In A One-Eyed World

Note: Due to technical problems of a browser’s making, many readers were unable to access the two related entries that preceded this one. The situation remedied, the following entry is intentionally briefer in hope you will read “Peace For Peace” and “Bad Timing,” preferably first.


If you know your Shakespeare, you’ll recognize this quote from Julius Caesar: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our settlements. Any adherent of Taoism knows, A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single settlement. The answer, Bob Dylan fans affirm, is blowin’ in the West Bank.

I confess I almost missed it. Right there under my nose “forever” and I almost missed it. The key to all the world’s problems is the settlements! By settlements, I mean the only definition of the word in the world’s vocabulary, Israeli settlements.

Wars, famines, natural disasters, economic crisis, suicide bombings and mass murders, epidemic outbreaks and infectious diseases—all and more routinely threaten every corridor and distant corner of the earth, but the eye of the one-eyed world only brings settlements into focus.

What did we do prior to the establishment of the State of Israel? Who were the bogeymen and where on earth were they settled? What yarns did the old folks hand down to the children from cave to desert sands to rolling seas, from open fire to open porch?

Today’s tellers of tales are TV’s talking heads, parrot heads as I’ve come to think of them. They are paid—highly—to spin pap and propaganda rather than deliver news. And they know, left and right alike, no one likes settlements. It’s the dirty word they can punctuate their drivel with as much as they like without running afoul of sponsors or the FCC (in that order). You can read it on their stress-furrowed brows before they even open their mouths. Mute your TV and read it clearly on their lips: set-tle-ments. Getting rid of them would be the Second Coming. But of what?

If the Israelis flat-out stopped building settlements forever, would it bring peace on earth? Peace in the Middle East? Peace between Palestinians and Israelis?

Ask Israel’s leaders what they want and when they answer shalom, i.e., peace, they mean security. The two words are synonymous to them. Ask the Palestinians what they want until you’re blue in the face and you can’t get an answer. Peace must roll off the lips as easily in Arabic as it does in English or Hebrew, but who has heard it? Palestinian Arabs certainly know how to say jihad, intifada and shaheed distinctly, and how to indicate unequivocally what they mean by them. Know what’s Arabic for “peace”? As I thought.

With the usual arrogance of the western world, we in the United States insist on asking and expecting other peoples to think the way we do. While I’m not in favor of Israel creating more settlements, I am in favor of letting those chosen to govern do what they sincerely believe is best for the security of their people. They know now, as never before, Israel can’t rely on the United States for its survival.

Brilliant Israeli pianist/writer/government spokesman David Bar-Ilan chose his own words for peace quite some time ago: “Semantics don’t matter. If Palestinian sovereignty is limited enough so that we feel safe, call it fried chicken.”

Lebanon, the Film

This is not a review, it is a recommendation. This Thursday and Friday, October 1 and 2, the New York Film Festival will be presenting Lebanon, a feature film that takes us—by tank—into the first 24 hours of the 1982 Lebanon war, i.e., when Israel’s troops entered Lebanon in pursuit of the PLO. For anyone who thinks war is anything less than horrific, or possibly that there is something heroic about sending young people into it, this film is obligatory.

Via one tank, one day and five soldiers, the director captures the claustrophobia and terror of the dank interior of an Israeli battle tank.

This tank stalls in war, gets lost, runs amok. It takes a hit, it takes on a captured, wounded Syrian soldier. “Treat him good,” an Israeli officer says, “He’s a war prisoner.” The tank’s driver panics, its gunner freezes at the sight of his first target, closes his eyes as he fires at the second one. Its commander has trouble controlling his men.

His men are boys. One asks a superior officer to call his home and let his mother know he’s all right.

None of this is the stuff of screenplays. In Lebanon in 1982, I saw a sign instructing Israeli soldiers to do just that. “Call Home. Call Your Parents—At Every Opportunity.” Such signs appeared with telephones installed along the Israeli-Lebanon border.

While I spoke with soldiers on Lebanon’s coastal road outside Damour, I kept an eye on a friend, a seasoned woman who was a prominent Israeli journalist, as she spoke softly with a young soldier. In the day’s twilight, I saw him help her up and then help her lower herself into a tank similar to one her son had died in during the Fourth Arab-Israeli War, the “Yom Kippur War” of 1973. When she emerged, not more than five minutes later, she seemed calmer than she had been all day. “Go ahead,” she said as she approached me, “Ask your question.” She was right, I had one. “How do you deal with it?” I asked gently as I could. She answered, “If you don’t, you go mad. Yes, I think you must go mad.”

Lebanon, an Israeli film directed by Samuel Maoz. Alice Tully Hall, Broadway at 65th Street. Thursday, October 1 at 9:30 p.m. and Friday, October 2 at 3 p.m.

A Spy in the Eye of the Beholder

The incarceration of journalist Roxana Saberi in Iran on charges trumped up from an initial naive or careless act on her part, trying to buy a bottle of wine, brings to mind how easily any journalist—or tourist or any "outsider" at all—can find him- or herself in great jeopardy in a foreign country with an alien culture.

The Shah was still in power when I visited Iran as a guest of the Tehran International Film festival. Ironies abounded. The film I was there for was "The Front," which dealt with the Hollywood blacklist, a black eye in the United States' history, when fear and hate-mongers dominated the times. Our "host" was an Israeli who had previously lived and worked in Iran and felt very much at home there. While being formally received in the Shah's family palaces, we were served drinks—from a cafeteria tray. Odd selections of drinks in rows of five: orange, grapefruit, Coca Cola, martinis and Bloody Mary's. No amenity was spared: additional plastic trays bore canapes of caviar paste—on bread points—in a land flowing with caviar.

We had a per diem which I applied to caviar—dollops of the real, unadulterated thing, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We were taken to see the crown jewels, real and dazzling. And we went sightseeing. That's where I almost got into trouble. I stood and beheld a majestic mountain in the middle of Tehran. You don't see such things in Manhattan. I raised my camera and focused it. And I was stopped, alarmingly and unceremoniously, by the Israeli, who knew what I didn't: you don't take pictures of a mountain, any mountain, in Iran. "Don't even point your camera in that direction. Or anywhere near it." The mountain was probably hollow, he explained. "It's where they store their munitions."

Roxana knew not to point a camera in the wrong direction, which I didn't. I was more fortunate. While I requested wine and was informed that not only the cafeteria trays, but the palaces' store rooms themselves didn't have either red or white, I didn't care. Otherwise, I might have tried to buy some. I could have been the westerner in the Shah's western-backed Shahdom to upset the balance and trigger an international incident prior to the Islamic Revolution.

I doubt Jimmy Carter would have understood or had much sympathy for me. More likely, he would have taken the position of "Anonymous," who posted a comment [see "Free Roxana" below] about Roxana. "The U.S. doesn't need to be dealing with this now on top of all our other problems. I have a feeling Iran is going to milk this for all its worth to get whatever concessions it can from the U.S. all because this incredibly STUPID woman didn't know when to leave town! I hope she rots!"

I don't think a man with Christ's initials would have hoped I would rot, at least not until he learned how astoundingly inept I thought he was with his negotiations with the Iranians in the hostage crisis. Far be it for the Son of the Cucumber King to disparage a peanut potentate, but if I could have set him down in any Middle Eastern souk for a few hours, he would have inevitably discovered that you don't say yes until the camels come home. You make an offer and walk away. The vendors are disappointed if you don't "play the game." They'll run after you with tea—on a silvery tray. They'll drop the price and chase you even if you're not going anywhere. The Iranians in particular have a characteristic inability to take yes for an answer.

With 52 American hostages remaining in Iran (Do I have to add involuntarily?) the President of the United States pledged not to leave the Rose Garden to campaign until they were freed, making himself a hostage in the White House. His bid for reelection was the only presidential election in my lifetime when I didn't vote for the Democrat.

The conclusion of the Festival was an awards ceremony "In the Presence of Her Imperial Majesty Farah Pahlevi" at Tehran's grand Roudaki Hall, followed by a reception sans cafeteria trays. To the contrary, it featured what I estimate to this day was the world's longest buffet of sculptured food and gold flatware. Platters awkwardly in hand, we were presented to "Her Imperial Majesty," in truth a knockout. One of our band of common film frolickers, Marjoe Gortner, star of an Oscar-winning documentary exposing evangelists like himself, had stored his eating utensils inside the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. I, the seasoned one who knew now from hollow mountains and stringent security, wryly told him to reach for his fork "very slowly." When his hand entered and fumbled around in his jacket, the entire room seemed to surge forward with men in identical dark suits and vertically-striped ties. Sensing danger, he let the utensils fall to the floor. He could have started an international incident. The award for Best Film at the Festival went to "The Front," whereupon its lead actress, Andrea Marcovicci, triumphantly raised her arms. Thanks to the barrage of photo flashes that ensued, the morning's papers revealed that Andrea wasn't wearing a bra under her vintage gown and, contrary to custom, put two additional shapely trophies on display. She could have started an international incident. Earlier, in the lobby of the Tehran Hilton, Lauren Bacall spewed obscenities because the caviar she had purchased wasn't being refrigerated fast enough. Every word from her mouth could have started an international incident.

Wasting little time, our knowledgeable Israeli shepherded us deftly out of harm's way to the airport and onward to Paris. Our maven was David Matalon, who went from having the potential of being an Israeli spy to becoming a major Hollywood film studio CEO and producer.

See how easy it is to be seen as a spy? It could happen to anyone. Let's "Free Roxana."