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January 4, 2015

Sunday Reads: The last princes of Israel’s national camp, The Jewishness of the Frankfurt school

US

Uri Friedman examines some Bush era U.S. intelligence predictions for 2015:

Nine months before the September 11 attacks—and just days after the Supreme Court halted the Florida recount, handing the presidency to George W. Bush—U.S. intelligence officials published an 85-page prediction for what the world would look like in 2015. It's a world that seems familiar in some ways, and utterly foreign in others. And it's a world in which power is diffusing and decaying—reflecting one of the most significant trends of 2014 and perhaps the coming year as well.

James Fallows offers an interesting analysis of the lack of acquaintance between the American people and its military:

Now the American military is exotic territory to most of the American public… Many more young Americans will study abroad this year than will enlist in the military—nearly 300,000 students overseas, versus well under 200,000 new recruits. As a country, America has been at war nonstop for the past 13 years. As a public, it has not. A total of about 2.5 million Americans, roughly three-quarters of 1 percent, served in Iraq or Afghanistan at any point in the post-9/11 years, many of them more than once.

Israel

Eitan Haber takes a look at the changes that the Likud ‘princes’ – the sons of the leaders of Israel’s national camp – have been going through in recent years:

When the princes' generation rose to power, the generation gap was revealed. While the fathers' generation burnt with the ideological fire it brought along from years of mutiny at home, in the Jewish leadership, during the British mandate, the princes were born into the government and realized – sometimes the hard and bloody way – that their parents' dreams (“There are two sides to the Jordan River, this one is our and that one too”) were unrealistic, impossible.

David Brooks has an intriguing take on Netanyahu’s unique brand of pessimistic leadership:

To me, his caution is most fascinating. For all his soaring rhetoric and bellicosity, he has been a defensive leader. He seems to understand that, in his country’s situation, the lows are lower than the highs are high. The costs of a mistake are bigger than the benefits of an accomplishment. So he is loath to take risks. He doesn’t do some smart things, like improve life for Palestinians on the West Bank, but he doesn’t do unpredictable dumb things, like prematurely bomb Iran. He talks everything through, and his decisions shift and flip as the discussions evolve.

Middle East

Ghazi Hamad, the deputy foreign minister of Hamas, tries to understand the reasons behind the Palestinian leadership's failure to achieve its long-term goals:

It is true that we, as Palestinians, fought and struggled, presented an amazing model of sacrifice, and created revolution after revolution, intifada after intifada. We knocked on the doors of the international community and prowled the streets of world capitals in search of support. Many applauded us at international forums and we received “theoretical” recognition as a country. But where is the practical result on the ground? Where is the Palestinian expansion – after 65 years – versus the cancerous occupation? Where are the foundations of victory and liberation that we release as empty slogans?? Where is the source of deficiency given these great sacrifices and tremendous lengths of political effort?

Benham Ben Taleblu discusses Iran’s ‘greatest fear’ – a relatively watered down ‘American’ version of Islam:

“American Islam” isn’t the Islam practiced by Muslims across the United States. Rather, it is what the Islamic Republic perceives to be a depoliticized perversion of the true faith, devoid of the revolutionary sentiment that guides the Islamic Republic. As Supreme Leader Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei lamented in 2010, “American Islam means ceremonial Islam, an Islam that is indifferent in the face of oppression.”

Jewish World

A new book by Jack Jacobs traces the Jewish influences in the works of the famed thinkers of the Frankfurt school (piece by Benjamin Ivry):

Although professional writings before their exile from Germany were not explicitly about Jewish matters, “Dialectic of Enlightenment” and “The Authoritarian Personality,” also co-authored by Adorno, would be “deeply colored by the desire to elucidate and confront hatred of Jews,” Jacobs reminds us.

In 1937, in a letter to the German Jewish literary scholar Hans Mayer, Horkheimer claimed that anti-intellectualism “represents sexual envy and resentment of a pleasurable attitude toward life of which one doesn’t feel oneself capable. Hatred of the Jews has always been hatred of thinking, and naturally the Jews themselves are also in large measure animated by this.”

And Here is an excerpt from historian Anita Shapira’s new biography of Israel’s first PM, David Ben-Gurion:

Despite his enthusiasm over the vision of imminent Jewish sovereignty, he accepted the reservations of his colleagues, especially Katznelson, who thought the partition to be proposed by the Peel Commission would probably be far less advantageous than Ben-Gurion’s. Nevertheless, he asserted that when the possibility of a Jewish state, even a tiny one, was on one side of the balance, and on the other the de facto annulment of the pro-Zionist clauses in the Mandate instrument—that is, a moratorium on the national home—he preferred the first. But deep in his heart he did not see partition as the lesser of two evils: for him the vision of a Jewish state that suddenly seemed achievable was a dream come true.

Sunday Reads: The last princes of Israel’s national camp, The Jewishness of the Frankfurt school Read More »

An ode to Uzi

“Mummy, Uzi died!” began today’s conversation with my teenage daughter.  We were attending my nephew’s bar mitzvah when she called.  A virus kept her at home, and her job was to watch the dogs.  She couldn’t get Uzi to come to eat his breakfast, and he wouldn’t move.  After the call, I told her to retreat to her room and I would come home.  Two hours later my neighbor and I were taking Uzi to a 24-hour clinic for his final visit.

Uzi found his place with us when my son decided he wanted a large dog as a graduation present from eighth grade.  He did not want the usual computer games.  He wanted a giant schnauzer. We were a seasoned rescue family, so I contacted a giant schnauzer rescue.  We would do a mitzvah.  Sometimes mitzvahs are hard to do.

Giant schnauzers are not large minis. In Europe they are police dogs. They are called the “dog with the human brain.” Our boy came from an excellent breeder in California.  Her dogs were shown at Westminster and his father was an international champion.  My son was in love, and I knew the dog found his forever home. I knew that eventually he would be my dog.

Our trial with him would be never ending.  I should have gotten the hint when I was told we would be his third family.  His second family called him  “Blackie.” His first family called him “Ares.” He did not favour either name. Perhaps a name change would help.  As he was destroying the first of many “indestructible” toys, I looked at him and said, “Uzi.” He lifted his head and the name stuck. It was a name that fit him.  He was strong, proud, protective and loyal.

Uzi was surrendered by two families because he was difficult and too much to handle.  Both owners had invested a small fortune in training for the dog, and they had both given up. Uzi might have had a lot of training, but it was clear he was not a talmid of the “Dog Whisperer.”  He would become our dog, but on his terms.  Nothing was safe.  He could open the dog gate and grab anything off a counter or table.  When caught, he would flap his jaw to say, “I’m sorry” and wait for you to leave the room so he could do it all over again.

I learned to invent new dishes for Shabbat.  When he polished off thirty egg rolls while I welcomed guests, I gathered ingredients for a salad.  When he ate the challah that was cooling on the rack, we made another one, or found one in the freezer.  We lost roasts and chickens while turning our backs.  He was supposed to sit and stay, but those things bored him.  We learned to deal with it.

He loved to play but he didn’t fetch.  That was for dogs. He was family.  I played with him like he was a rambunctious boy.  I would don an oven mitt over my arm and he would make me his toy.  When he was upset with me for not spending enough time with him, he would go after my shoes, and only my shoes. He loved patent leather. He left my walking shoes intact, so we could go for our walks.  The first mile he would pull me, the second he would “heel” and the third, I would pull him.  People would pull over or stop to tell me he was a beauty.  He loved the attention and at that moment, he would sit as if he were trained as well as Lassie.  Then he would yank on the leash and we were off. He knew when to be a ham and a poster child for the breed.

I knew the end was near when he stopped greeting me at the door.  He was starting to slow down and we both knew it.  Fortunately, he left us the same way he came to us, on his own terms.

This Shabbos was different.  Uzi didn’t come for his challah, and we didn’t have to watch the table. I held the clay imprint of his paw and cried a lot. I hope he is happy on the other side of the bridge.

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How I ended up spending New Year’s Eve with Elton John

Let me start by saying that, as a religious Jewish person, I view Rosh Hashanah as the new year, not the day that commemorates the bris of one member of the tribe about 2,000 years ago. Having said that, that other day, commonly known as New Year’s, is widely celebrated and often involves a fair amount of fun and silliness, of which I am a fan. Therefore, I have, over the years, celebrated this event just a little. The celebration has involved nothing more than an occasional party thrown by friends, sedate affairs sans booze. In recent years, it has most likely involved watching TV coverage of those insane people at Times Square and the dropping of the ball, if I’m still up by then. The cause for celebration here includes not only the beginning of a new calendar year, but the fact that I am not freezing my tuchus off like the aforementioned insane people. Also, last year, for the first time, I wore funny looking New Year’s glasses. And flourescent ears.

“>Barclays Center. The fact that the concert was being given on New Year’s Eve was not what sparked my interest. Rather, it was the fact that I like Elton John and had not been to a live concert since college. Also, the fact that the concert would take place on New Year’s Eve meant that I wouldn’t have to go to work the next morning. So I uncharacteristically bought the tickets on the spur of the moment, only telling my husband after the fact.

My husband doesn’t dislike Elton, a fellow Englishman, but he’s not as big a fan as I am. O.k., the only Elton song he really likes is “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting.” Which meant, of course, that he was going to try to leverage my purchase of the tickets and his accompanying me to the concert into “favors” for which I would “owe” him. This strategy has lost a lot of its power in our three year marriage since, during the marriage, he has claimed that I owe him for merely being in it and breathing. I respectfully disagree. Especially the part about breathing.

As the time for the concert grew near, I told my co-workers about it. Some were positive. “The Barclays Center?” said Myrna. (All names of individuals quoted have been changed to protect me.) “I hear you can get ‘our people’s’ food there, like brisket.” I wasn’t sure that I wanted to eat brisket in a little seat zillions of feet in the air and squashed among thousands of people, but I thought it was nice that I had the option.

Then Sonya weighed in.

“The Barclays Center?” she said. “If you’re in the nosebleed section,”

As opposed to…? I wondered,

“make sure not to do any partying before you go. You’re really going to need your balance.”

“Partying?” I chuckled. “All I’m going to drink before the concert is a diet coke. Will that be o.k.?”

“Depends on how well you handle caffeine,” said Sonya, switching to her “>Meditation Room at Barclays.”

That’s right. There’s a place to meditate in a stadium where people pay big bucks to see noisy shows with thousands of other people.

“You want to meditate before an Elton John concert?”

“No,” I said. “I want to make fun of other people who want to meditate before an Elton John concert. You see, it’s ironic -”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s almost 7:30 now. Come on.”

When we got to Barclays, I had trouble finding the entrance that would take us to the Meditation Room, and looking for it was not an appealing proposition. Frankly, it was so cold that by the time we got in through the main entrance, I was just happy to be able to have my privacy and body violated by security guards in the comfort of a heated lobby. As I expected, the security check was quick, and we were over an hour early. Although I had given up on finding the Meditation Room, I still wanted to investigate the brisket. Spotting a couple of yarmulke-wearers, I followed them to an eatery called David's K Deli, with a “kof k” kosher certification.

“>televised on Seacrest’s ““>Ryan Seacrest 2015.” Elton then started a rendition of “I’m Still Standing,” and invited the audience to join him, something I’d been doing the whole time anyway, much to the chagrin of the couple sitting next to me. The way I saw it, that was part of what I paid for when I bought my ticket, even if it wasn’t what the couple next to me paid for when they bought theirs. Also, Elton’s songs were the last ones I’d learned the lyrics to in 20 years, so I wasn’t about to let all that brain power go to waste.

Finally, Elton sang “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” as his closing song, and “The Bitch is Back” as the encore. I won’t tell you my husband had to say about that. When we got to the subway station at 1:30am, it was mobbed. There were long lines of people in front of every turnstile, and a stream of people just walking through the gates, with a police officer looking on. I don’t know if he wasn’t stopping anyone because of an official slowdown or because it just would have been too much of a hassle to do so.

While waiting for our train, we heard an announcement that it would arrive on a different track than usual.

“I wonder why,” my husband said aloud.

The woman next us said “that’s the local track. After midnight, it only goes local.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” my husband asked me.

“I didn’t know.”

“How could you not know that? You’ve lived in this city for 30-odd years.”

“Very odd. Especially the last three,” I muttered under my breath.

When our train finally came, I was happy to see that Sonya had been wrong about the subway. Everyone on the train was perfectly well-behaved. In fact, almost no one was even wearing funny glasses. Almost.

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