my eyes from the furious wind blowing in from the northwest to see a small stake with a white, green, and blue marker attached to it--the sign for the Golan Trail.

It's go time.

***

The forested slopes of the Trail were riddled with evergreens, jagged rocks, and flesh-ripping thorn bushes. We maneuvered at a steady pace, careful not to stumble and plummet down the foothills of Mount Hermon's base. We passed a broken water main, its contents dribbling down a dusty trail.

The first thirty minutes of the first day's hike gave way to a fantastic view of the Golani hills, valleys, and the distant mountain top castle of Nimrod Fortress. Built by the Assassins in the 13th Century under the auspices of Saladin's nephew Al-Aziz Uthman, Nimrod Fortress was a towering, sprawling edifice that harkened back through time to the age of the Crusader wars. The Jews named it Nimrod after the eponymous hermit resident that had once lived atop its summit.

The march down the forested slopes led to a hilly highway south of Majdal Shams. As we approached, Dustin and I saw what appeared to be 'tepees' at the summit on the horizon.

"Dude, are those...tepees?" I asked in utter disbelief.

"I...uh...I think so," Dustin said with a surprised guffaw.

We stopped for a moment and pulled out our cameras.

"What do you think?" I asked as I lined up the picture. "Slots on the right, Blackjack on the left?"

"You're going to hell, man."

***

I was sweating profusely by 3:30. The hour and a half march in the windy, sunny afternoon had taken us past several "pools" that the Druze had constructed as part of an innovative irrigation system, a former mosque-turned-youth center, gritty farms, and a pack of beleaguered Israeli hikers heading in the opposite direction.

"Ooh, check that out," Dustin said as he pointed toward the asphalt.

I looked down and nearly screamed as I leaped back. Dustin mixed a hearty laugh with a few well-placed jabs at my masculinity. A dead Palestinian viper lay directly beneath my feet. It had been run over by a car relatively recently. Knowing all too well that where there were babies, there was a mother nearby, I repressed a shudder and continued to move forward.

"Sheket (Quiet)," I replied. "If I see one of those damn things on this trail..."

"I used to grab 'em by the tail when I was a kid in Missouri and swing 'em around my head," Dustin announced proudly.

"Do you want a medal?"

Soon, we found ourselves moving through the town of Mas'ada, not to be confused with the ancient fortress of Masada found in the south of Israel in the Negev where Jewish rebels fought the Roman Empire in the infamous siege in 72-73 A.D. The sun was already brutally sapping our strength. By the time we came upon the Ram Pool (i.e. Lake Ram) on the eastern outskirts of Mas'ada, it was time for a water break.

Ahead, we had to prepare to maneuver through a thick forest. Dustin had wisely prepped his CamelBak to slip through his backpack and clip to his shoulder strap, allowing him access to water whenever he needed it. I was less creative and opted for accessing the two-liter Ein Gedi water bottle strapped to my left hip, feeling the CamelBak was more or less a resource of last resort when my water supply began to get low.

The mid-afternoon in the forest was an amazing testament to the diversity of Israel. The Trail wound its up through thick groves of pine and deciduous trees in a landscape that could have been ripped straight out of Chewacla back home. The cool mountainous wind from Mount Hermon, now easily eight to ten kilometers behind us, still cut its way through the forest canopy.

I scanned my left and right looking for any unseemly wild life that might be creeping about as Dustin temporarily took the lead.

Part of me flashed back to when I was a kid running around Piedmont or running through the woods behind Uncle Bill and Aunt Dorenda's house with Evan and Brad on a hot summer day. One particular instance came immediately to mind. I was eight and Brad was seven. We had been trudging through the woods near Rocky Brook road when I made out a cottonmouth sitting on a log. My phobia of all thing serpentine had taken hold and it had required the fearless persistence of Brad to get me to move out of the woods and back to the driveway.

You know, Drew, you sure can be a big baby, I thought as I moved to catch up with Dustin.

A rustle beneath my feet snapped my head down. Nothing. To both my relief and concern.

Way to prove yourself right on that one, champ.

***

By 4:30 p.m. we were moving back up hill and out of the wooded slopes beyond Mas'ada. Rugged Druze farmland, embedded on the rock-strewn soil on the jagged hillsides of the Golan, were on both our right and left. And the rocks were not mere pebbles--they were the head-sized boulders that smothered the topsoil.

We saw a young Druze boy in a yellow shirt hacking away at the soil, clearing the rocks away for a future harvest. How these farmers had managed to create vast, thriving orchards of cherry and apple trees I will never fully understand. It is nothing short of a miracle and speaks to their ingenuity and tenacity.

An Ottoman-looking man in a tractor sputtered down the road beside us. He waved as his mustache covered his smile. I figured that they were probably used to seeing hikers and travelers march through their farms during the Spring and Summer. All of them were friendly and called out to us with cries of Shalom or yom tov (good day).

Friendly and hard-working, I was nothing short of impressed with the Druze.

"How we doing on time?" Dustin asked with heavy breath. I glanced down at my watch. It was ten minutes after 5:00. We had been hiking for over three hours straight. The sun was starting to wind its way down as late afternoon settled upon the Golan Heights. The orange light basked the orchards in a heavenly glow. The distant thrum of a tractor was the only sound we could hear.

This is freedom. This is peace. Just God, man, and nature. This is how things should be.

"We'd better find a place to sleep soon," Dustin pressed.

"We'll camp at the next town."

Moving our way up a steep dirt road toward yet another hill top, we heard a car rumble up from behind us. A pair of middle-aged Israelis in an old van drove past us and waved.

"Wonder what they're doing?" I asked rhetorically.

We soon found out.

***

The top of the hill was more like the top of a mountain that we had gradually been ascending for the past hour. The grassy plateau at its peak was marked by a large military installation unlike anything I had ever seen before. Following the Trail, we moved up toward it and realized that it was an abandoned Israeli bunker and outpost.

A relic of the 1967 and 1973 wars.

Before we decided to explore it, we saw four hikers a little farther ahead standing near a wooden plank jutting out of the ground.

"I'm going to go ask them where we can get water and sleep," I announced.

"Fire away, chief."

The four Israelis, two guys and two girls, appeared to be taking a tea break as we approached.

"Shalom, eifo anahnu yacolim liknot mayim," I asked as I shook my now near-empty water bottle.

The Israeli nearest me, a curly-haired girl in her mid-twenties, smiled and responded in Hebrew so fast it caught me off guard.

"Uh..." I stammered.

"Americans, right?" the guy serving the tea stated more than asked.

"Yea," we answered in unison.

"We're almost done for the day so you can have this bottle," the girl said in perfect English.

"Thanks," I replied.

The other two Israelis, hiding behind their sunglasses, were thoroughly amused.

"Tea?" the young man asked. "It's mint tea. Very good."

"Sure. Sounds great. Thank you."

"Where are you two going?" the girl asked.

"We're hiking the Trail so we're looking for a place to camp tonight," Dustin replied.

"Okay, Buq'ata is the next city. Are you planning on staying there or on one of the kibbutz nearby?" the girl asked us as the man handed Dustin and I two cups of tea.

"We're not really sure," I answered.

"Where's your map?" she asked, a hint of incredulity creeping into her voice.

Dustin and I exchanged amused looks.

"Go ahead and show her the map, Dustin," I encouraged.

Dustin pulled the wrinkled, ripped MASA map out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was pg. 147 of the MASA guide to be exact. On it was a map that could have passed for being in a kid's geography book.

"This...this is your map?" the girl barked in disbelief.

A burst of laughter emanated from all of the Israelis. Dustin and I started laughing, too. Clearly they had been expecting a topographic map of the Golan Trail. What they received in return was a hand-sized piece of paper out of tourist guide.

"Where are you from?" the young man asked with a big grin.

"Missouri," Dustin said with a wide grin.

"Alabama," I quipped with a smile.

"I could tell from your accent," the girl said, her tone now softer than it had just been. "Al-uh-bay-ma!" she exclaimed with a laugh.

"I take it you've never hiked up here before," the young man inquired.

"Nah. We figured we'd just pack up and roll out," I explained. "Charge blindly ahead with absolutely no idea what we're doing or what we're getting ourselves into."

"Like good Americans, huh?" the young man responded in good cheer.

"Now you've got it," I replied.

The next few minutes the two Israelis who had been talking with us showed where we needed to go while the other two stood off to the side and adjusted their backpacks. Apparently, we needed to reach the other side of Buq'ata. With it already being nearly 5:30, it was going to be a race against time to make it there before sundown. We could make the town out on the horizon to our east.

"What are your names?" I asked.

"Gil," the man said.

"Leor," the girl replied.

"We're Dustin and Drew. Nice to meet you. Appreciate the help," I said.

"Well, Dustin and Drew from Al-uh-bay-ma, I'm sure we'll see you again," Leor said as they packed up in preparation for their hike ahead.

"With a map like that, I'm not so sure," Gil added.

***

The bunker at the top of the mountain was one of the most amazing sites I had witnessed. Dustin and I crawled through the complex like a couple of kids hitting their first playground. And in a way, it was a playground--a playground for grown-up military-obsessed boys.

The construct itself resembled something straight out of a HALO video game.

Mount Hermon and Majdal Shams towered in the distance as the sun crept toward its evening appointment with the West. And for a brief moment, I marveled at how far we had hiked in such a short amount of time and the immense majesty that was the Golan.

"We probably need to get a move on," Dustin said as we stood atop the bunker. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

Downtown Majdal Shams.

Shoot out!

The beginning of the Golan Trail.

Nimrod Fortress in the distance.

Camp...Navajo?

A sign outside of Mas'ada.

Keep up Jack Jack!

Seeing the forest for the trees...

Light in the forest.

Druze orchards with Mountain Hermon in the distance.

Sun setting on the Druze farmland.

Approaching the bunker atop the mount.

Burning back the sun.

Atop the bunker with Mount Hermon in the distance. The city high up on its slopes is Majdal Shams, where the day began. the city below it is Mas'ada.

Pesach Post Promise

2010-04-07T19:59:00.002+03:00

Alliterative title aside, I want to provide a brief update. I just returned from an awe-inspiring three-day hiking and camping excursion to the Golan Heights. It was a remarkable journey that started in Majdal Shams and ended beyond the kibbutz of Aloni HaBashan. In total, the distance covered was about half of the eighty-one mile Golan Trail.

A huge update will be forthcoming in the next few days filled with pictures and good stories.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Easter. I spent my Easter Sunday marching through Druze farms, standing atop an abandoned Israeli bunker, and sleeping beneath the ramshackle remains of a tent in a field crawling with lizards, bugs, and snakes.

And oh yea, Dustin was along for the ride, too.

More to come.

Out of Egypt

2010-03-29T19:15:00.003+03:00

Today is the first day of Pesach (Passover), which is a celebration of the Israelites' exodus out of Egypt (slavery) and toward the Promised Land (freedom).

Since Pesach is regarded as one of the most significant Jewish traditions, last Thursday I asked our Hebrew teacher, Varda, how long Pesach typically lasts. Her answer was interesting. She remarked that it lasted for as long as it needed to. She smiled as I mulled this information about in my head.

Initially, this struck me as a sign of sheer brilliance--a holiday that ended whenever one desired! As a byproduct of the United States, I couldn't help but wonder how we ever let that idea slip past!

I mean we're the leisurely-minded entrepreneurs who gave the world the LA-Z-Boy, clap-on lighting, and the greatest lazy man's invention of all time!

Americans come out of the womb wondering how we can make even that process easier. How in the name of push-button 4-wheel drive did we not jump aboard that bandwagon?

This mystery eluded me for the better part of four days.

However, I should note that the most pressing concern for myself is the inconvenient truth (an actual truth, Al) that all of the stores are fresh out of bread. This means that it's all matzah all the time. And matzah, for those who may not know, is unleavened, hardened bread. It's like eating a flat and tough Saltine cracker without all the flavor of a typical Saltine cracker.

What's that you say? Saltine crackers don't have any flavor to begin with? Well, that's a fine point you make. What's that? I'm having a mock conversation with myself and need to cease immediately?

Much appreciated. Moving right along, then.

Needless to say, matzah is not very appetizing. But that's essentially the point. The matzah represents a particular dynamic within the story told in Exodus. The Israelites had to flee Egypt in such a hurry that there was literally no time for the dough to rise in their bread. Hence the creation and significance of matzah.

As is Jewish custom, families will gather together and celebrate today for a seder dinner. Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, or secular, Passover is regarded as an essential element of Jewish identity.

And in Israel, the holiday carries an even greater significance. Following the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 A.D. by the Roman Caesar Titus, nearly two thousand years of Diaspora displaced the Jewish people to the four corners of the earth. Such a fate should have surely resulted in the death knell of the Jews and Jewish tradition.

But it was not to be.

The story of Judaism's survival through the ages is one of the most remarkable tales in mankind's history and perhaps the topic for a future blog post. What's important is that the Pesach tradition survived during those two thousand years. And in 1948, a new reality soon set in for God's Chosen.

The restoration of the state of Israel drew her people back home and with them, traditions that had grown and been internalized in ways likely unimaginable for the Jews of millennia past. The restoration of Israel, like the Exodus out of Egypt, brought the Jews back to the Promised Land--out of bondage and servitude to others and into freedom--freedom to once again have a sovereign say over their own destiny.

So while Pesach is indeed a celebration and acknowledgment of God's deliverance from Egypt, it is also an acknowledgment, be it direct or implicit or grudgingly, by Israelis of God's promises kept through the generations.

And I realize now what Varda meant when she said that "it lasted as long as it needed to." Passover is not a single day or week or event that is commemorated, stowed away, and brought back out of the box the following year. Passover is about God's promise. It's about freedom.

And that's not something that merely lasts for a season. It's something that lasts for eternity.

!פסח שמח

Beseiged

2010-03-25T15:53:00.004+02:00

I apologize for the lack of frequent updates. The workload for our program is quite heavy and I've found relatively little time to give Fried Camel the attention it deserves.

Fortunately, the Pesach (Passover) break has begun today and there will be time to update over the course of the next two and a half weeks. Additionally, there are trips to the Golan Heights, Masada, and the Dead Sea planned, which could and should provide for interesting posts--not to mention Pesach itself.

That stated, I thought I would follow up on the thread from last week regarding the political situation here in Israel. If the unfolding situation between the U.S. and Israel could be described as a brush fire, I would not describe the brush fire as intense in its "heat" as it was last week, but I would certainly describe it as having spread. And there is little sign of it tapering off.

As per last week's update, the announcement of new housing units in the Ramat Shlomo neighborhood of East Jerusalem by the Israeli Interior Minister provided the perfect opportunity for the Obama Administration to trap Prime Minister Netanyahu. The move turned a simple boneheaded mistake on the Israelis' part into a desirable crisis on behalf of the Obama Administration.

And we all know that our leaders don't believe in letting "a good crisis go to waste."

Recent developments and their implications change as rapidly as they appear, which makes for difficulty when attempting to analyze. However, analysis is necessary as the implications are far reaching.

The divide within Israeli society over the "loners" and "groaners" hasn't shown any tangible signs of exacerbating since I last updated the blog. Most Israelis seem to be locked into wait-and-see mode. The intentions of the Obama Administration are being weighed against the actions of the Netanyahu-led coalition.

What will the United States tolerate? What does the U.S. expect of Israel? What will Bibi Netanyahu's decisions reflect? Will the United States interfere in the Israeli government as they did under President Clinton when American Democratic strategists and Democratic donors all but ousted Netanyahu in his first tenure as Prime Minister? What does this all mean with regard to the Iranian threat?

These are some of the things Israelis are thinking about--things that they are nervously anticipating. Fresh developments have put Israel under even further scrutiny.

During a speech to AIPAC (American-Israeli Political Action Conference) two days ago, Netanyahu announced quite bluntly that "Jerusalem is not a settlement. It is our capital." This was a clear slap at the Obama Administration. He received enthusiastic applause for such defiance in the face of a none-too-friendly U.S. President. This is not a surprise considering the equally enthusiastic pro-Israel crowd.

What is somewhat surprising is how bold and savvy this move was. Netanyahu has essentially decided to circumvent the U.S. government and instead make a direct appeal to the sympathy of the American people, who are overwhelmingly in support of Israel. The calculation seems to be that domestic support for Obama is not as strong as it once was and that the American people can bring pressure to bear against their government to support and defend the American-Israel alliance.

Given Netanyahu's American education and his understanding of American society, this could prove to be an interesting tactic that in the long run gives Israel an advantage.

Reports are circulating that the private meeting between Netanyahu and Obama did not go well at all. Here in Israel, the media seems to be portraying the entire conflagration rather tepidly. Neither left or right want to inflame tensions any worse. Both sides of the ideological spectrum understand the danger involved with undermining Netanyahu and assailing Obama. Israel needs America if Iran is to be stopped.

This media approach could certainly change as the entire situation is fluid. And news in Britain and Jordan reflects this fluidity. In what I believe is a bid to energize their domestic voter base prior to the coming elections, the Labor government has expelled Israeli personnel from the Israeli embassy in Great Britain.

Information gleaned following the assassination of Mahmoud al-Mabhouh, a Hamas operative responsible for transferring weapons from Iran to Gaza, points to a highly elaborate Mossad effort to disrupt the Iranian regime and their terror proxies. According to the British government, Israeli intelligence agents impersonated British citizens using false passports to pull off the high-profile assassination in Dubai.

And yesterday, the British government used its strongest language yet against Israel, taking even stronger action to expel Israeli embassy staff.

Now Israel is withering a highly publicized confrontation with its two closest and most powerful allies--despite the shared common enemy of the Islamic Republic of Iran. And today, the U.S. announced that it would seek weaker than expected sanctions against Iran over its nuclear weapons program.

Even the moderate regime of Jordan, an Arab nation formally at peace with Israel and a strong U.S. ally in this region, announced courtesy of King Abdullah II that "Israel must decide if it wants conflict or peace."

As I've stated before, words mean things in this region. And the fact that Jordan is entering in the fray suggests that King Abdullah II senses a power shift in the world and the Middle East. He knows he must tread carefully if Iran or Turkey's influence continues to grow in the face of weakened and softer U.S. leadership.

Neither Jordan nor Egypt want to face the wrath of their coreligionists for signing peace treaties with the Zionist state. And this wrath is becoming a greater and greater possibility as the threat against Israel's very existence mounts and the decisiveness of the West to act against Iran continues to wane.

Netanyahu returns to Israel from the U.S. without having secured assurances from the American government, with burgeoning British hostility, growing uncertainty from Islamic moderates, and with renewed confidence from radical Islamists. This recipe is not one for peace.

The words from the prophet Isaiah grow louder and louder every passing day:

"But you, O Israel, my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, you descendants of Abraham my friend, I took you from the ends of the earth, from its farthest corners I called you. I said, 'You are my servant'; I have chosen you and have not rejected you.

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. All who rage against you will surely be ashamed and disgraced; those who oppose you will be as nothing and perish.

Though you search for your enemies, you will not find them. Those who wage war against you will be as nothing at all. For I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you."

-Isaiah 41:8-13

The hour to once again stand with Israel and our Jewish brethren draws near.

3/26 Update: The Times of London is reporting that Prime Minister Netanyahu was humiliated by President Obama during a meeting in the Oval Office a couple days ago.

Netanyahu unveiled a flow chart explaining how the Interior Ministry and housing pronouncements work and explained to Obama how there was absolutely no way that he could have known that such an announcement was coming during Vice-President Biden's visit.

Obama, none too pleased that Bibi was not addressing U.S. demands, then apparently stood up, told Netanyahu that he had a private dinner to attend, and to "let me know if there is anything new." Such a snub is unprecedented. The only thing that even is comparable is Reagan walking away from the negotiating table at Reykjavik when he was dealing with Gorbachev and the Soviets.

The difference between the Soviet Union and Israel should be quite apparent to anyone reading this.

Both Netanyahu and Defense Minister Ehud Barak then went to the Roosevelt Room to regroup, but eventually opted to leave the White House entirely because they no longer trusted the Americans not to listen in on their discussion or phone calls.

Thus they returned to the Israeli embassy in D.C. and eventually flew back here to Tel Aviv.

On Unsettling Ground

2010-03-15T22:16:00.009+02:00

A crisis is brewing here in Israel. All signs are pointing toward a potentially catastrophic rift in U.S.-Israeli relations.

The visit last week by Vice President Joe Biden was deemed by many Israeli analysts to have gone from tense upon the outset to outright disastrous by the end. The announcement of new construction of settlements in East Jerusalem in what is being called the "Ramat Shlomo" scandal has brought the longstanding relationship into question.

First, I believe some background details are needed to properly convey what has transpired and brought us to this breaking point.

When Vice President Biden arrived in Israel last week, his reception was considered to be cool at best. After having already visited Washington multiple times to meet personally with President Obama, Netanyahu's neutral reception of Biden should be of no great surprise. However, it is believed that elements within the Israeli government considered the Obama Administration's decision to send Joe Biden instead of Obama himself was a "slap in the face" to Israel.

Biden was the first official visitor from the Obama Administration. With the looming threat of Iran, the rearming of Hezbollah, the continuing threat posed by Hamas and Syria, and a stalled Israeli-Palestinian peace process, it is understandable in my view why Israelis would view the arrival of the Vice President less enthusiastically than the President.

When Vice President Biden was visiting with Palestinian officials in the West Bank, a minister aligned with the Netanyahu-led government announced the construction of 1,600 new housing units in the Ramat Shlomo neighborhood of East Jerusalem--a clear "infraction" by the Israelis across what is called the 'Green Line' denoting Palestinian and Israeli territory.

The timing of this announcement was indeed purposeful in embarrassing the Vice President and the United States and should be scorned appropriately. However, it is important to consider that the announcement was done by a member of Shas--the ultra right party that is a part of Netanyahu's coalition government.

What is being missed in the uproar and occasionally petulant turmoil that has ensued is the fact that domestic politics within Israel is at play here. Shas wants to position itself more favorably with the settlers who generally view Netanyahu's Likud party as the strongest party representing their interests.

The announcement by Interior Minister Eli Yishai (Shas) was nothing less than political sabotage against Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. This is patently obvious.

Following the announcement, Biden, clearly infuriated, showed up to his planned dinner with Netanyahu nearly two hours late. Netanyahu responded by assuring both Biden and the U.S. that the announcement was one of "stupidity not malice."

Considering the implications of such a timed announcement, the pressing issues facing Netanyahu with regard to the existential threat posed by Iran, and the ensuing fallout, I think it's safe to take him for his word.

Secretary of State Hillary Clinton reportedly went on a tirade over the phone for nearly forty-five minutes when speaking with Netanyahu. And just today, Obama's chief political advisor, David Axelrod, called Israel's actions an "insult" and an "affront."

Michael Oren, Israeli's ambassador to the U.S., is suggesting that the U.S.-Israeli relationship is In A Crisis of Historic Proportions.

So what does all of this mean?

First, Netanyahu is now in a demonstrably unenviable position. He is now being forced to choose between his longstanding political supporters at home who support a unified Jerusalem under Israeli control or the integrity of the longstanding, strategic alliance with the United States.

This means that the support he has enjoyed since taking office last year is in jeopardy of melting away. The fact of the matter remains that most Israelis would rather see Netanyahu lose power than Israel lose its most important and powerful friend--particularly at a time when Israel's very existence remains threatened.

Netanyahu is very aware of this situation. And from what I can gather from Israeli media and Israelis themselves, is that the doubts about the intentions of the Obama Administration are metastasizing into two sharply divided camps: loners and groaners.

Israelis who were suspicious all along of America's new government are now rallying around the "go it alone" mentality. They believed the special friendship with America died when Obama was elected and this past week's developments are merely confirmation of that. Subsequently, Israel is now on its own regardless of whatever platitudes Biden paid in lip-service during his speech at Tel Aviv University.

The second group, which I've dubbed the "groaners," are those Israelis who likely never supported Netanyahu and were never distrustful of Obama. They are the ones who are self-flagellating themselves, lambasting Netanyahu for jeopardizing relations with the U.S., and lamenting the fallout as a sign that Israel must capitulate to all or many international demands in order to keep the United States on her side.

The question remains which of these two groups are the most dominant. And it should also be noted that Israel has complied with all of these demands in the so-called "peace process." They have withdrawn from southern Lebanon and Gaza and have received nothing but death and destruction in return. They have lost over 1,000 of their own citizens to radical Islamists in the West Bank and Gaza. And they have, under Netanyahu, frozen construction of all settlement projects outside Jerusalem for ten months in order to jump-start the stalled "peace talks."

Israel has been making real sacrifices. Sacrifices that often go ignored by people in the U.S. and the moral-equivocating, chattering heads in Europe.

And finally, there is the most important factor following this unsettling turn of events. And that is Iran and by rote its proxies, Hamas and Hezbollah. Make no mistake that they are watching these events with great interest and great delight.

Words mean things in this region. Words are literally matters of life and death. And if there is a perception of separation between the U.S. and Israel, the radical Islamists will pounce. Already, the Obama Administration's abysmal and lackluster effort in reigning in Iran's nuclear weapons program has empowered all of these entities--entities which are undeniably on the rise.

Obama's willingness to "end the debate" and proclamations that it is time to "stop the talking" with regard to domestic policies like Health care reform, Israeli-Palestinian issues, and a host of other initiatives has not carried over to dealing with Iran and its terror masters. In fact, the President of the United States seems all too keen to talk with Iran right up until the point that the nuclear weapons are on the launching pads.

This stark and utterly unfathomable contrast in these actions has not been lost on either the Israelis or on the Iranians. The foreboding tremors rippling from these events suggests a harbinger of coming events.

And the prospect for war, in my opinion, is now greater than ever.

3/16 Updates:

Yehuda Avner, Former Adviser to late Prime Minister Rabin: "Obama repeating 1975 Mistakes; U.S. Painting Israel into a Corner"

Sen. Joe Lieberman and Sen. John McCain: "Quit Attacking America's Friends"

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu: "Not Backing Down; Jerusalem Will Be A United City"

Khatem Abd al-Kader, Fatah Cleric: "Rallying Cry to Muslims to Save Al-Aqsa; Jews Trying to Rebuild Temple"

Hamas: "Day of Rage Forthcoming"

Hail to the Sheesh

2010-03-11T18:00:00.007+02:00

The temperature was rapidly warming to unreasonable levels. Ryan, Andrew, and myself moved quickly to catch up with the other half of our group.

The three of us were approaching the security gates leading into Tel Aviv University. It was 8:00 a.m. And the Vice-President of the United States was in town.

Back home, we all know him as "Scranton Joe"--a self-assumed label he has worn proudly in his thirty plus years in the U.S Senate. The Israelis have another name for him: "Sloppy Joe."

I prefer the Israeli label if only for its accuracy and creativeness. Well done.

"He just doesn't take crap off anyone," Andrew continued as we crossed Rehov Chaim Levanon.

"Yea, I get the impression that he's someone that goes off behind closed doors," Ryan responded neutrally.

"Biden's just awesome, man!" Andrew blurted out excitedly. Our newest roommate was displaying a degree of misplaced youthful enthusiasm to a degree that I had not witnessed in quite some time. His praises for our Vice President stemmed from having met Biden in person back in 2008 and having had the opportunity to hear a story or two from him.

While most of us haven't had the pleasure (or displeasure) to meet the man, I think it's safe to say that we've all heard plenty of stories from him.

That stated, I understood Andrew's enthusiasm. I did not share it. But it would have been more than a little hypocritical on my part to challenge Andrew on something that I too had been guilty of in the past.

As we moved through the front gate and down past the music studies building, a building guarded by no fewer than twelve child-sized cats, I pulled out my phone and called Tyler.

They were already heading to the ticket line.

***

"I didn't know we were going to have twins," Dustin remarked with a deep laugh.

"Bite me," I replied.

"But my horse is a different color than his!" Stefan protested half-seriously. His French-Irish accent contorted the words into a near indecipherable strand of disbelief.

Both of us were wearing the same baby blue Polo shirt. The indignity of such a fashion faux pas must have been nigh unbearable for Stefan. The French part of him had a flair for high fashion. And it had just been reduced a few levels by the upstart redneck from Alabama.

Matt, Tyler, Pieter, Stefan, and Dustin had gotten to the first check point a few minutes prior. Matt wanted to hear what the Vice-President had to say. As a Green Beret who had served in and out of Iraq for the better part of half a decade, he of anyone deserved to know what the Administration's message was going to be to our best friend in the region with regard to security policy and with regard to the growing Iranian menace--a menace which had claimed hundreds of American lives in Iraq.

We handed our student ID cards in to the two Israelis at the table. They checked our names and put a sticker on the card for the next round of screening.

The line to get inside the auditorium was already expanding into the parking lot when we arrived at the second and last security check point. Israeli special police units and Shin Bet operatives were everywhere.

The Shin Bet is Israel's domestic intelligence/security agency. It's a combination of the FBI, the NSA, and DHS. And their operatives certainly possess a distinct attitude about them; one that suggests that they are Yahweh's gift to the art of kicking butt and taking names. Their placement outside the auditorium and on the surrounding buildings was strategically determined long in advance.

As we began to run through the second security apparatus which resembled a makeshift tent, I couldn't help but notice that the protocol was similar to airport security. We were required to remove shoes and all objects from our pockets. As I walked through the metal detector, a small black-haired, black-eyed Israeli girl stepped out in front of me.

"This whole 'intimidating pretty girl' thing is getting to be a little too routine," I thought with a silent laugh.

"Yesh lecha neshek (Do you have a weapon)?" she asked sternly.

"Lo," I said flatly. "Unless you count Matt. He's pretty dangerous."

Standing in front of me with their arms crossed at their waist were two bald-headed Secret Service agents and a Shin Bet operative. The two American flag lapel pins, amongst other features, stood in stark contrast to the hardened Israeli next to them.

Stefan and I made it through security first. He hustled up to me and asked if those big guys were Secret Service.

"Yea," I said as I looked back. "And from personal experience, I can tell you that they don't have much of a sense of humor."

"Really?"

"I drove in a Secret Service convoy for Sarah Palin during the election. When I asked one of them for an earpiece, he literally stared me down for a solid three seconds before telling me never to do that again."

Stefan started cackling.

"See, I thought it was funny too!"

"Thank God," Tyler announced in marked relief. "We've got air conditioning!"

"And it looks like we've got a while," Matt said as he walked up behind us.

***

"He's really smart and really respected. It's why a lot of Americans really like him. I mean his name is Joe!" Andrew repeatedly emphasized by repeatedly using 'really.' "Like he's an average guy on a lot of levels, but also really respected."

The curly-headed Israeli girl standing behind our group had her arms crossed and was nodding her head in a manner that suggested she was sorry she had ever asked.

"I think he's one of the better guys on foreign policy and..." Andrew continued.

The girl looked over his shoulder at me.

I was shaking my head and mouthing "No." She started to laugh. Andrew turned around and saw Tyler and I leaning against the air conditioner. He couldn't help but smile.

"I take it that you don't agree?" the girl asked in an unusually impressive display of English.

"Yea, all these guys are conservatives or Republicans so they don't exactly see Biden like I do," Andrew said a bit too sheepishly. I almost wanted to encourage him not to back down to me so easily or quickly. Almost.

"Well, as conservatives, we stand for liberty and freedom."

"As opposed to tyranny and oppression?" she countered sarcastically.

"Precisely," I quipped in return. "Gam anachnu ohevim latsood anashim ra'im." (We also like hunting terrorists).

"Well that sounds nice to me," the Israeli girl said as she turned to Andrew.

"I don't know what he said," Andrew uttered with a laugh. "But it sounded nice to me, too...I think. And I just want to clarify that I don't stand for tyranny and oppression!"

"Yea, yea, that's what they all say. Don't believe a word of it," I said, giving Andrew a wink.

We had been standing inside the auditorium for nearly forty minutes. It was almost 9:00 a.m. Biden wasn't expected to speak until 11:30. Ryan and Pieter had peeled off to talk with a few other MAMEH students that had come in behind us. Andrew eventually gave up with the Israeli girl and found a group of fellow undergraduates to hang out with.

The rest of us passed the time by telling jokes and cutting up--mainly with Matt and his experiences in Iraq.

"So there was this guy named Ahmed in this unit of Iraqis that we worked with," Matt explained. "He was a big guy, you know, and these Iraqis were pretty good in a fight. It might have been the only really well-trained Iraqi unit in the entire country, but they were as good a shots as we were by the time we left and had respectable unit cohesion."

"They were Iraqi Special Forces, right?" Tyler asked.

"Yea," Matt answered. "But we had a lot of fun with these guys. I mean the stuff we had to do to keep them on a leash could be made into a comedy."

"So we're flying through Baghdad one day and we're in our trucks and humvees and I get a call from one of my guys in the back of the convoy and I'm thinking 'Great. This can't be good.' And my guy starts yelling and says "Sir, he's doing it again!"

"Who's doing what again?" Matt asked.

"Ahmed!" the other Green Beret replied. "He's tossing flash bangs out into the crowds as we drive by. There's sheep, goats, and merchants running for cover!"

"Damnit! Who let Ahmed have the flash bangs again?!" another Green Beret yelled over the radio.

"I dunno," the initial soldier answered. "But he's certainly having a good time."

Tyler, Dustin, Stefan, and myself are laughing so hard that my side begins to spasm. Matt continued with the Ahmed stories to our utter delight.

One day, they were preparing to blow in a door in an effort to nab a high-value Al-Qaeda target. And before the charges had been finished being put into place, Matt, his men, and the other Iraqi commandos heard a loud yell as Ahmed jumped out of the humvee and charged toward the door.

"You've got to be kidding me," one of Matt's men said.

Sure enough, Ahmed lowered his shoulder and plowed through the door. The hinges collapsed and the door fell straight down with Ahmed laying on top of it!

"Go! Go! Go!" Matt yelled.

"Thanks Ahmed!" one of the Green Berets shouted as he and the Iraqi Commandos charged inside and stepped all over Ahmed's back.

Soon thereafter, the doors opened to the auditorium and we were allowed to go inside. I think all of us could have stood out there and listened to Ahmed stories for a few more hours, but that was not the reason we had come.

An Israeli girl and her boyfriend, in typical display of ignorance with regard to manners, kept shoving Matt, Ryan, and I forward. I flashed annoyance in her direction. She scowled in return.

"Sometimes I think Israelis display the herd mentality of cows," Matt quipped in frustration.

The girl behind him, perhaps overhearing him, shoved him forward a little harder.

"Relax, sweetheart" Matt said. "We're all gonna get there."

***

The auditorium was newly renovated and absolutely massive. Secret Service and Shin Bet operatives had been placed at all entrances and exits. The sheer number of visible security personnel was astounding. The undercover agents were likely just as numerous.

Matt, Pieter, Tyler, Dustin, Ryan, and myself all took up seats on the front row and slightly to the right of the stage. American and Israeli flags draped the backdrop of a large, hastily assembled construction plastered with the Seal of the Vice-President.

Ryan took up a seat to my right while Dustin sat to my left. Tyler and Matt sat on the other side of Dustin, their conversation turning toward all things military.

It was 10:00 and Biden wasn't supposed to be on stage for another hour and a half. Little did we know that he would be nearly forty-five minutes late.

Members of the White House press pool started to file in from the door to our far left (there's some irony for you). Among them was none other than MSNBC's Chris Matthews. He looked tired, unkempt, and wretched. I managed to snap a picture of ole' Chris in what has to be a very unflattering photo.

Andrew had wound up sitting just a row beneath him and quickly turned to talk with him. Stefan had also been funneled further out into the crowd. On the other side of the auditorium, I made out Huoshin and Dominique, both of whom waved and grinned.

Within thirty minutes, Tel Aviv University's auditorium was packed to full capacity. This observation did not immediately register with my faculties due to interference of the worst kind seated in the row directly behind us.

I had not come to this event seeking confrontation. But as usual, confrontation found me.

***

It began as a wildly unbelievable tale regarding a military show from back in the States. One of the men behind us claimed he had witnessed a military demonstration before coming to Israel and was elaborating on the event to his friend. I admittedly began to eavesdrop if only to hear the details.

When I did, I was unimpressed. Neither of these guys had any idea what they were talking about. And that pretty much became the theme for the next ten minutes.

"You actually read that garbage?" one of the guys behind us asked the other. "Thinking men read Haaretz. Jerusalem Post is crap."

"I think the Jerusalem Post is a rightwing publication," the girl to his right commented.

"Aside from that, it's garbage," the man responded.

"A thinking man?" I chuckled to myself. "This coming from a guy who just a few moments earlier claimed he once saw 20 Marines load up into an Apache helicopter? Apaches are used exclusively by the United States Army and are attack helicopters that hold a total crew of...two. Not twenty."

The conversation then took a turn from the comically ignorant to the flagrantly stupid.

"Our last President was a moron," the second kid said smugly. I could hear him crinkle his copy of the Jerusalem Post.

"I mean...I think...you know...the whole terrorism thing can be drawn back to the fact that since the end of World War II, the U.S. has invested in the IMF and the World Bank and has been exploiting everyone around the world," the other managed to utter seriously.

"Yea and we also fully funded the Taliban during the 1980's," the second dude followed up in what I initially thought was an impersonation of the type of staccato conversational transition typically found in Family Guy.

As it turned out, this guy was also serious.

"Think about the fact that the CIA has assassinated all those people and populist leaders in South America," the first guy continued.

"What the HELL are you two vomiting out of your mouths?" I thought as I squirmed ever more uncomfortably in my chair.

Dustin and I exchanged looks of irritation. He could hear them and he rolled his eyes. Ryan also looked more than a little perturbed.

"There was a time when I would have already turned around and made a scene," I whispered to Dustin.

"That makes two of us," he whispered back.

"I mean, Bush tried to kill Chavez in 2002. And the CIA went in there and you know...Chavez was locked up for two days and then was released from prison and was stronger than ever," the man continued.

"Aaaaand...it's go time!" I thought as I flashed Dustin an apologetic look.

"Alright, I'm sorry but I can't just sit here anymore," I announced as I spun around in my seat. The audible groan emanating from Dustin was not so much a sign of disapproval as it was disbelief. Ryan crunched up the issue of the Economist that he had been reading and leaned away as he smirked.

Ryan would later tell me that he had been wanting to turn around and metaphorically blast them the entire time, and that his heart had been in his throat while I opened up on them.

"Everything that you two have said over the past ten minutes has been completely and utterly wrong in every conceivable way."

The second guy, the one now sitting to my left, recoiled. The first guy, the one who thought the CIA was powerful enough to destroy entire governments on a mere whim, leaned forward and spat out a well-rehearsed trigger phrase, "But you don't deny that the U.S. is controlling people with the IMF and the World Bank?"

"What does that even mean?" I countered.

"It's colonialist..."

"Do you even know what colonialism is?" I asked before he had time to spout off another inanity. "We're not some imperialist power that's oppressing native populations through force in order to drain their resources. You want real imperialist powers, look no further than Britain and France in the 19th Century."

"The U.S. invaded Panama to take back the Panama Canal!" the young man continued. It should be noted that this individual was easily thirty years old and could not use misplaced teenage angst as an excuse.

"So let me get this straight. The U.S. invaded Panama in 1989 to retake the Panama Canal? The most powerful country in the history of the world invaded the tiny piss ant nation of Panama, defeated them with a relative yawn, all in an imperialist effort to retake direct control over the Canal, and yet, did not actually take the Panama Canal?" I retorted, incredulity dripping out of my mouth.

"What about the sovereignty of Iraq?" he asked, trying to ignore the flaming corpse of his previous statement. "Did we not invade a country and assassinate their leader?"

"Define sovereignty," I fired back. "Sovereignty usually requires that a nation-state has the backing of the people. In the West, we define sovereignty as having key elements, among them that the will of the people is properly represented by its government. Do you think the will of the Iraqi people was being expressed by Saddam Hussein?"

"Well, I mean, look what we did in Iran in the 1950's with the CIA..." he floundered.

"You mean with Mossadegh?"

"Yea! What do you think caused the Iranian Revolution?" he asked with a raised voice.

Ryan guffawed off to my right.

"Well, seeing as how we're Middle Eastern History Master's students, allow me to elucidate something for you. The people hated the Shah for a variety of reasons, none of which had to do with the CIA's intervention in 1953. The true seeds for the Iranian Revolution began in the Tobacco Protest in 1891."

"I know, but..."

"You know?" I asked in surprise. "Tell me about the Tobacco Protest then."

"Okay I don't..."

"And speaking of Iran, it would have been nice if our President had taken the time to utter three little words, "We support you," when the people were rioting and dying on the streets protesting the theocratic tyrants running their regime last year," I continued full force. "But he was too big of a coward. And he certainly did not then, nor does he now, understand this region." I finished.

Cleanup on aisle two. Can we get cleanup on aisle two.

***

The two guys behind us had very little to say from that point onward. This was understandable if not unfortunate because Biden's speech was nothing more than a lecture disguised as a speech.

He buttered up the crowd with his anecdotes on his father's love for Israel. Then he spoke about Israel's obligations to stop settlements only after he had laid on the compliments in a thick fashion.

It was utterly transparent. And I could tell that he was personally offended at having the Israeli government announce the creation of new settlements while he had been visiting in the West Bank. The move had been intentional by the Netanyahu Administration.

Prime Minister had visited the U.S. three times to meet with President Obama since he had been sworn in in January of 2009. Obama had not returned the favor and had deigned to send the Vice-President instead of himself for the Administration's first official visit to Israel.

Many Israelis disapproved of this decision and were offended at what they saw as a slap in the face. The previous Administration had never faltered in having President Bush front and center meeting with Israeli leaders, both in Israel and at home.

And much of Biden's speech was aimed at defusing the tensions and reassuring Israelis that the Administration's commitment to Israel was just as strong. But it seemed desperate to me.

The Q & A that followed was appalling. The Vice-President took three questions due to time constraints, but babbled on incoherently for ten minutes with each question. He mentioned the success of Iraq, but declined to mention that it had been himself who had originally wanted to carve Iraq up into three separate countries. He skirted the questions and did what politicians do best--talk incessantly without actually saying anything.

But then again, I think the Israelis expected as much out of 'ole "Sloppy Joe."

Waiting for the Vice-President.

Did ya get it, Chris?

Matt enjoying a refreshing energy drink while the Vice-President strings words together.

"Lord, I was born a rambling man!"

Apologies for the blurry pictures. The lighting on the stage was terrible.

Room Raiders

2010-03-06T12:23:00.004+02:00

Immediately prior to my departure home in late January, an event of momentous tragedy occurred which has shifted the entire equilibrium of the MAMEH program. Dominique, (aka The Dominator aka The Quebec Cowboy) yearning the independence that only a separatist can properly muster, moved out of the dorms and into his own apartment. In his wake, there remained only the tattered remains of his roommates and the faintly pungent scent of rotting vegetables in the refrigerator.

Thanks Dom.

Unsure of what to expect with regard to new roommates (most of the undergrads this semester have struck me as Jersey Shore rejects), I decided to play it safe and move into Ryan's room. This has turned out to be an excellent decision on many levels.

Like the Dominator, Ryan is an ideal roommate. We are both on the same wave length in a lot of areas--particularly school, the program, apartment rules, general hygiene, areas of interest, our experiences in Israel, and most importantly, the Lord.

The initial transition was smooth and thus far the new living arrangement has been a tremendous boost in my own productivity. If dorms had personalities, Ryan and I are officially the OCD portion of it. The other half, the half where I formerly resided, has taken on a whole new "personality."

The first of our new roommates, David, is a dual citizen of both France and Canada and has been living in Toronto for the better part of a decade. This is a bit ironic in that technically, he is even more of a French-Canadian than Dom. In this regard, he has single-handedly stolen Quebec's thunder. For this alone we all owe him a debt of gratitude.

David is also Jewish and fairly devout at that. He is a prompt adherent to Shabat rules, kosher living, and reciting the Talmud. He is easy-going, meek, and a much quieter personality than what I've been used to since living in Israel.

David is getting his Masters' degree in Conflict Resolution and is atypical of the stereotypes one might associate with a Frenchman and a Canadian. He carries no ingrained anti-American bias (which seems to be the lifeblood of the French) and possesses a strong affinity toward Israel. He is also a proud supporter of Prime Minister Stephen Harper, the conservative leader of Canada. This is admittedly the first Canadian I've met that has openly supported Prime Minister Harper. Needless to say, Dom was not a fan.

Our second new roommate is an undergraduate from New Jersey (not a Jersey Shore reject thankfully) named Andrew. Andrew is a student at George Washington University in Washington D.C., a place where I stayed during my time interning for Congressman Wilson back in the summer of 2007. He has only been here for a week and half and missed several days of school due to an IDF training program.

Andrew spent two months embedded with the IDF receiving field and weapons training. The program is part of an Israeli initiative to appeal to the Diaspora and to hopefully encourage Jews abroad to make aliyah. The unit he trained with is the famous and revered Golani Brigade--a unit on whose back the nation of Israel has been created and defended--defended at great cost to the proud members of the Brigade.

Andrew was keen to show us all video footage of his tenure with the IDF and to tell us stories. He described Golani as being special not just because of their history, but because of the almost fanatical pride of the unit.

Brian, one of the brightest individuals in our Master's program, was a member of Golani and fought during Operation: Cast Lead in Gaza. Brian also happens to be a scion of wit and stylish hair. But that's also for another entry.

Back to Andrew for a moment.

One of Andrew's first days in this training program saw him and other trainees (many from the U.S., South America, and South Africa) sitting in a dining hall with members of the Brigade. Andrew relayed the following encounter to me while we were talking in the kitchen:

"Where are you from?" the soldier asked Andrew.

"New Jersey," he replied.

"New Jersey huh? So you think you're good enough to be in Golani?" the soldier asked. "You think you want to fight with us?"

"I don't know," Andrew replied. "We'll see."

The soldier apparently looked down at his dish (primarily eggs) and took a few bites before looking at the rest of his compatriots at the table. Then he turned to face Andrew.

"I don't think you're tough enough to make it in Golani," the soldier said matter-of-factly. "We're the best. And the Arab knows we're the best."

"Like I said," Andrew responded. "We'll see."

Watching the videos of Andrew's two-month training program, a small part of my mind trailed off and analyzed why Israel would invest in such an initiative. And the logic of it struck me almost as soon as I ventured down that path.

Israel is suffering from a demographic crisis. Orthodox Jews are exempt from the IDF due to religious reasons--reasons which I won't go in to during this post. But the Orthodox are also the fastest growing group within Israel. It is not uncommon to see Orthodox Jewish girls as young as twenty-three with three children. In short, the Conservative and Reform and secular Jews, which comprise almost the entirety of the Israeli Defense Force, are not making as many babies as the Orthodox.

This means the manpower of the IDF is depleting which is a direct threat to its integrity and in turn Israel's overall defensive capabilities. Thus the need to start looking for assistance elsewhere--namely in the Diaspora.

I didn't mention any of this to Andrew as he showed me what was, objectively speaking, extremely awesome video footage of the firing range and small-unit tactics through the harsh environs of the Negev Desert. But I did take a moment to enjoy the current dynamic of the dorm: three Americans, one Canadian. Two Jews and two Gentiles. All with an abiding appreciation for Israel.

A small miracle. But a miracle nonetheless.

Shavu'a Echad

2010-02-28T15:12:00.004+02:00

The first week back hasn't given any of us much room to breathe. Our classes in Arabic and Hebrew hit the ground running from the very first day and have not relented. Over the break, Tyler, Huoshin, and David took an extra Hebrew Ulpan and have moved up a level ahead of the rest of us.

That has left Dustin, Ryan, Dominique, Titus, and myself as the five remaining Master's students left together in our class. It's a solid core group, but the pressure to move up the rungs of the ladder is intensifying.

We were greeted our first day back with Varda, our Hebrew teacher from the previous semester. She liked us so much that she requested to teach level Bet (B) so she could have us again. I've already noticed that I understand nearly everything she says when she speaks in Hebrew and now that we're out of level Aleph (A), everything is in Hebrew. Lucky me, I guess.

Arabic is different. Despite Dr. Hakim being the most profoundly intelligent and interesting professor that I've ever had, he is an unforgiving terror in Arabic. There has been no time to review what we learned over the past four months. For we have to continue moving forward so that we can translate Arabic sources to use for our papers. This means lots of yelling on his part and lots of fear-induced fingernail chewing and hair-pulling on our part.

He handed our tests back this past Wednesday. Titus and myself managed to skirt by with an A. We both made a 90 on the exam, but when Hakim spoke to me after class, he made it abundantly clear that a 90 means 10% of everything I do is wrong, which is entirely unacceptable.

Personally, I find it a bit unreasonable, if not altogether humorous, that perfection is expected of us in the classroom when it's not even expected from God. I'm still trying to work that one out.

Perhaps the most powerful force on all of our minds are our papers.With papers still due from the previous semester, there seems to be a sense of urgency to work hard for the next few months on progressing toward our degrees. This, in essence, means that we technically are taking eight classes at the moment. The work from last semester hasn't gone away. It's merely been piled on.

Some people are handling the stress of the workload in a highly structured and methodical manner (Tyler and Ryan comes to mind). Some are going about it haphazardly, chaotically bouncing from one task to the other, but no less focused on the task at hand (Huoshin). Others seem to be doing their best just to keep their head above water (Dustin and myself).

The glimmer of hope in all of this is threefold as I see it:

1. We've done this once before, so we know what to expect this time around.
2. We're all in the same boat together.
3. Our seminars for this semester are actually pertinent to our lives and to what is happening around the world.

The three seminars that I selected were Iran: Between Islam and the West, Islam and the West: A Clash of Civilizations?, and Economics and Demographics of the Middle East.

And all three of my professors are absolutely outstanding. Dr. Menashri teaches the Iran class and is regarded as one of the world's leading experts on that country. He was also the professor that sat at the table with Dustin and I all those months ago during the Master's luncheon.

Dr. Shavit is teaching the Islam and the West course, which has been a dream come true. In fact, this one class is essentially the entire reason for why I came. It's an International Relations course on steroids. Already, we've read Francis Fukuyama and Samuel Huntington, two of the 20th century's most influential minds on "neoconservatism." It's a class where debate will surely abide. On the list of topics to discuss will be 9/11, Al-Qaeda, Neoconservatism, the Bush Administration, and the Obama Administration.

Jackpot!

And the Economics class is finally a more scientific and analytical study that has immediate bearing on the current shape of the Middle East. The first day of class, Dr. Rivlin started writing production functions. I could have leapt through the roof. Grab a sledgehammer and start knocking down the Ivory Tower, boys and girls! Finally we have a seminar that is practical! And he is a Brit to boot, which shined through in his dry, self-deprecating humor.

All in all, the first week (shavu'a echad) has been a far smoother transition than even I anticipated. It was good to be home, but it's good to be back.

More updates to come soon.

There And Back

2010-02-22T19:35:00.005+02:00

Hello everyone!

After nearly a month long sanity break spent in the States recharging my batteries, I am now back in Tel Aviv for the second semester. I was thrilled to be home and thoroughly enjoyed catching up with everyone, friends and family alike.

The very first few hours after debarking the plane in Atlanta did more to re-energize me from the first six months abroad than any other single event. Breakfast at the OK Cafe with the rents, Mahal, Aunt Jeanie, Miss Vicki, and Stanley Williams was a pure joy and helped transition me back to an American state of mind.

Stanley was a particular delight. Her presence served as a physical reminder of the importance of family, both immediate and distant, past and present. She really helped cement the importance of my grandmother, who passed years before my birth, on the lives of my father, uncle, aunt, cousins, and myself despite the 'Cuz Crew' and myself never having had the opportunity to meet her. And her curiosity and incisive wit reminded me that some traits are simply too genetically ingrained to be dismissed.

Being back with my friends and my girlfriend granted an opportunity to catch up with the people I care about the most and the people that ultimately keep me going. I spent two hours having the most fulfilling conversation I've ever had with my cousin Brad. To my chagrin and utter amusement, I found Cody and Mitch, unperturbed and laid back as ever, literally sitting in the exact positions I had left them some six months previously. Arthur and Andrew maintained their dependable stoicism and snark respectively. Jeff, through his self-deprecation and devastatingly humorous cynicism, reminded me why we had been lifelong friends. James, as usual, kept me firmly on the balls of my feet with well-timed humor and consequence-free quips aimed at anything and everything.

Chandler, Schriver, Katie, Caroline, and Allison reminded me why we had self-dubbed ourselves 'The Family' throughout the duration of the visit. Because we behave like one--an extremely dysfunctional one in need of serious and routine counseling.

And regardless of whatever changes have taken place in all or none of us over the past six months, the fact is that there is nothing in the world I appreciate more than my friends.

And perhaps the most memorable event of the trip was February 6th, when members from both sides of the family were able to come to Mom and Dad's house for a meal and a rare get-together. Evan and Hillary made their way down from Marietta. Squealer came all the way from South Carolina. Brad rolled in from just down the road in Auburn and wasn't even late to boot. Aunt Joy and Uncle David came in from Wetumpka. Aunt Jeanie drove down from Atlanta. Grandmother, Scratchy, and Aunt Dorenda rounded out the gathering alongside Allison, who had spent the previous six months putting up with me from the opposite side of the planet.

Nothing else needs to be said about that Saturday. It was awesome and will go down as one of the best days in recent memory.

The trip home was more than a much needed respite from the academic grind and the intensity of every day life in Israel, it was a sober reminder of why I am over here in the first place. In an unraveling era of uncertainty and one looming crisis after another, the role that the Middle East is playing and will play on the future of America cannot be understated.

I was humbled to find so many people following my exploits and journey over here. It is no small thing to hear and see first hand the level of interest in this region and in this tiny but peculiarly special nation of Israel.

In the coming months, I anticipate many challenges, trials, and days of immeasurable stress, but I also anticipate a greater acuity with regard to the issues in this region, a tightening of the bonds holding our group together, and an incomparable experience that will carry all of us above and beyond our grandest expectations.

The second chapter of the story starts now.

Fried Camel is officially back in session.

Recharge

2010-01-25T00:53:00.003+02:00

Hey everyone,

Just wanted to announce that Fried Camel will go on a hiatus until late February. The first semester has come to an end and I'm coming home for a much needed break.

I hope to see some or all of you when I get back. Thanks for keeping in touch and for following my Middle East adventure.

See y'all next month.

להתראות

-Drew

David's Shining Star

2010-01-20T16:51:00.006+02:00

By now, everyone is familiar with the opening of the Gates of Hell upon the half-island nation of Haiti. The response by the world has been overwhelming and deservedly so. Although conspicuously absent from the list of nations sending aid and relief is just about every Islamic nation, with the exception of Jordan and Qatar. With one of the five pillars of Islam being that of zakat, alms-giving or charity, such a gaping void in just that is something worth scrutinizing.

I wanted to highlight Israel's contribution to the efforts in Haiti because I think they provide a view into the very soul of Israeli society, as well as some perspective on just how big of an impact this country of 7.5 million has on the world.

The response from Israel was nearly instantaneous. Within minutes of learning of the cataclysmic earthquake that had rocked Haiti, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu had authorized the Israeli Defense Force to immediately deploy with a full field hospital detachment and personnel to provide life-saving support and services.

The IDF arrived and set up search-and-rescue squads immediately to comb the devastation for survivors. In fact, every day since Saturday, the IDF has maintained a three squad detachment to search the rubble for survivors. And they have met success as recently as yesterday.

And more help is on the way.

Hundreds of wounded Haitians have been brought inside the IDF Medical Corps facility and treated. The 121 man team has been operating day and night, providing some 25 life-saving surgeries in the field and delivering three children.

One of the mothers was so overwhelmed by Israel's help that she actually named her child Israel.

The number of Israeli medical personnel outnumbers the contribution of both Great Britain and France.

CNN reported yesterday that Israel is the only country actively taking critically injured patients and trying to save them because Israel is the only country that has a world-class medical facility deployed in the field.

Think about that.

Not even the United States has been able to match the quality of field treatment that the tiny nation of Israel is providing. This nation, so often disparaged by the feckless cabal at the United Nations and so often threatened by the radicals seeking its annihilation, is showing its true colors and its true gifts.

The absence of most of the Muslim states' assistance in this crisis, states who so often air their grievances against Israel in our own media, speaks for itself. Aside from Jordan and Qatar, there has been little-to-no substantial assistance allocated by the others.

There are various reasons why they have not. In some cases, financial constraints and turmoil at home prevents or limits the ability to contribute. These are valid and very real explanations.

But they do not unveil the whole story. Just look at Saudi Arabia. The Kingdom is basking in immense oil wealth. What has its response been? And Indonesia, a Muslim nation familiar with the terror of the 2004 tsunami and the recipient of overwhelming Western aid, has provided little to assist.

This is not to say that Muslims aren't providing assistance in Haiti or aren't donating money and blood to aid the desperate Haitians. Many are. And King Abdullah II of Jordan is proving why his country is so respected in the West.

This is to say, however, that the heart of every nation is on display at this moment. And right now, the light from Israel's heart is far outshining its size.

The CNN video clip of the IDF Medical Corps facility can be found here.

Lt. Colonel Avi Berman of the Israeli Defense Force watching over a recently rescued child.

Alabama Jones and The Latest Crusade

2010-01-15T15:13:00.035+02:00

The alarm on my Blackberry buzzed like a swarm of carpenter bees. Unfortunately, its raison d'etre was wasted. I had not fallen asleep. It had been next to impossible. A storm of excitement and a prickling fear had churned in my stomach through the night.

It was 5:30 a.m. Time to get up.

I wandered in the kitchen and tried to keep my movements as unobtrusive as possible. Ryan and David, our new roommate, were sound asleep in the next room. Dom had not come home during the night which led to believe he had crashed at Chris' apartment or elsewhere.

As I made some scrambled eggs, I tried to focus on the game plan. A few days prior, out of sheer whimsy, I had pitched an idea to go to Petra following the end of Arabic for the semester. That idea had been well received and now five of us were preparing to go to Jordan and spend a day navigating the ancient city.

I forced my thoughts to remain on the plan for getting from Tel Aviv to Petra, but the lack of sleep deflected my attention to the faceless fear that had caused my mind to swirl.

I had a bad feeling about this one. A thousand long forgotten memories had surfaced during the night: Mrs. Brown's first grade class, Brad McDaniel reciting the Presidents of the United Status for Mrs. Livingston (RIP), Brad outrunning everyone during recess football, breaking my ankle during the Chamber's game, Ponder laughing on the bus after Mom successfully derailed Coach Harper's Hooter's expedition, Cody roping a calf from the back of his horse at the Fairgrounds, a conversation with Evan at McAlister's Deli about how I should stop seeking the counsel of men so often, a victory toast from Schriver on the rooftop of Bourbon Street.

I couldn't figure out why these memories had surfaced.

As I washed my hands in the bathroom in preparation to eat, I spun to find Ryan standing in the doorway.

"Bah!"

"Holy sh...dude, don't do that!" I uttered with a startle.

Ryan laughed.

"Do you think it's still possible for me to go?" Ryan asked.

Originally, there had been six of us planning to go to Petra: Dustin, Tyler, Patryk, Huoshin, Ryan, and myself. But financial considerations had forced Ryan to bail out the previous night. A few of us had offered to split the cost of his trip amongst ourselves.

Ryan had wanted to go to Petra all his life. He was an avid Indiana Jones fan. He knew the background of the ancient city better than a tour guide. He had marked going to Petra as one of the top goals of his trip to Israel. And then he had learned the previous night that he didn't have the funds. It was like watching a kid have his birthday presents taken away from him.

Dustin, Huoshin, and myself had offered to help him out. But he had refused citing the fact that he did not want to be indebted to three people.

"Do you think it's still okay?" Ryan asked again.

"Yea," I said. "I told ya last night we would take care of it."

We sat down at the kitchen table to eat breakfast. Our bags were already packed. Five people to Petra had just become six people.

"I didn't sleep last night," I muttered aloud.

"Too excited?"

"I dunno. I did memorize a passage last night though. Psalm 91:9-12."

"What does it say?"

If you make the Most High your dwelling place--even the Lord, who is my refuge, then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. -Psalm 91:9-12

Ryan paused. "You know that's in the New Testament too, right?"

"When Jesus is tempted in the desert by Satan," I said groggily. "Yea...I know."

***

The 8:00 a.m. bus to Eilat rumbled down the highway. Ryan's return had been welcomed by everyone. We had agreed to divide the costs between Dustin, Huoshin, and myself. Ryan had promised to pay us all back whenever he could.

At the back of the bus, an Israeli girl asked me in Hebrew to close the window. She was in her early twenties and was wearing pajamas--her shoes were dog slippers.

"Yea," I said as I reached above Ryan's head and slid the window shut.

"I'm sure you understood every word of that perfectly," Tyler said with a sardonic smile.

"Ani mavin (I understand)!" I fired back.

Soon thereafter, I began to nod off. But it was a futile effort. Unable to fall asleep, I grabbed Ryan's "Uncle John's Bathroom Reader" and started reading random trivia.

It came as a great surprise to know that on April 1, 2003, as U.S. and British forces surged toward Baghdad, the Iraqi ambassador to Russia held a press conference in which he claimed the U.S. had accidentally fired a nuclear warhead and killed 7 British soldiers. The press corps sat stunned. After a few moments, the ambassador replied: "April Fool's."

I don't what became of this man, but I do know that that type of humor should have been rewarded.

***

The bus pulled into the Eilat central bus station at 1:15. This was the second excursion to Eilat in less than a month. The last outing had been a blast. But we wouldn't be spending very much time in the Red Sea resort city.

The six of us marched down from the bus station to the waterfront. We passed the Steak House on our right. I nixed that idea before it came to fruition. The Steak House had been the place where we ate following the Welcome Week in Hell. It had caused some extremely abnormal behavior with our digestive systems.

Our quest for food eventually culminated in Burger Bar. Ryan, Dustin, Tyler, and I stood in line. Without thinking, I ordered my meal in Hebrew.

"Ani rotseh burgur h'bayt eem h'arucha. Shelosh maot."

"Beseder," the girl behind the register responded.

Ryan and Tyler got their meals first and went outside to join Huoshin and Patryk. Patryk was the only non-American in our group. As Dustin's soon-to-be leaving roommate, Patryk hails from Poland. He embodies many of the traits that I've heard Poles possess: good-natured, appreciative, and positively pro-American.

"I've had an uneasy feeling. I didn't want to mention it," I said quietly to Dustin.

He furrowed his brow and looked sideways for a moment.

"It'll be fine. If anything happens, we'll kick some ass," Dustin casually replied.

Wouldn't expect anything less from Dustin.

***

The Yitzhak Rabin Border Crossing rose into view. We had piled into two taxis for the three kilometer drive north of Eilat. I sat in the front seat. Patryk and Huoshin sat in the back.

The cab driver and I bantered back and forth in Hebrew. My conversational skills were improving, albeit slowly. He laughed when I told him in Hebrew that people in Alabama hunt bear and bad people.

"Is there not a law against that?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Nope," I responded. "Shooting bad guys is not only socially acceptable, but encouraged."

He seemed genuinely interested that we were going to Petra, even though he probably ferried people there all the time.

"Well, can you tell us anything about Jordan?" Huoshin asked him.

The cabbie paused as he pulled up to the front gate of the border crossing. He thought for a moment and then turned around to answer Huoshin.

"If the Jordanians ask you for 100 dinar, give them no more than 1," he said with a smile. "They like ripping people off."

"See there, Huosh, he can tell us something about Jordan," I said with a laugh.

***

"The word you said did not mean dorms," the Israeli woman at the Change station said with a laugh. "It means self-pleasure."

Huoshin turned red in the face and dropped his head into his hands. We were all laughing hysterically.

"Have a good day!" the Israeli woman said sarcastically.

"It's already better!" I said in the midst of a chorus of laughter.

The next stop was Passport Control. We were still on the Israeli side of the border. I had exchanged some 1,000 shekels for roughly 170 dinar. The rate was beyond absurd. In a completely inexplicable twist of fate, the dinar was actually stronger than the dollar. One dinar is equally to exactly one dollar and fifty cents.

Now, I knew the dollar had been battered like an abused wife courtesy of the financial engineers back home, but seeing and experiencing the effects of it was disheartening.

At the Passport Control window, the IDF officer asked us to show a receipt proving that we had paid the 94 shekel exit fee. That's right, Israel charges an exit fee.

I rummaged through my wallet to no avail.

"Oh don't worry, I have all day," the female officer said, sarcasm dripping down her uniform.

"Good to know."

"Come on, Drew," Dustin said with a hint of exasperation.

"I'm trying to find it."

"Take your time," the Israeli girl said. "It's your world, we're just living in it."

"Aren't you just a little ray of sunshine?" I fired back.

After a solid two minutes, I finally found the receipt in a side pocket of my wallet. I whipped it out and slid it under the window.

"Have a wonderful day!" the IDF girl said with a grin.

"And yom tov to you, too!"

The next step required us to pass through a final inspection of our passports by Israeli border security. The border agent flipped through each of our security papers and passports as a M-4 toting IDF officer gave us all a look over. The sun glimmered off his sunglasses. A smirk crept to the corners of his mouth.

"Enjoy your trip," he said caustically.

Walking down the long road toward the Jordanian border crossing, fencing on either side of the road quarantined large sections of arid, desert. A sign on the fence read in Hebrew, Arabic, and English: "Danger Mines!"

Is there any other kind?

Ryan mentioned that Jordan spent the third most of any Middle Eastern country on security. I knew that the Hashemite Kingdom's security forces were relentless and dedicated. King Abdullah II was one of America's few allies in the region. Following the 9/11 attacks, he had offered Jordan's intelligence apparatus to aid the West in battling the radical Islamists across the Middle East.

Just two weeks ago in Afghanistan, a Jordanian turncoat had blown himself up at the CIA's Khost station, killing 7 CIA officers and one of Jordan's highest ranking intelligence officers. That little detail of a Jordanian officer dying went unnoticed in the ensuing media coverage.

Jordan has personnel in Afghanistan, quietly and professionally helping the CIA pick off Al-Qaeda targets throughout the region. This comes as little surprise given that King Abdullah II's mother is an American.

After going through security, passport control, and customs, we stepped out into the open area where taxis sat lined up awaiting new arrivals. It was awesome adding another stamp to the passport.

"Welcome to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan," a giant sign read.

The final security officer greeted each of us with a "Good day. Welcome to Jordan." And in an impressive display of hospitality, he even spoke Polish to Patryk.

We had crossed into Jordan.

***

"Fifteen dinar," I fired back.

The two Jordanian cabbies laughed in response. They were dressed in suits. One was a smaller man who spoke flawless English. The other was a tall and heavier man who fancied himself as the Don Corleone of cab drivers.

"I tell you what, you go fill up the gas and then you tell me if 20 dinar isn't a deal, my friend," the smaller cabbie told me.

"We're your only customers," Ryan said. "And I'm fine with waiting around for a better offer."

This was Egypt all over again. Except this time, we weren't about to pay what they wanted us to pay. Dustin had a mixture of contentment and detachment from the whole process. Patryk was disinclined to acquiesce to their request. Tyler stood back and played it cool, as is his usual temperament. But Huoshin and Ryan were bartering animals.

"We'll pay fourteen if you're lucky," Huoshin deadpanned.

The kid was in his element. Having grown up in Taiwan and spent a considerable amount of time throughout Asia, Huoshin was adept at breaking the backs of his bartering opponents.

"It is twenty dinar," al-Corleone announced with fervor. "This is your last offer! You can stand here all day!"

"Okay," Huoshin said. "We'll wait."

"Look, we're poor college students and our friends just came through here a few weeks ago. They paid fifteen dinar a piece," I told the smaller cabbie.

"That's because they were four people per cab," he responded.

"They were two people total!" I said with exasperated incredulity.

Huoshin walked back to where we were all standing. A group of Asian tourists started to file in behind us. For a brief moment, I became worried that they were gonna ruin our game. Then I realized that they were heading toward the charted tour buses a little further down the road.

Huoshin and Ryan returned and dogged them some more as the rest of us sat back and watched. Patryk and I exchanged grins as Huoshin threw his hands up in the air. I quietly hoped he would start speaking Mandarin just to throw the cabbies off their game.

A few moments later, Huoshin walked back to the group.

"50 dinars per cab," he said. "That's down from 60 dinars per cab. I suggest we take it."

Congratulations Huoshin. You just saved the group a collective thirty dollars.

***

Aqaba was Jordan's port city. It sat on the Red Sea and was directly across from Eilat. Our two cabs zipped through the streets at a wild clip. Unlike the trek through the Sinai, we were not all riding in unmarked white vans. We were in smaller, nicer cars. Tyler, Huoshin, and I rode in the back car. Dustin, Patryk, and Ryan were in the front vehicle.

The city of Aqaba was a developing one for the Hashemite Kingdom. The goal was to turn Aqaba into a resort style city with a bustling port capable of rivaling Eilat. It was also the site of an attempted terror attack on a US warship in 2005 from the very dead Abu Musab al-Zarqawi's terror group: the dying and defunct Al-Qaeda in Mesopotamia.

Our cabbie couldn't speak a lick of English. Tyler tried speaking Arabic to him. Unfortunately the entire point of our Arabic course is not to be able to speak Arabic, but rather to be able to read and translate. Colloquial Arabic is nothing like the written form that we are learning.

"Nahnu darasa Arabi jamiati," Tyler said with a stutter and intermittent chuckles.

In the backseat, Huoshin and I watched the landscape roll past us. The Jordanian mountains were impressive. They were smaller than their cousins across the way in the Sinai Peninsula, but nevertheless they stretched on for eternity.

Our cab driver was a good-natured man who laughed at just about everything we said. He even took time to point out things to us and tell us their names in Arabic. It was a good way to kill the two hour drive to Wadi Musa.

I passed in and out of consciousness. It was 4:00 p.m. and I had been out of bed since 5:30 a.m. with little sleep from the night before. Tyler continued to try to speak Arabic with the help of a book titled "Making Out In Arabic."

As a Sigma Chi from Florida State, this revelation was par for the course for Tyler.

Flipping through the book, I raised a few eyebrows at the phrases contained with it. Huoshin snatched it from me and began looking it over.

"Might want to hold off on some of these, Tyler."

"I want to touch your butt," Huoshin said aloud. He looked up from the book and over at me with an expression that could only be characterized as confused.

"Like that one for instance."

***

We were given "free" orange juice for shelling out the fifty dinars per vehicle. I knew we had still been ripped off. But fortunately, we had avoided being taken completely to the wood shed.

I figured the cabbies thought for fifty dinars per car, the least they could do was throw in "free" orange juice.

As we approached the outskirts of Wadi Musa, the terrain changed dramatically. Instead of desert driving, we were now high up in the mountains. But these mountains were not the jagged, rocky ones that we had come to expect. Instead, the texture was smoother. The hills were more rounded and the rocks seemed to be arranged in a way that made them blend in with the sand.

The driver blared Arab music as we approached the mountainside city of Wadi Musa. It reminded me of a city built on the very side of the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina. As night fell, the green lights from the city's mosques cast all in a verdant pall.

Tyler continued his campaign to speak Arabic; his persistence causing some confusion on both ends.

"Driver...uhh...means crazy," the driver said to Tyler.

"You should make that your blog title," Tyler said to me as he laughed.

The winding roads cut through store fronts set in garages, half-constructed buildings, and packs of roaming Jordanian men. A group of kafiyeh-wearing congregants stood outside one of the mosques and glared at us as our two-taxi convoy zipped past.

I put on my game face. If I have learned anything from my experience with Arab culture, it is two-fold: show respect and show confidence.

The cabs pulled up in front of the Sun Set Hotel. The six of us piled out.

"Everyone wait here," Tyler said. "One of us should go check this hotel out."

"You want to do it since you talked to them on the phone or you want me to go?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter."

"I'll go then," I said as I ran up to the steps to the hotel front.

I walked through the glass doors into the lobby of the Sun Set Hotel. The pink facade of its exterior did not lend itself too well to my particular hopes, but I was hoping to be pleasantly surprised.

I was not.

The hotel owner wore glasses and was balding. He seemed like a nice guy. I asked to see one of the rooms and he agreed to take me upstairs to look.

***

"The rooms look...okay," I said cautiously. "But I'm not gonna lie, it looks like Fallujah on the second floor."

The hotel owner gave us three rooms. He took our passports and typed in our names and numbers in case we tried to get away without paying the next morning.

I gave everyone a final warning as he walked up the stairs toward our third floor rooms. But to get to the third floor, we had to pass through the second.

"What the hell?!" Dustin said with a bellow and a shocked laugh.

"The Marines just left," I said with laughter.

Rubble was strewn throughout the floor. Entire sections of the walls were collapsed. Exposed plumbing ran out from both the floor and the wall at peculiar angles. The windows were merely massive holes that looked like they had been blown open by RPGs. Perhaps they had been.

Tyler's camera came out of his jacket. He panned the war zone.

"You said the rooms are okay, right?" Huoshin asked me with a semblance of concern.

"Absolutely," I said with a hint of showmanship.

We went upstairs to put our stuff away and get ready to grab some dinner. We had a long day coming up. One that would also start at 5:30 a.m.

***

"This is your second visit?" asked the gatekeeper.

"No," Patryk said.

"Yes," Huoshin said.

"Your friends will not be able to enter," the gatekeeper said sternly.

Damnit.

It was 7:30 in the morning. We were standing at the entrance into Petra. Huoshin and Patryk had bought tickets from the hotel owner (two 2-Day Passes) for what he said was a discount price. Tyler and I had refused, recognizing a scalper when we saw one.

The hotel owner turned out to be a con artist. I had managed to save us all a collective fifteen dinar by canceling a third room and convincing the hotel owner to let us sleep three to a room. That morning, complementary breakfast had been thrown in and all seemed to be off to a great start.

The muezzin had woken us up at 5:00 a.m. with the morning call to prayer from the mosque, but other than that we had no complaints.

Until Huoshin and Patryk were screwed over. Or so it appeared.

It turns out that the tickets they had bought had been used the previous day and the Jordanian Antiquities Division (which was run by the Jordanian government and overseen by their security apparatus) did not take too kindly to people trying to cheat their way into Petra.

But they really did not like it when Jordanians tried to screw over tourists. There was trouble at the gates, but it turned out not to be for us.

Within five minutes, the gate keeper had called the hotel owner and requested that he be brought down via taxi to explain himself. Huoshin and Patryk were given their money back to go buy a one day pass like the rest of us, while the gatekeeper berated the hotel owner in Arabic. A Jordanian police officer, armed to the teeth, stood off to the side and watched.

"That dude is getting a knock on his door tonight courtesy of the King's special service," Tyler said with a smirk. "And he has all day to think about it."

"I knew those tickets were gonna cause trouble."

"We were warned not to buy any tickets from anyone outside the gates," Dustin reminded us.

Patryk and Huoshin sauntered down the hill toward us. Huoshin smiled. Patryk looked unhappy and then eventually smiled, too.

"Good," Ryan quipped. "Patryk caught Huoshin's smiling disease."

***

The road to Petra is a long one. It is rock-strewn and filled with Bedouins on horseback. Like a chapter out of 1,001 Arabian Nights, the Bedouins race down the mountainous, desert trails at high speed on their horses, clothes and kafiyehs billowing in their wake.

Through the passage of time, these tribal people could just as well be the ancestors of the Umayyads, the Isamaili assassins, the Ottoman legions, and the horse riders of the Arab Revolt led by Lawrence of Arabia. They know their trade. And no one is better at it than they are.

The morning light cast the entrance into ancient Petra in a mixture of grays and dull browns. The "red rocks" of Petra turn various colors depending on light and precipitation. It is one of the many attractions to the area.

On our left, the first of many rock-carved structures emerged. It was the Obelisks, a massive tomb-like building with four pillars at its top. Ryan took over as our de facto tour guide, telling us the history of the Nabatean people who used to live in Petra.

After a solid twenty minute hike along the rock-laden path, we arrived at the canyon entrance. Here was the historical entrance into the city. And here was the reason why no army could ever conquer Petra. The narrow canyon path created thousands of choke points. Holes and hiding places were carved out all along the path, creating perfect ambush spots. An entire army could be and would be chopped to pieces.

What I didn't know at the time was that this was the only way into the city. There was no back route. The mountains that we would climb later in the day made sure that Petra was a city in a valley enclosed by their insurmountable edifices. It was a city with its back against a wall. There was only one way in this ancient, hidden place. And only one way out.

Ryan was like a kid set loose on a playground. He was climbing left and right. And we hadn't even set foot in the valley or the city yet. Still making our way through the canyon, we found the trek to be twice as long as the initial path to the canyon entrance.

"Just pretend I'm not here," Ryan said as he slipped behind a large rock off the beaten path.

"That shouldn't be too hard!" I said as I jumped off the path to avoid a Jordanian tour guide and his two guests.

If Ryan were seen, we might be in for a little hassle. Tyler yelled for the all-clear and encouraged us to hurry up. We had to be back at the Petra gate by 3:00 p.m. to catch our cab back to the border. That gave us only about six hours to trek all across Petra--not enough time to see everything.

***

The Treasury is the most famous of Petra's buildings. It was the site of the holy grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. And it literally just appears through the crack of the canyon at the most unexpected of moments. As sun light slipped down to the mortal coil below, the monumental edifice of the Treasury stunned all six of us into awe.

Cameras were whipped out in near perfect synchronization.

We walked out into the open alcove area where the Treasury was constructed. Here the canyon broadened into a large circular area that would have been perfect for a market or commerce center during the time of the Nabateans. And this is what they were known for to the outside world. Petra, at its height, was a prime trading stop for supply caravans.

"I'm stealing the carpenter's cup!" I said.

"You'll explode when you cross the seal," Dustin pronounced without hesitation.

"Killjoy."

"Oh snap!" I declared. "Camels!"

Three camels rested on their haunches in front of the Treasury. The docile creatures turned their heads from left-to-right, following each of us with a surprising deftness.

"You want to ride camel?" a Bedouin yelled.

"Nope," I responded. "Just want it to sit still for a moment."

We finished taking pictures around the Treasury after about twenty minutes. Bullet holes marked where its carved images had been defaced by Muslims who believed that such pictorial representations of humans were idolatrous. Tyler's disdain at such an act could not be masked. He reminded all of us of the Taliban destroying the massive Buddhist statues in Afghanistan-- statues that had been thousands of years old.

And we would see more evidence of this practice at the end of our journey through Petra.

***

Outside the Treasury the canyon gave way to a sprawling valley surrounded on all sides by beautiful mountains. But what was more awe-inspiring was the city, literally carved from rock, that sat on both sides of the pathway and rose all the way to the tops of the mountains.

Bedouins opened up their shops and attended to their daily rituals. A group of children seemed to be devising a strategy for selling their wares to the gaggle of incoming tourists. A four person Bedouin family cooked breakfast on an open fire in front of their rock hovel.

Donkeys brayed all about, their cries echoing throughout the entire valley. Bands of dogs chased each other and followed the Bedouin children.

It was surreal.

The dull brown coloring gave way to a brighter, more reddish color, to which the city had come to be known by its nickname: the "Rose-Red City."

We came across an ancient amphitheater built by the Romans following their conscription of the territory into the Empire. Ryan filled us all in on the history of it and how many people it could seat and for what purpose it had been constructed.

Reason gave way to curiosity soon thereafter. Following Ryan's lead, we decided to climb up the mountains overlooking the village and looking out toward the city center where we had yet to visit.

Darting through ancient stone hallways and rock hovels and climbing up exceedingly dangerous and slippery portions of the old village, we pushed our way forward. The amazing thing was that people still lived here. Occasionally, we would find Bedouin blankets and trash marking where they had been the previous night.

The thought of habitation here was stunning.

At one point, we clambered past a donkey which had been tied into its rock alcove-turned-barn. It brayed at us and then failed to give us a second thought as he it bent down toward its stack of hay. A Bedouin girl sitting out in front of her tent on the mountain side called for us to join her for some tea.

But we were on a mission. And Tyler reminded us that the water probably hadn't been boiled. Touche.

Ryan disappeared from everyone for a while and reappeared from about a hundred feet up looking down on us. The kid had turned into a wild man. Slipping through what could have been called the Eye of the Needle en route to catch up with Ryan, I noticed a cat sitting on the ledge below.

"There's a cat over there." I shouted across to Dustin and Tyler.

Following in my wake, Dustin and Tyler inspected it. The cat looked up at Dustin in terror and bounded down a ravine. It wasn't quit suicide, but it was close.

"Nah, that was a Jordanian mountain lion," Tyler shouted back.

Unfortunately for me, Ryan had left his backpack on the ground. I had to carry his pack and my own during the climb, feeling more and more like a sherpa with every passing second during the climb.

"Appreciate it man," Ryan said as he grabbed his backpack.

"Don't ever do that again."

We ventured a little further up and finally reached a plateau. The view kicked us all in the teeth. We looked down on the specks of people in the old Nabatean village and saw the ruins of the old Roman theater. Beyond was the stone-paved walkway leading past a row of colonnades ruins toward what was the "city center." And looking down over the city center was the ancient site of the Crusader fortress.

"Wow," was all any of us could manage to utter.

Mount Sinai had been an amazing experience. This was rapidly surpassing even that indelible trip. I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was already 10:00 a.m. We had to move if we wanted to reach the Monastery.

"Alright, let's rock and ride," I exclaimed.

"As soon as you clean the Petra sand out of your v.." Dustin deadpanned behind me.

"Sheket Carmack."

***

"You speak English really well," Tyler stated to the little Bedouin girl following us.

"I go to school," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "They teach us English."

"What grade are you in?"

"Sixth."

The little girl had been waiting on one of the 800 stairs leading up to the Monastery. She even had a faux Coach purse. At first she had tried to sell us something, then called for us to wait, and then finally sighed heavily and shoved her wares in her purse to follow us up.

Tyler and I spoke with her a little more from the back of our group. Dustin was bulldogging it up the mountain. As was his custom, whenever he had a goal, he pursued it with tenacity and full devotion. There was no half-assing it at this juncture.

We passed a Bedouin tent and the little girl dropped off to stay with a couple more girls her age. Every time we passed the Bedouins at their strategically placed locations, they would call to us to look at their goods. The chorus of "Everything one dinar!" became as ingratiated into my psyche as that of the D.C. Metro's automated voice when I had worked on the Hill.

This hike was not only difficult, it was treacherous. At one point, Huoshin had to stop to drink water and catch his breath. We passed by a ravine easily five hundred feet deep, skirting along the side wall of the mountain in our final push to reach the Monastery.

As the wind whipped about us and the cold air began to take way, we soon emerged through a narrow mountain pass into a plateau. Off to our left was a Bedouin bazaar and restaurant. Off to our right was the towering structure of the Monastery, carved into the very mountain itself.

***

Standing as tall as the Treasury, the Monastery looked out over the Jordanian Mountains and the Arava Desert. It was the perfect mountain redoubt for solitude. And we learned just how impossible it would have been to attack Petra from the West.

Ryan bolted off toward the Monastery. Dustin, Tyler, and myself took a seat on some benches in front of the Bedouin-run restaurant.

"Ryan wait up!" Huoshin exclaimed.

Dropping his duffle bag beside us, he darted after Ryan.

"Huoshin's great. The kid just does the goofiest stuff." Tyler quipped.

At about that moment, Huoshin tried to climb the wall leading into the mouth of the Monastery. Ryan stood atop and watched. Huoshin slipped off and dropped to the ground. Patryk's laughter reverberated across the plateau.

"Hey guys, shut up!" Huoshin yelled back.

"He'll fall again now that he knows we're all watching." Tyler said.

"You know he used to be a wannabe Asian gangster, right?" I offered.

"Awesome!" Huoshin's voiced echoed across the valley after a successful second attempt.

"You're kidding me..."

Behind us, a small puppy rolled around in the sand. It was pretty awesome until Tyler ruined the moment by pointing out that the only thing it had to look forward to on this mountain redoubt was death.

After Ryan and Huoshin returned from the Monastery, we opted to head toward an encampment a little further ahead with a sign that read: "The End of the World."

Sounds promising.

***

The End of the World was not an exaggeration. From the very edge of the mountain, we looked out over the rest of the Jordanian mountains and the great Arava desert beyond.

A mattress sat nestled on the very edge of the cliff.

"Now this is what I call living on the edge," Huoshin observed with a cheesy grin.

We gathered together on the top rock and sat down to soak it all in. It was a moment where you literally felt like you could touch the face of God. On my way up, however, God felt inclined to interject a little more levity into the experience.

"Ah crap," I said as I looked down.

"Ahahahaha," Dustin bellowed as he whipped out his camera.

My jeans had ripped straight down my left thigh, right along the crotch seam. My blue and white checkered boxers were suddenly exposed to the elements. Fortunately, I had packed some extra shorts in my backpack in case the weather became too warm for jeans. Looks like my retentiveness had paid off for once.

We asked a couple of Korean tourists to take our picture from the "End of the World." They happily obliged as we all grouped together. Then Huoshin asked me to take an "epic shot" of him staring out into what seemed like infinity.

"You sure you want this angle?" I asked Huoshin.

"Yea," Huoshin said confidently.

"Even with that giant zit on the side of your face?"

"Thanks, Drew." Huoshin said with a sigh.

We hung around for a solid thirty minutes before beginning the arduous journey back down the mountain and to the Petra "city center." The trek back was a lot cooler than the trek up, if only because I was wearing shorts.

We passed more and more of our Bedouin friends.

"Everything one dinar!" a little Bedouin girl yelled.

"Hey, Tyler, you hear that? Everything's just one dinar!"

"Sounds like a deal, man," Tyler remarked tongue-in-cheek.

"Everything two dinar!" the little girl suddenly yelled.

"I thought it was one dinar!" I protested.

The girl, no more than nine years old, cracked a full smile.

"Clever little twit aren't you."

When we reached the bottom, we came to a crossroads on what to do. We were running short on time. Ryan wanted to try to find the Springs and the burial grounds. So we followed him down a path--a path to nowhere.

En route, Huoshin, Patryk, and Ryan quarreled amicably over the route to the Springs. Dustin turned toward me and made an astute observation. Husohin was holding the map up and pointing at various way points.

"Can't you see Huoshin in 30 years as that dad with the fanny pack, the map, the..." Dustin said as he started to laugh.

"The floppy hat and the camera hanging around his neck." I finished.

"Dude, I'm pretty sure we go this way!" Huoshin said adamantly to Patryk.

"Absolutely," I answered Dustin.

It turned out that no one had any idea where we were going. And in fact we were wandering on government land run by Bedouins. We found lemon tree orchards and orange tree groves that were sectioned off. They were settled in a massive gorge where every step literally rolled my ankles like a ship being tossed at sea.

It was a small miracle that they didn't roll completely or break. After twenty minutes of hiking, it became apparent that we were going nowhere. And the silence of the gorge was more than a bit unsettling.

Every muscle in my body was aching. My feet throbbed from the pain. And I took particular offense to a flock of goats looking down on us condescendingly from a ledge.

"Perfect place for an ambush," I said through gritted teeth.

"No kidding," Tyler said with some disgust.

"We can't run away either."

"Guess we'll have to stand and fight."

"With what exactly?"

An elderly Bedouin man emerged from between a pair of olive trees. He was riding on the back of a donkey. Huoshin approached him and asked if we were close to the Springs.

Negative.

We tracked back the way we had come and eventually made it to the city center. It was almost 1:00. We had to be back at the front gate by 3:00 p.m. This meant we needed to allocate about an hour to get back.

Sitting down for a water break, we all decided that time was wasting. We climbed up the ridge toward the Petra Cave Museum when we saw a sign that read "Crusader Fortress."

Jackpot.

Winding our way around a massive mountainous spire that could have been used for a scene in Lord of the Rings, we saw even more rock hovels carved into the mountains across the gorge below us. In fact, looking down, we soon realized that the gorge was where we had just come from.

Seeing a couple of people crossing a wooden bridge at the top of the spire, we felt renewed vigor to push ahead on this final hike to the top of the Crusader Fortress.

Small green plants sprouted forth from the hill side and throughout a hidden valley stretching further south. Dustin started whistling a rendition of the Green Acres theme song. I focused on the climb up.

Halfway up the brutally steep climb, my knees began to feel jolts of pain coursing through them. Dustin's knees had been giving him hell all day. No one complained. Everyone kept going.

"I sense Patryk behind me," I said as we neared the halfway mark.

"Yes," he stated. "I'm waiting for the perfect opportunity to push you off."

"My advice is to wait until we reach a ledge."

"I will. And when I shove you, you won't do anything," Patryk said in his crisp Eastern European twang.

"Nonsense," I countered. "I'll be dying."

Finally, at the zenith of our climb, we reached a mound of stone rubble. Blocks that had been crushed into oblivion by Muslims seeking to annihilate any evidence of the Crusader's claim to the region.

A girl and her father were waiting for us. They were Australians who were doing some geocaching. The girl was about sixteen or seventeen years old and very pretty.

They welcomed us as we moved toward the top of the Crusader ruins. At the top, someone had created a peace symbol with rocks. Ryan turned to see me scattering the rocks with unremitting fury.

"Why are you destroying the peace sign?" Ryan asked in concern.

"I just climbed all the way up here," I said with heavy breath. "I reserve the right to do whatever the hell I want."

After a few moments of creative rearrangement, I stood back and admired my work.

"There," I said in satisfaction. "Now it's a V for Victory sign."

Looking up, we saw the entire valley of Petra. It wasn't the same monumental view from the "End of the World," but it was nevertheless an all-encompassing view of the valley from its centralized point.

Nabatean civilization had just been conquered. I looked down at the stone rubble of the Crusader fortress and recalled part of the verse that I had memorized the day before.

For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

Amen to that.

Crossing Jordan. From (L) to (R): Dustin, Me, Patryk, Huoshin, and Tyler.

Cash Money Dinars!

Dustin marking his territory in the rubble of the Sun Set Hotel.

The Treasury.

Ryan and I hanging out with the camels.

Me and Joe.

Overlooking the valley of Petra.

The Theater. Courtesy of the Roman Empire.

It was cold at the time.

Anyone home?

Standing the test of time.

Trek to the Monastery.

The Monastery.

The End of the World.

Standing on the edge.

Dustin, Patryk, and Ryan living on the edge.

Tyler and I staring off into the distance. Kind of gay but what can you do?

Group Shot: From (L) to (R) is Huoshin, Dustin, Me, Patryk, Ryan, and Tyler.

Exodus

2010-01-11T15:21:00.006+02:00

The apartment was a hollow echo of what it had once been. It wasn't just empty. It was barren. Stefan K sat alone at his desk clicking away on his laptop--the only item still left in the entire room.

Dustin, Stefan, and I stepped inside and succeeded at snapping Stefan K out of his reverie.

"Hey guys," he said as he stood up from his desk. His expression was an impossible-to-mimic mixture of elation and disappointment.

"This is it."

He smiled as he shook each of our hands and slapped us on the back. The time had come for Stefan's departure back to Germany.

***

We sat on the balcony outside Stefan K's room. It was close to 7:30 p.m. He had to catch the train to Ben-Gurion International Airport at 11:50 p.m. for his 5:00 a.m. Lufthansa flight back to Berlin.

Ryan and Dominique joined us along with Stefan K's roommate, Mike. The Dominator had brought a bag full or Royal Dutch beer for the occasion; a brew that neither Ryan nor Stefan cared to indulge themselves with. The German contingent at TAU had probably blitzkrieged through thirty or more cases of the stuff since their arrival.

This of course was more than acceptable in our minds. As Germans, their beer-drinking abilities were considerable, impressive, and far more responsible than their American counterparts.

One of the better attributes of European culture (if there is such an homogenous thing) is that they drink as part of a social etiquette as opposed to an American's mere desire to drink to get as trashed as possible. Sure, it may not be nearly as entertaining and make for far fewer stories, but it does at least cut down on the funeral services.

Being on both the kicking and receiving end of that particular fact, I can appreciate the disparity.

Royal Dutch struck me as the equivalent of Natty Light back home. I could tell immediately that it was about the quantity as opposed to the quality. This was my first Royal Dutch. Shortly after tasting it, I swore that it would also be my last.

Stefan K raised his can: "L'chaim."

"L'chaim!"

***

"Did you work on the Hill?" Mike asked Dustin bluntly.

"I worked for a think tank," Dustin replied affably.

"Which one?" Mike followed up.

"The Heritage Foundation," Dustin responded.

"Alright, some fellow conservatives!" Mike said enthusiastically. "Wait, are you also conservative?"

"Yea," Stefan said in his French-Irish accent. He leaned back against the balcony's side wall, his chair on the cusp of collapsing if he proceeded any further. "Well, according to Drew, I think I am," he added with a hearty laugh.

"You're looking at the first French member of the NRA," I stated unequivocally.

Mike, clearly pleased to finally meet the rumored "conservative underground" took Dustin up in a conversational maelstrom. Come to find out, his mother was the civilian head of Bethesda Naval Hospital and dealt with our wounded warriors on a daily basis.

The topic soon centered around D.C. Ryan told an amusing story about a canoeing incident on the Potomac when he had worked in D.C. Dustin shared a few stories of his own from his time at Heritage. For a little while, I simply zoned out as a cavalcade of memories from Washington D.C. flooded my mind, jolting memories long pigeonholed in the deep recesses of my mind.

"Sometimes I still look around and can't believe that I'm in Tel Aviv," Dustin said, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yea, it went by so fast, too," Stefan K added. His German accent seemed wistful.

"In a way it has, but I'm gonna be honest, there are times when I think that everything before I came to Israel was just a dream," I said sincerely.

"It is wery much like a dream for me as well," Stefan K added, dropping the hard 'v' sound and opting instead for the more familiar 'w' sound of his native tongue.

"I mean, I've felt like I've been here forever, dude," I uttered with a head nod. Dustin nodded slowly to that as well.

There was a pause. It was starting to get cold outside.

"It has been the best experience of my life. Germany is familiar, quiet, and more comfortable. Israel is none of these things, but it is so interesting," Stefan iterated.

"Must be really interesting for an Alabama and Missouri boy, too," Mike added with a grin.

"Yea!" Dustin and I said simultaneously.

***

It was 10:00 p.m. Two and half hours had passed by in what seemed like a minute. We had relieved the Dahab debacle for the benefit of Mike, who hadn't heard all the details of that epic trip. Both Stefans and myself also rehashed the Bethlehem trip on Christmas Eve.

As the clock moved closer to 10:00, there was just five of us left. Ryan and Stefan had left early to go cook dinner.

"That Dahab trip I'll be rehashing for the next 30 years," I said as a shook my head.

"It was as you say, 'epic,'" Stefan said with a laugh.

Laughter was followed by a silence once again. Dustin looked a sleepy as I felt. Stefan looked like he didn't want to leave.

I extended my hand toward Stefan.

"It was a pleasure, sir."

"It was a pleasure."

We shook hands one last time.

"When you come to Germany, you know you have a place to stay."

"And when you come to 'Bama, we'll go mud-riding and shoot stuff."

"Sounds like a plan."

From (L) to (R): Benjamin, Stefan K, Me, Dominator, Dustin, Tyler, Ryan, Liz, Stefan, and Elana (Bethlehem)

From (L) to (R): Dustin, Elana, Me, and Stefan K (Taba, Egypt)

From (L) to (R): Stefan K, Elana, Stefan, Dustin, and Me (Dahab, Egypt)

Sword and Shield

2010-01-07T08:21:00.004+02:00

In a few hours, I'll be taking my Arabic final. But I thought I'd take a few moments to inform everyone about this interesting development. As reported at the Jerusalem Post:

Israel inched a step closer on Wednesday to deploying the Iron Dome missile defense system along the border with the Gaza Strip after it successfully intercepted a number of missile barrages in tests held in southern Israel this week.

This is a potential game changer for the region and for the West. The U.S. has been struggling with its missile defense shield for years. The Israelis may have finally gotten the hang of it.

Why is this important?

Because being able to stop incoming missile barrages from Iranian proxies like Hamas and Hezbollah would be awfully helpful in the decision-making process on whether to finally "unsheathe the sword" and deal with the Iranian regime's nuclear program.

If the shield is ready, is the sword soon to follow?

More to come.

A Conversation With Bernard Lewis

2010-01-04T18:14:00.003+02:00

Yesterday, Tel Aviv University hosted renowned historian and scholar Bernard Lewis for a discussion on his life and his insight on issues in the Middle East.

If Bernard Lewis sounds familiar that's because he is essentially the most prolific historian of the 20th Century on the Middle East. Born in 1916 in England, Lewis wrote his first book on the Middle East in 1940 when he was only twenty-four years old (i.e. my age). This year he turns ninety-four.

Initially, this information caused some bruising to my ego until I found out that he speaks thirteen languages and realized the entire auditorium put together could not compare to him. The man is a genius and a legend.

Some of the highlights about Bernard Lewis' life mentioned last night that are either poorly covered or not found on his Wikipedia page are, to paraphrase him, "utterly astonishing."

*Lewis' first book on the Ismailis, a revolutionary sect within Islam, was written in large part due to Lewis' own affinity with Marxism when he was young. He would later abandon Marxist thought following World War II.

*His first book was rushed to publication in 1940 due to the possibility that there would be no guarantee of it being published following the war. Or to put it more bluntly, there was no guarantee that there would be an England at all.

*Lewis became fascinated with the Middle East when his parents hired a private Hebrew tutor (Lewis is Jewish) in preparation for his bar mitzvah. Instead of just wanting to learn enough Hebrew to get him through the religious rite of passage, he instead wanted to learn it as a spoken language, which shocked everyone. At that time, Hebrew was only a language utilized for prayer and religious ceremonies.

It would be resurrected as a spoken language after nearly two thousand years in obscurity in 1948 with the creation of Israel. מצוין

*In 1950, after being brought on as Chair of Near-Eastern Studies at the University of London, he returned to the Middle East. Because he was Jewish, he was only allowed into two nations: Israel and Turkey. Thus, he spent most of his time in Turkey doing his work on Ottoman and Turkish history.

*Lewis was personal friends with the late King Hussein of Jordan whom he described last night as a very "decent man." He was also acquaintances with the late Shah of Iran. In fact, the Shah of Iran came to Lewis in utter dismay in the late 1970's and asked him why the Americans were abandoning him.

Chilling.

*The public spat between Lewis and Edward Said (a Palestinian-American English professor at Columbia University), who wrote the famous/infamous book Orientalism, came to define Bernard Lewis. Said's book purported the notion that the travails of the Middle East were largely due to Western interference. He also espoused the claim that the West only studied the Middle East in order to conquer it (sound familiar?).

Last night, Lewis, in an impressive display of energy for a ninety-three year old, asked aloud "Where does ignorance come to an end and deception begin?"

Lewis pointed out last night that the first Middle Eastern and Arabic studies programs in Europe were created in the 17th Century, long before designs of imperialism were conceived and at a time when Europe was under siege from the Muslim Ottoman Empire (Vienna having come under siege twice).

He then made an interesting counterargument against Said and his anti-Orientalist faction. He said that Western interest in the Middle East could indeed be historically due to imperialism: Islamic imperialism.

*Lewis became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1982 and taught at Princeton University where he still retains the title of Professor Emeritus of Near Eastern Studies.

*During the 1991 Gulf War, Lewis spoke to the Prime Minister of Turkey and asked him if Turkey would help the U.S.-led coalition against Saddam if things "took a turn for the worse." The Turkish Prime Minister assured Lewis that they would, just as they had declared war on Hitler in February 1945. The Turkish declaration of war against Germany came just three months before the war ended when it was obvious that the U.S. and Britain were going to win.

The Turkish Prime Minister then famously told Lewis: "We will help you because we like to be at the victor's table as guests as opposed to menu items."

*Lewis believes his two best works were What Went Wrong? The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East and The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror. Both of these books were written in response to the 9/11 attacks in Manhattan, Washington D.C., and Pennsylvania.

Lewis thinks we are in a dangerous and entirely unpredictable era of conflict.

*When asked what he thought about President Obama's new approach to the Middle East, Obama's address to the Muslim world in Cairo, and his desire to find mutual understanding with the Muslim world, Lewis replied with the following statement:

"Support is not gained in this part of the world by showing weakness." Period.

The largely Israeli audience responded with a mixture of enthusiastic applause and murmuring.

All In All Not Too Bad

2009-12-31T14:40:00.002+02:00

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

2009-12-26T12:50:00.021+02:00

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

2009-12-25T11:19:00.006+02:00

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

2009-12-22T18:25:00.018+02:00

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!

2009-12-13T18:15:00.006+02:00

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

2009-12-05T16:19:00.004+02:00

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

2009-12-02T11:59:00.014+02:00

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

2009-11-29T10:52:00.010+02:00

"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

2009-11-26T12:17:00.004+02:00

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

2009-11-21T23:16:00.005+02:00

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

Are You A Jewish Boy?

2009-11-20T14:37:00.004+02:00

I hit the mat with a thud. My hands were splayed wide with my palms facing the sky. My Israeli opponent stood over me, his face locked in the "take no prisoners" expression that is so common over here.

Welcome back to Krav Maga.

"No, no, no," Avi said as he looked our way.

Looks like he screwed up the take down.

Avi sprang away from a couple of girls who were practicing the take down and came over to our group. I started to get up and much to my surprise he was glaring at me.

"Why your hands facing up?" he asked in his thickly accented and occasionally broken English. "You look like a Christian boy...uh...begging Jesus for help!"

I nodded and laughed.

"This is no joke!" he said, stressing the last word.

He was half-serious and half-kidding, but he was mostly serious. He yelled for one of his Israeli students to come over. The young man jogged up, bowed, and proceeded to take Avi (i.e. Master Splinter) to the ground. He hit the mat and used his hands, palms down, to slap the mat, absorbing some of the shock and putting himself in a position to strike back.

He popped back up and addressed the rest of the class in Hebrew. I caught the gist of the message. When you're going down, don't look like you're about to take communion--even if you're Christian, especially if you're Jewish. It could be the difference between winning and losing the fight.

Splinter was several inches shorter than myself, but was easily the most intimidating person I've ever had the pleasure to be around. Politicians have nothing on this guy.

He turned toward me, his favorite practice dummy, and smiled sinisterly.

This is going to hurt.

"Are you a Jewish boy?" he asked, smile spreading from ear-to-ear.

Stefan stood behind Master Avi, his characteristic grin threatening to explode into uncontrollable laughter.

"Definitely not," I answered with a laugh.

"Then allow me to tell you this story about a boy from Hungary."

Some of the Israelis started to laugh as they crowded around the two of us.

"There was this boy from Hungary, a Jewish boy you see. And he was always in trouble at his Jewish school. One day he was kicked out because he was so bad!"

"And his father came up to him and..." Splinter rapped me on my forehead faster than I could blink. "...and he said 'Moshe, why do you do this?! There is only one other Jewish school for you to go to now!'"

Laughter.

"And so the boy was sent to the other Jewish school. And sure enough, after one, two, three days, he was kicked out again!" Avi said as he shook his head.

"And he came home to his father who could not believe it had happened again. So his father said..." Splinter popped me on the forehead again. "...he said, 'Moshe, why do you do this?! I have to send you away now!'"

Avi paused and looked around at the other students, then back at me. I'm struggling to keep from laughing, knowing full well that he could break me in half in less than three seconds if he so chose.

"And so now the boy had to go to a Christian school--this poor Jewish boy. But after one, two, three weeks, he was the best student in the class!" Avi threw his hands up in the air, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"So his father asked him, 'Moshe, how is it that you do so well now?'"

Avi paused one last time and glared back at me, the sly smile creeping back at the corners of his mouth.

"Because this school...is no joke."

The punchline was a blur--a blur that was in actuality a fist. And it accelerated straight into my abdomen.

Case Endings, Stupid!

2009-11-16T14:49:00.006+02:00

"What part of speech is it?" Dr. Hakim asked.

"Adjective." I responded coolly.

"No!" Hakim yelled louder. "Look at the bloody sentence!"

I scanned over the words again. I looked back up as a clearly exasperated Dr. Hakim, a subtle smirk creeping onto his face, held his hands wide.

"Uh, it's a noun."

"Yes! And so what's the ending?!"

"I forgot," I said sheepishly.

"Well think about it and I'm sure it will come to you," he replied. "What part of the sentence is it?"

"It's the subject."

"Yes! And what's the next word?"

"An adjective."

"Yes! So what's the bloody ending?"

"Bana...an."

"No! Lama (why) an accusative?!" he barked.

"I have no idea," I hurried. "Bana...un?"

"Precisely!" he barked loudly. "It's indefinite nominative. So it's an un!"

Arabic. You are the most enjoyable and terrifying thing in my life.

Well There Goes The Western Front!

2009-11-12T18:44:00.006+02:00

We wouldn't want to make this too easy now would we?

The Other 'Nasrallah'

Does this look like the face of a killer to you?

"One sting can kill a person or leave them paralyzed for weeks," said Moti Mendelson, a marine researcher. "There are many of them--[just] like Hezbollah soldiers."

Seriously? You're serious?

Academic Rendition

2009-11-10T18:56:00.006+02:00

I wanted to ram my head through a cement pillar.

This was not to be an act of preemptive masochism. Nor was this a sudden desire to become one of the tormented youths who routinely inflicts pain on himself for sport--you know, the kid who dyes his hair black, straps a chain to his waist, and writes poems about how all the other kids respond to his misunderstood self-loathing with perfectly timed jokes and conspicuous mockery. No, this was a desire of sheer necessity. Self-anesthetics was the only prescription for enduring the next four hours.

In the fourth week of the MAMEH program, there have been several important revelations. The first is that some of my fellow students clearly believe themselves to be the ubermensch. Whether it's the permanent fixture of their noses at a forty-five degree angle or the love affair they have with the sound of their own voice, the preponderance of arrogance amongst these few can be suffocating at times.

The second revelation is the realization that there is little hope of actually finishing this program within the allotted time frame of two years. There is a reason that TAU gives you up to four years to complete your thesis. The research alone consumes at least a year of one's life. I have just as much of a chance of finishing "on time" as Leigh Tiffin does of being considered a male upon first glance.

The third and currently most important revelation is the fact that some classes are good, some classes are okay, and one is the mental equivalent of a leisurely afternoon of waterboarding. You think you're going to drown and after a little while you reach a point where you hope you're going to drown, but really you're just being strung along in a highly creative, albeit sadistic, effort to break you.

That is Selected Topics in Islamic History. See Islamic History is the last seminar on Tuesday, a day that includes an hour and a half of Hebrew, four hours of Ottoman History (a phenomenal class with an equally phenomenal professor), and another four hours of Islamic History. And these classes are all back-to-back-to-back. We start at 8:00 a.m. and we end at 6:00 p.m. If you want to know where to find Satan, look no further than the TAU scheduling department.

One could objectively assert that this seminar suffers from its place within our schedule. And one would be mistaken. The seminar suffers, along with its attendees, because our professor is duller than a butter knife at a logging competition with as much charisma as a Keanu Reeves cardboard cutout.

Bueller? Bueller?

The guy spends an inexorable amount of time on tangential asides whilst never moving from his chair for four hours. His arms are always crossed. He stares straight ahead. He speaks in a droll, monotonous tone that has you scrambling for instruments with which to stab yourself just to focus the pain elsewhere. And should anyone dare ask him a question, expect either a quick rebuff or a long one.

And thus that's where I found myself at 2:00 this afternoon--standing with coffee in hand, eyes glazed over, mental acuity bordering on catatonic, and searching for something headbutt resistant...that I could headbutt.

I wish I could recall what it was that we discussed. I know it was something about Mohammed killing a lot of folks and something about archaeology and then there was that deviation courtesy of Anna as to whether or not Mohammed even existed. But the only thing that I've been able to recollect from those four lost hours of my life is the disjointed geometric symbols I doodled on the right hand margin of page seventeen of my notebook.

I'll talk. If anyone is listening, I swear I'll tell all. Just make it stop.

I'll Take "Amusing Choice of Words" For A Thousand, Alex.

2009-11-06T10:44:00.008+02:00

The Jerusalem Post is reporting that the United Nations General Assembly (UNGA), in yet another riveting display of its comical worthlessness, has approved the Goldstone Report. This means it will now move forward to the Security Council for an official vote on whether to condemn Israel for "war crimes."

More information can be found here:

Goldstone Set to Go to Security Council

As utterly unsurprising as this decision is, there was a bit of an eyebrow raiser during the UNGA meeting itself. I'll leave everyone with the following statement from the floor "debate" at the Assembly:

...such violations defied numerous key international instruments and resolutions. Despite yet another episode of a war of genocide, Israel has, nonetheless, not been able to kill the will and steadfastness of the Palestinian people.

That would be comments made against Israel by Ambassador Adbalmahmood Addalhaleem Mohamed of...Sudan. Yes. The Ambassador of Sudan is displaying his moral outrage at "yet another" war of genocide perpetrated not by his own country, but allegedly by Israel.

That's just good storytelling right there. But I'm a little miffed at Sudan's negativity and lack of constructive criticism.

I mean what the hell, Sudan?! If you're going to get all uppity with another country for committing "genocide," then the least you can do is leave some tips on how to commit it properly next time!

Fear Not

2009-11-04T18:58:00.005+02:00

Dr. Litvak was halfway through his point on the differences between intelligentsia and intellectuals when the sirens went off. For a few moments, every head in the room turned to the right and the open window. The caterwauling of the incoming missile warning system sounded like a chorus of banshees emitting their spine-tingling death wails.

"It's just a test," Dr. Litvak said placidly. "They told us this morning about it. It's just a test."

And how will we know when it's not...?

Not wanting to follow my own thought to its logical conclusion, I turned back to the front of the classroom. The discussion restarted, albeit slowly, and soon the sirens died down and normalcy returned.

The rays of sunlight coming through the window illuminated a small mosquito buzzing near the side wall in front of Dustin and I. The recent words of Iranian President Ahmadinejad rumbled through my mind.

"...they [West] are like a mosquito."

The girl in front of us leaned against the wall where the mosquito rested.

I think I'll just pretend I didn't see that one.

***

When classes let out for us at 2:00 in the afternoon, Dustin, Tatianna, and myself walked back to the dorms. Yesterday we had learned that Hamas had successfully test-fired an Iranian missile up to 60 kilometers--far enough, distressing as it is to say, to finally reach Tel Aviv. This of course had explained the warning system drills.

Hamas Rockets Capable of Hitting Tel Aviv

What Dustin mentioned next took me by surprise.

"Did you see the ship Israel interdicted earlier today?" he posited to Tatianna. "It contained tons of weapons for use by Hezbollah."

Independent confirmation verified this to be true. It was sixty tons of weapons to be precise.

When I sat down to read Jerusalem Post, the headline article was focused on the incident. Apparently an Iranian vessel flying the Antiguan flag had been boarded by Israeli naval and special forces. The boat was intended to unload its cargo in Lebanon. Hidden behind a facade of civilian containers were sixty tons of anti-aircraft batteries, 122mm katyusha rockets, long-range missiles, anti-tank weapons, mortar systems, and other sophisticated weaponry.

Holy terrorist mother lode, Batman!

As of this moment the vessel is docked in Ashdod, some thirty kilometers to our south. Israeli personnel are plying through the vessel and cataloging the weaponry. News outlets reported that Israel had gone to its "highest level of alert" for fear of terrorist infiltration.

Israeli Navy Seizes Weapons Bound for Hezbollah

All of this information is of considerable interest given that today is the thirtieth anniversary of the Iranian hostage crisis when radical Shi'ite Islamists kidnapped American embassy workers and began their 444 day hostage nightmare.

Government-sponsored celebrations occurred throughout Iran today. But so did riots and anti-government protests by Iran's opposition youth movements. Reports are sketchy, as they always are, but early indicators suggest the regime is brutally cracking down on the protesters.

Filtering the information and sifting through for the meaning and implications of these events is tricky enough as it is. But now that I am physically over here and have been for three months, the lens is even murkier due to self-imposed mental restrictions.

On the one hand it is easy to become fixated on these developments in relation to how they affect you on a personal level. On the other hand it is equally as easy to divorce yourself from these events as a necessary precondition for maintaining your sanity. This seems to be a phenomenon that isn't exclusive to any geographic region, but rather to the circumstances associated with war or the potential for war. Or perhaps narrowed down even further, a phenomenon associated with bodily harm or the potential for bodily harm.

People recognize that things are growing more dangerous. And when information concerning one's security and safety is gleaned that potentially bodes ill for it, several things occur. First, one logically places it in his brain's "filing cabinet." It cements the reality of the situation and serves as a storage bin to remind one of the danger lest he forgets. The second thing one does is disassociate himself from it. It is impossible not to imagine a scenario where one is in the middle of a conflict given the information at one's disposal. So what happens is one starts reassuring himself, subconsciously or in some cases consciously, that regardless of what happens he will be fine.

It's a sort of mental embodiment of the passage from Psalms 91:5-7.

You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

This is a common human reaction--the application of a belief in personal invincibility. Despite the fact that I recognize this trait in myself, it is nevertheless something I can scarcely avoid.

Following an afternoon of homework and reading up on these breaking developments, a group of us decided to go listen to Ambassador James Cunningham. He is the U.S. Ambassador to Israel and Tel Aviv University hosted him for a speech followed by a Q & A session.

What transpired during this event was interesting. After three months abroad living with Israelis, it is occasionally easy to forget that their approach is not the same as our approach. And their mindset is not the same as our mindset.

***

Ambassador Cunningham stood tall and lean at the podium. It was a packed room in the Social Sciences building. Dustin, Ryan, Tyler, and I sat near the back. A few other OSP students, including a Norwegian and a Brit, also sat nearby. Israeli students littered the auditorium with notebooks and writing pads in hand. One Israeli girl who sat in front of us seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in her Japanese workbook. And an older Israeli woman a few rows up literally brought her knitting kit should the speech become a bit of a bore.

As Ambassador Cunningham began his speech on "U.S.-Israeli Relations a Year Into the Obama Administration," I couldn't help but notice that the vast majority of those in the room were middle-aged adults or senior citizens. There were plenty of students, but it was apparent that the forum had been designed more as a community event than one exclusive to the university.

The speech was around twenty minutes long. It detailed the inherited problems of President Obama (doesn't every speech?) and the events that have unfolded in the Middle East since his arrival in office. The Ambassador mentioned the importance of a contiguous Palestinian state as part of a permanent and lasting peace. And he characterized the recent rocky relations between the Obama and Netanyahu Administrations as disputes amongst friends. According to the ambassador, it is a testament of the lasting friendship between Israel and the United States that the two nations can have such arguments.

He addressed what he considered a series of crises spanning from the Hindu Kush to the Mediterranean. And he hit all the right talking points on the "difficulties" in bringing everyone to the negotiating table.

For the most part, I found the speech to be incredibly lackluster and the message to be as dry and broad as one could imagine. For the first few minutes it seemed as if the ambassador wanted to be anywhere else other than speaking to the crowd gathered at TAU.

But then the Q & A session hit. And if there's one thing that everyone should remember about Israelis, it is their blunt disposition. A total of thirteen questions were asked. All except for three of them dealt with Iran, the appearance of U.S. impotence, and the concern over the direction of U.S. policy in the region.

"Tough crowd," Tyler whispered after about the fifth question.

"Did you really expect anything else?"

The questions were delivered with passion and forcefulness.

"When are you going to learn that the policies of Sharon, who gave away all of Gaza, brought us nothing but war? When are you going to see these madmen for who they are?"

"It seems like Obama is trying to negotiate with a fire without a hose or an axe--a fire that is rapidly growing. I'm obviously talking about Iran's nuclear program. Is there a "red line" that the U.S. will reach when enough is enough?"

"There is widespread concern that the U.S. is showing weakness in its foreign policy. You are more friendly with your enemies than with your friends! Will this policy of "talk to talk" ever change?"

Etc, etc, etc.

When one questioner, a young man, proceeded to interrupt the ambassador with a barrage of questions concerning the occupation, the crowd literally starting yelling at him to "Sheket!" (Quiet!) and "Regah!" (Wait!)

The Ambassador, despite possessing miasma instead of charisma, handled most of the questions deftly. And there were very few of his responses that I thought were worth challenging. His response to the young man lambasting his own country concerning settlements was solid. The kid suggested that Israel wasn't a real democracy because of the occupation of the Palestinian territories--an assessment that the ambassador slapped down. I'm paraphrasing but the response was something very similar to this:

"The government of Israel is beholden to the will of its citizens. Its citizens elect the government in free elections. This is democracy. And its citizens have security concerns. The implication that an occupation suddenly erases these facts is simply incorrect," Ambassador Cunningham responded.

Word. Under that "logic," the United States would have ceased being a democratic republic decades ago.

The last question revolved around Iraq and the fact that many entities (i.e. Iran, Saudi Arabia, Russia, jihadists, etc.) are watching closely how the U.S. handles the situation and how Iraq turns out. And Ambassador Cunningham's response was heartening. He pointed out the importance of a free and secure Iraq and his belief that a democratic state in Iraq is of immense value to the peace of the region. He then, in my view, took a very somber and sincere stance that it was the burden of the United States to defeat radical ideologies and secure peace in this region as it was not only in our interest but also part of our moral obligation.

The crowd wasn't mollified when the event ended. My assessment is that this had less to do with their opinion of the ambassador and more to do with the burgeoning uncertainty they have concerning our Commander-in-Chief. Despite reassuring words and placating gestures from lower level figures, the actions of the United States as a whole are not putting Israelis at ease.

They want to believe our President has their back. But thus far they don't believe it. Ambassador Cunningham acknowledged this fact and stressed the importance of the "friendly dispute" between two allies.

Walking home with Ryan I rambled aloud about my thoughts on the matter. And I verbalized precisely what it was, what it is, that I see as the common denominator in Israeli thinking.

Fear.

"Are you fearful?" Ryan asked.

I thought about it for a moment. Anxiety has reared its ugly head of late. But was that the same thing as fear?

I thought about the ship full of weapons, the missile tests, the weapons smuggling, the entire Iranian threat, Hezbollah, Hamas, Al-Qaeda, everything. I thought about the deception of personal invincibility. And I thought about God and His promises.

"No," I finally answered. "I know how this one ends."

Hero Lost

2009-11-03T21:25:00.007+02:00

A brief aside from the regular musings of Fried Camel. I ran across this story after I got home from classes and it hit me pretty hard.

Britain Loses 'Legend' in Afghanistan

Staff Sergeant Olaf "Oz" Schmid was legendary for the number of IED's he successfully defused in Afghanistan. As Michael Yon notes, at one time Olaf diffused 1 in every 19 IED's that the British military came upon. The exact number of Coalition and Afghan lives he saved will never be known, but one can safely assume the figure to be in the hundreds.

Olaf was on his last mission when the IED he was trying to disable went off. It killed him instantly. He was due to ship out the next day. Staff Sergeant Schmid leaves behind a wife and a five year old stepson.

Staff Sergeant Olaf Schmid (1979-2009).

All property rights of the above picture belong to Michael Yon of Michael Yon Online Magazine.

Raining Hope, Flooding Hate

2009-11-02T16:41:00.003+02:00

Today was a short day in class. Arabic was canceled as Dr. Hakim had to have one of his front teeth replaced. Apparently he lost it in a falafel ball whilst eating in Haifa--a falafel ball he adamantly maintains to have been the best on the planet. Seeing as how it procured his front tooth as its price of consumption I'm a bit wary about such claims. But who am I to deny an old man his right to obstinacy?

Currently we're reading articles on European involvement in the Middle East during the 19th Century and learning about the inner workings of the Ottoman Empire at its height of power in the 16th Century. It's all interesting stuff, but the readings are long and written by insufferable academics whose entire lives revolve around convincing their colleagues that they belong in the Ivory Tower.

This sometimes translates into thirty pages of historical facts mixed with theories disguised as facts designed more to impress the intelligentsia than to inform the reader. This is tantamount to having a bunch of football coaches gathered around on the sideline squabbling about why Jimmy ran the wrong route. Meanwhile all the players, including poor Jimmy, are standing around with their hands on their hips waiting for them to use the information at their disposal to just call a freaking play.

Knowledge of the past is supposed to allow us to make better decisions in the present with which to shape and benefit the future. In any field, theory is only as useful as its application. I hope that we start using our growing knowledge of the past in the Middle East to start reaching conclusions about the present. That's a big reason why many people are in this program.

C'est la vie.

***

In other news, the big story right now in Israel is the rain (geshem in Hebrew). We had hurricane-like weather most of this morning and through the early afternoon. The wind was easily blowing anywhere from twenty-five to thirty miles per hour with gusts of over fifty. And the torrential downpour had some of us (i.e. me) looking silly without our umbrellas or rain jackets. Honestly, I didn't think it would actually rain in Israel.

God: Eleventy Billion. Drew: 0.

The past few days have seen an exorbitant amount of rainfall. This has been badly needed over here. Long before I arrived Israel was suffering from a severe water shortage. It was pretty much the policy of everyone in Israel to ration water. There were even mutterings by the Netanyahu Administration that Israel may have to start importing water from Turkey.

Those who have been paying attention know that Israel and Turkey's relationship hasn't exactly been copacetic lately. Turkey has made a great deal out of Operation: Cast Lead. Prime Minister Erdogan publicly accused Israel of war crimes on multiple occasions. Turkey recently dropped out of a NATO exercise because Israel was to be included and one of the most popular shows on Turkish television at the moment is a despicably duplicitous miniseries that portrays IDF soldiers gunning down smiling Palestinian children.

The demonizing of Israel is like American Idol over here. Whoever concocts the most asinine story to disparage the Jews wins the adoration of the throngs of ululating masses. In the 1980's the Saudis really got the ball rolling in "Season One" with the resurrection and popularization of the "blood libel." Those who aren't familiar with the "blood libel" might find themselves guffawing aloud. The blood libel essentially claims that during Passover (Passat) Jews have to make the traditional matsah bread with the fresh blood of a Christian boy.

Don't go back to the previous sentence. You definitely read it right the first time. This is the type of hatred and the level of insanity that Israel faces.

Sure, Ahmadinejad went Platinum in "Season Two" with that classic hit "Holocaust Me No More," but the blood libel has to be the most creatively evil accusation still widely believed throughout the Arab and Muslim world.

I guess now it's Turkey's turn to take the stage as they portray Israeli soldiers as bloodthirsty murderers giddily gunning down toddlers and smiling little girls.

There's no telling what's next, but one thing is for certain at the moment. It's still raining.

Get Salty!

2009-10-29T12:50:00.017+02:00

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

2009-10-28T22:21:00.002+02:00

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

2009-10-26T22:04:00.004+02:00

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...

2009-10-25T14:08:00.013+02:00

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

2009-10-22T18:58:00.004+02:00

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

2009-10-17T12:17:00.004+02:00

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

2009-10-16T15:23:00.027+02:00

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

2009-10-09T00:08:00.012+02:00

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.