Ellis Shuman's Blog, page 23

RSVP Funeral

My mother-in-law died last week, but not from COVID-19. These days, that phrase needs to be added when talking about the death of an elderly person, especially one in frail health. Coronavirus has impacted all of our lives, especially the elderly, but this was not the case here.

As my family discovered last week, the pandemic also affects the ways we mourn.


When we arranged the funeral with Hevrat Kadisha we informed them that there was no coronavirus involved in this death. They took precautions as well.

According to the latest Ministry of Health regulations, the funeral would be limited to twenty people standing outside, keeping the proper distance from one another. Close friends would surely understand that due to the situation, the funeral would be limited to the immediate family. We would need to limit the family to twenty participants.

We also wanted to have ten men present for a minyan. The rabbi who we had asked to officiate would be among the twenty, but what about the men from Hevrat Kadisha? Did they count, or was their presence not part of the restriction?

There was another limitation to consider. Part of our family is Cohanim. As they are not ‘next of kin’ they are prohibited from entering a cemetery. These family members would stand behind a small fence. Were we to consider them when counting to twenty? Could we count them as part of the minyan?

In the hours before the funeral we had to ask each of our loved ones questions that would never be asked in normal times. “Will you be coming to the funeral?” “Will your spouse be coming?” “Please let us know if you are planning to attend!” We finalized a list of 20 attendees.

The funeral itself was surreal. Family members standing apart from each other. Sisters not allowed to hug. Everyone wearing masks. Filling in a grave wearing protective gloves. Broadcasting the ceremony live to a sister in New Zealand who is not allowed to come for the Shiva. A short eulogy recorded in advance by a brother-in-law.

How can one mourn this way? How can you share your grief without touching? How can you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem when you must keep your distance?

My mother-in-law died last week. May her memory be a blessing.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

Review of ‘The Drive’ by Yair Assulin

Service in the Israeli army is mandatory for all Israelis when they turn 18. Exemptions are given for religion (Arab Israelis, yeshiva students, observant women), pregnancy, or conscientious objection. In addition, as much as one-third of Israeli males and 44% of females avoid being drafted into the military for medical or psychological reasons, according to recent media reports.

In the novel The Drive by Yair Assulin, translated by Jessica Cohen (New Vessel Press, April 2020), the unnamed protagonist is in the middle of his compulsory military service but things are not going well. He feels that the army is suffocating him, that he is enduring three years of slow death.

His parents find their son’s depression difficult to understand. His father admits that army service is not easy, but everyone needs to get through it and there is no choice. Still, the young soldier has no desire to continue and after many arguments with his base commander, schedules an appointment with an IDF Mental Health Officer.


But is that what the protagonist wants? He tells himself that he doesn’t really want to get out of the army. Maybe a change of bases would be enough. Maybe he doesn’t know what he wants at all?

The novel follows father and son on their flashback-filled drive to the fateful appointment. The Drive is a short, but powerful novel, one that drives deep into the mental anguish of many young Israelis.

Yair Assulin’s The Drive won Israel’s Ministry of Culture Prize and the Sapir Prize for debut fiction. He has been awarded the Prime Minister’s Prize for authors, writes a weekly column in the newspaper Haaretz, and has been a visiting lecturer in Jewish Studies at Yale University.

Jessica Cohen shared the 2017 Man Booker International Prize with author David Grossman for her translation of A Horse Walks into a Bar. She has translated works by Amos Oz, Etgar Keret, Dorit Rabinyan, Ronit Matalon, and Nir Baram.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

Buy The Drive and read it now!

A Somewhat Unconventional Thriller

Valley of Thracians: A Novel of Bulgaria by Ellis Shuman is a somewhat unconventional thriller. Set in Bulgaria, it’s also part travelogue, and the “hero” is an elderly gentleman with a limp. Not your typical “noir” setting or private “I”! But that doesn’t make it any less suspenseful. From page one, I was hooked!

Shuman describes the cities and culture of Bulgaria with vivid detail– I wish I could describe settings that well! His main characters are fascinating and believable — a grandfather in search of his grandson who went missing after joining the Peace Corps and is presumed dead, and a mysterious female friend the grandfather meets in Bulgaria, who seems to good-naturedly want to help him. But does she have something to hide?


My advice — don’t read the book description on Amazon. I just saw it for the first time today and was so relieved that I didn’t read it before beginning Valley of Thracians. In my opinion, the book is much more suspenseful WITHOUT knowing some crucial details about what happened to the grandson. Personally, I love not knowing what’s going on in a book — that’s what keeps me reading, to solve the mystery!

Anyway, check out Valley of Thracians — it’s written for adults, but it would be appropriate for teens, as well as voracious younger readers!


Read the full review from June 2014 on Southern Bend Books.

Historically and Culturally Significant Adventure Thriller

If you are like me, I do a lot of my traveling via books! Certainly, the setting for many fiction novels takes us to exciting places; however, Ellis Shuman who has spent time there, has taken special care in including much more than the usual, in writing Valley of Thracians .

So if you are like myself, as an average American who had no real "perception" or knowledge of this country, then I highly recommend you consider this much more than an exciting adventure thriller--consider it a significant historical and cultural novel from which you will learn much... While enjoying the familial love of a grandfather who refuses to believe his grandson is dead...


Lots more, but most importantly, emails are included between a loving grandson and his grandfather, who never gave up believing he could find his grandson...

Highly recommended!

Read the full review from May 2013 on Book Readers Heaven.

Political Leaders Behaving Badly

Our leaders have failed us at the time we need them most

During these difficult days, I no longer leave my home to go to work. I no longer shop, travel, go to movies, or eat out at restaurants. I am maintaining social distance from my grandchildren and have given up family dinners. I am staying in my house.

I am adhering to these restrictions because I must trust the leadership of my country to get us through this crisis together to better times ahead.

Unfortunately, our leaders have not earned that trust.


I expect a prime minister who sets a personal example for his country by following the rule of law; by stepping down when indicted by the courts on three serious charges; by working to unite all citizens at a time of crisis. I expect a leader who comes on television and instead of giving speeches, gives hope for the future. I expect a father figure who will lead us through a challenging battle and give everyone the assurance that we will win.

What I am getting instead

My prime minister is a man more interested in protecting himself than in protecting his country. He is a masterful politician who thinks the courts, the police, and the media are all out to get him. He is a party leader who believes he has the public’s support when in fact a majority of the public wants to replace him. He is someone who thinks he is above the law.

What I expect

I expect an opposition leader who can convince me he is capable of taking on the responsibility of leading the country and not just leading an “anyone but Bibi” campaign. I expect an opposition leader who knows when to compromise, when to put aside political differences and work together with other parties, both secular and religious. I expect an opposition leader who will present a clear, and positive vision for the future.

What I am getting instead

The opposition is being led by a “cockpit” of former army leaders (and one token civilian) who seem more interested in group hugs than in presenting an alternative path forward. I see a party that made promises to its supporters but does not know when it is in its supporters’ interest to abandon those promises and work for the entire country instead. I see an opposition that suggested willingness to give the Arab minority its first chance to help this country move forward, but then was incapable of making that happen.

What I expect

I expect a Knesset working to serve the public and not itself. I expect a government that will prioritize health services and education, one that will enact difficult policies with full respect to the public’s privacy. I expect a government that will ensure that all citizens are cared for, even if they temporarily cannot go to work or keep their business open. I expect that the parliament I helped elect will provide much-needed oversight on what the government does.

What I am getting instead

The Knesset Speaker is a man whom I have always respected as providing apolitical leadership, setting a personal example for all politicians right and left. Instead, he has bowed down to party politics, dismissing High Court rulings and refusing to act according to the will of the majority. The Knesset members have yet to show me that they can work together to legislate on behalf of the public, and not cater to the interests of their parties.

What I expect

A functioning government.

What I am getting instead

Political chaos.


Originally posted on The Times of Israel

Photo by Rafael Nir on Unsplash.

Review of ‘Saving Israel’ by Boaz Dvir

In the years following World War II, leaders of the Yishuv in Palestine were tasked with two major challenges. Transporting displaced Jewish refugees to their new homeland was impeded by the British blockade and obtaining weaponry for the Haganah was restricted by international embargoes. As statehood approached, an imminent Arab invasion threatened the entire Jewish community.

Desperate to get around the British, clandestine operations were launched to airlift weapons and aircraft. The story of efforts to save the Jewish state before its birth is told in Saving Israel: The Unknown Story of Smuggling Weapons and Winning a Nation’s Independence by Boaz Dvir (Stackpole Books, January 2020).

If you search for Operation Zebra on the Internet the result will be a mine clearance operation by the U.S. Navy in July 1945. There was no operation by this name in Palestine. Not officially. In his book the author has grouped together separate efforts as an umbrella mission which he defined as “a secret and illegal operation by American aviators to save the Jewish state following World War II.”

Zebra is code for the Czech town Žatec, which served as hub of the operations and a training base for the aviators. American war veterans risked their lives to stock up on rifles, bullets, and engine parts; procure decommissioned warplanes; and transport them in pieces for reassembly in Žatec ahead of flying them to Palestine undetected by the British.

With the FBI hot on their trail, and knowing what they were doing was illegal, the Americans purchased Messerschmitts and Flying Fortresses, stole B-17s, and even created a fictitious Panamanian national airline. They smuggled arms from Mexico and aircraft from California, overloading transport planes which frequently crashed due to the excess weight. Technicians battled to get the planes into the air where pilots engaged in dogfights, occasionally in the skies over Tel Aviv.

Based on extensive research, the book reads like a historical thriller. Veterans, whose efforts on Israel’s behalf are still unrecognized, come to life and although their dialogues are fictional, their heroic actions are a matter of record.

The aviators’ operation ultimately led to the creation of the Israeli Air Force. Their fascinating story was the subject of the author’s 2015 documentary “A Wing and a Prayer.” Narrated by William Baldwin, the documentary featured firsthand accounts from operation leader Al Schwimmer.

"This group of American aviators -- both Jews and non-Jews -- risked their lives and freedom to bring weapons to my grandfather and others," said the author, referring to his grandfather who fought with a German rifle during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War.

Dvir's visit to Auschwitz as part of his research and the realization that “the evil that fueled it still roams the earth ... further inspired [his] interests in writing this book.” The result is a tale of heroism against all odds, a story that must be told to fully understand Israel’s success in its War of Independence.

Boaz Dvir is an award-winning filmmaker and Penn State University assistant professor in journalism and film. His documentaries have won several film festival awards. “A Wing and a Prayer,” which first aired on PBS in 2015, won Best Documentary at the 2016 Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival, and “Jessie’s Dad,” won Best Documentary at the 2010 ITN Film & New Media Festival in Los Angeles and the 2010 CINE Special Jury Award.

Buy Saving Israel: The Unknown Story of Smuggling Weapons and Winning a Nation’s Independence and read it now.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

Review of ‘Exile: Portraits of the Jewish Diaspora’ by Annika Hernroth-Rothstein

After being confronted with anti-Semitism for the first time as a youth, and realizing this was from being an isolated incident, Swedish journalist Annika Hernroth-Rothstein began wondering how Jews manage to survive, and in many cases thrive, in the diaspora. She set forth on a personal mission “to show ... and highlight the history, culture, and lives of [her] brothers and sisters all across the world.”

The result of the author’s “journey into the radically unknown and comfortably familiar” is her richly detailed investigative memoir, Exile: Portraits of the Jewish Diaspora (Bombardier Books, January, 2020). For the author, and for readers who join her on her travels, the book is a profound, enlightening experience.

Hernroth-Rothstein’s first stop is the island of Djerba, off the coast of Tunisia. Isolated in its self-imposed ghetto, the Jewish community there is actually growing because the Tunisian Jews “understand the rules and limitations to which they must adhere.” They have survived because they “have created an impenetrable core the provides great comfort and relative safety.” The author wonders if this “might be the future of the Jewish diaspora: to refuse modernity, hide from the outside world, and plant your feet firmly in the past.”


In Tehran the author learns that Iranian Jews “are free to perform their religious rites and ceremonies, and to act according to their own canon in matters of personal affairs and religious education.” That freedom is limited by the need to adhere to Sharia law and to refrain from showing support for the Jewish State.

To the author’s surprise, she sees that Iranian Jews’ “synagogues are unguarded, their Jewish identity on proud display, and their religious life lauded and encouraged.” This freedom, the author realizes, is to a certain degree more than she enjoys as a European Jew. Still, the Iranians’ “freedom exists inside a large and impenetrable prison, their homogeneous traditional orthodoxy is only possible where the alternatives are deemed illegal.”

The author meets vibrant Jewish communities in the most unexpected places. The Jews of Irkutsk in Siberia have retained their traditions, and “Jewish life keeps on going and even growing,” despite their being mixed into the local society. Finland’s Jewish community is “a deeply traditional one ... and surprisingly vivacious,” while in Venezuela, it is “deeply traditional but not necessarily religious ... The Jews here—regardless of observance level and social status—are family, and they look out for each other.”

In all the communities she visits, there is a question of what will happen in the future. The Jews of Palermo will need to leave Sicily if they wish to live their lives as observant Jews. In Turkey the author finds a community “that has started to exchange Jewish life for Jewish memory.” The author realizes that even in her native Sweden, “it is hard to be a Jew.”

“The ability to adapt has kept the Jews alive all over the world for centuries,” the author tells us, “but that ability can also prove fatal when the adaption drives them too far from their roots.”

At time the narrative lags under the weight of only partially-related historical details (the rise of Castro to power in Cuba, for example). But the book truly fascinates with its depictions of the variety of Jewish tastes and traditions. The author joins the Jews of Djerba for a Shabbat lunch of “liver-stuffed chicken fillets, spicy kebbabs, and perfect Persian-style rice.” In Uzbekistan she joins the community for the “boiled eggs, fried carp, and vodka” of a Bukharian kiddush. In Tehran she sits down with a family for a meal of Ghormeh sabzi beef and bean stew.

Jewish travelers on occasion enhance their experiences in foreign lands by seeking out historical and cultural sites—synagogues, schools, and cemeteries. Only rarely is there an opportunity to actually meet with members of local communities and to hear their story. Sharing conversations with her coreligionists, the author succeeds in giving readers a personal connection to their lives, the difficulties of their past, and the uncertainties of their future.

Hernroth-Rothstein may not have solved the mystery of Jewish survival, but her portrayal of Jewish expression around the world gives us deep insight into the story of our diaspora—customs, history, and traditions which are unknown but at the same time unexpectedly very familiar.

Annika Hernroth-Rothstein is a Swedish investigative journalist, political pundit, and writer on the Middle East, religious affairs and global anti-Semitism. Her writing has been published in the The Wall Street Journal, National Review, Mosaic Magazine, and The Jerusalem Post and she has a syndicated column in Israel Hayom.

Buy Exile: Portraits of the Jewish Diaspora and read it now!

Originally published on The Times of Israel.

And Then My Phone Died

I knew it was coming even though there had been no warning signs. “It’s not going to live forever,” I was told, but I didn’t believe it. But when Jodie’s phone died suddenly a few months ago—working one moment and then totally uncommunicative the next—I began making preparations. I was ready but I never expected it to happen so soon.

One day last week I checked my phone in the office to see if I had any new messages. The screen was black. Maybe the phone was turned off? Maybe a restart was needed? Nothing worked.

Luckily there is a phone repair shop just outside my building. The salesman/technician began a careful investigation into the source of my phone’s failure to respond. “It’s the motherboard,” he concluded, when I returned to the shop an hour later.

Everything was in my phone. Calls, contacts, codes. Camera, social media, messaging—the necessities of life. Not to mention Waze and Maps to navigate; a clock to wake me up in the mornings; an app to tracking my running. Music, podcasts, ordering taxis and coffee, and reading the news—I use my phone for everything.


Seven years ago, I wrote in a blog article: “My phone serves its original purpose. I use it to make and receive phone calls.”

I wrote of owning a dinosaur-era mobile phone. I was far behind the times back then. I had yet to own a smartphone!

I recall the days when I used paper maps when I traveled. Back then, in pre-history, I called people when I wanted to communicate with them. I had an actual camera for taking pictures and an alarm clock on the shelf next to my bed.

And, I managed just fine.

But now my phone was dead. Luckily, this was a problem easily solved. I pulled out my credit card and within minutes I was up and running with a new phone. A fancier model with more storage and a stronger battery, and all at a cheaper price than what I had paid for the last one.

I held a page in my hand listing all the apps I needed to install, all the passwords that would give me access, all the settings that would get me back to where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be. I had prepared for this moment!

My phone was dead. Long live my new phone!

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash.

Related article:

My Dinosaur Era Mobile Phone

Taxi Politics - short story

“So, what do you say about our country? Staging elections for the third time this year! Where else in the world do you have a country like this? And we call ourselves a democracy! Is it a democracy when we can’t elect a stable government? What do you say about that?”

The man in the backseat looked up from his phone, surprised that the driver had spoken to him.

“What?”

“Elections! They’re coming around the corner again and I wondered what is your opinion?”

“My opinion?”

“Yes, your opinion. Every citizen is entitled to have an opinion. I meet many people every day and let me tell you. Everyone has an opinion. What’s yours?”


“We need to keep this government in power. Vote for them again.”

“But what about the prime minister?” the driver asked, returning his eyes to the traffic. “They say he’s corrupt. Indictments on three charges, no less!”

“The media and the Left indicted him. The left-wing judges, too.”

“So, you don’t think he’s guilty?”

“No, how could he be guilty?”

“With all those indictments, will you vote for his party?”

“Of course, I’ll vote for his party. I always do.”

“And if he goes to jail?”

“He won’t go to jail. Sorry, this is my stop.” The man glanced at the meter, handed the driver two twenties, and stepped out of the car without bothering to ask for change.

The driver smiled, always pleased to engage with his passengers. He never knew, when starting his shift, whether they would be pleasant, willing to talk. Some were so absorbed in their personal lives that they didn’t want to discuss the country’s drawn-out political deadlock at all. The situation. It affected all of them, the driver included. How could you not talk about it?

Someone flagged him down around the next corner. The driver classified the man as an Ashkenazic Jew. A university student most likely, judging from the backpack. When the passenger asked to be driven to the Mount Scopus campus, the driver’s assumption turned out to be correct.

“So, what do you say about our country? Staging elections for the third time this year! Where else in the world do you have a country like this?”

The student looked up from his phone with a quizzical look on his face. “We wouldn’t be having elections again if the prime minister would resign. He should be held accountable for what he’s done.”

“You don’t think the media is biased against him? And the courts?”

“He is corrupt. Several of the ministers are corrupt. They’re all corrupt! They should all go on trial so that we can return to a sense of normalcy.”

“And the opposition – they should form the next government?”

“Anyone but the prime minister,” the student replied without skipping a beat.

“What do you think about a unity government?”

“I’m in favor. As long as the prime minister is not part of it.” And with that, the student got out of the car and hurried to his classes.

The driver had never gone to university. It had been three years of service in the Armored Corps and then straight into the job market. First there had been a stint as a night guard at an insurance agency, and then he flipped burgers in a fast food joint on Ben Yehuda Street. Next, he worked in a pizza restaurant for several months before leaving it for early morning deliveries of fruits and vegetable for a chain of supermarkets. During those years of moving from job to job, he had married his high school sweetheart. Fortunately for the two of them, her parents had provided a three-room apartment on French Hill. At least they didn’t have a mortgage hanging over their heads! Two years into the marriage, and with their first child on the way, he found steady employment at last. He didn’t mind the day shifts and only worked nights and on Shabbat when he found it difficult to make ends meet. This was happening more and more lately.

A young, religious couple was waiting near the hospital. The husband held open the door politely for his wife. The driver smiled when he saw her head cover, a raised turban-like mark of modesty that would make a Sikh proud! When the husband closed the door behind him, the driver asked their destination.

“Romema,” the man replied before whispering something to his wife. She ignored him and stared out the window. She was upset, the driver saw. Maybe she had visited a sick relative at the hospital. The husband adjusted his black kippah and looked away.

“So, what do you say about our country? Staging elections for the third time this year! Where else in the world do you have a country like this?”

The husband met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “God willing, this will be the last time we have elections.”

“And if God is not willing?”

“God willing, we will have a Torah-loving, tradition-respecting, Jewish government.”

“Who will you be voting for?” the driver asked.

“For our party, as the rabbis determined. This is the only way to safeguard Israel and to protect our faith.”

The driver considered asking the husband why he voted blindly according to the rabbis’ directives but raising the question could lead to an argument. Looking back in the mirror he saw the man trying to comfort his wife. Perhaps the relative they had visited was very sick. The driver felt sorry for them.

The driver and his wife were only religious on Shabbat and holidays. They kept a kosher kitchen but didn’t adhere to dietary restrictions when they ate out. Not that they ate out. With three children now, and their challenging financial situation, they couldn’t afford the luxury of dining in restaurants. Still, he did go to tefillot when he could. His father and three religious brothers were always pleased when he joined their minyan. He hoped they understood his need to work on Shabbat and holidays in order to support the family.

A young woman at the bus station waved for him to stop. She had very dark skin and was quite attractive, although he would never admit to his wife that he looked at other women from time to time. Only window shopping, he told himself. Never following up on anything. He stopped the car and the good-looking woman got in.

“So, what do you say about our country?” the driver asked.

“Are you talking to me?” she asked, keeping her eyes focused on her phone.

“Yes, I wanted to know what you think about the fact that we are staging elections for the third time this year. Where else in the world do you have a country like this?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Yes, to both of those.”

“Do you have an opinion about the situation? Everyone has an opinion.”

“The government is not the greatest,” she said with a sigh. “We are not represented.”

Who was not represented? the driver wondered. Ethiopians? Women? New immigrants? The young? But before he had a chance to ask, they had reached her stop. “How much?” she asked before handing him the exact change for the fare.

Near the Mahane Yehuda market he stopped for a tall, thin man who announced his destination before even closing the door.

“Beit Safafa. You do go there, don’t you?” The passenger spoke Hebrew with a thick Arab accent.

“I go everywhere in Jerusalem,” the driver replied. He had nothing against Arabs. Arabs, Haredim, Habadnikim, religious Zionists, secular leftniks—Jerusalem had all types. As long as his customers paid for their ride, he was fine with it.

“So, what do you say about our country? Staging elections for the third time this year. I assume you’ll be voting in the elections?”

“Yes, of course. This is our country, too, you know. Even though you don’t relate to us as equals.”

“You are equals!” He wanted to say that if Israeli Arabs wanted to be regarded as true equals, they should serve the country in some way. National service, if not service in the military. But stating this could lead to an argument and there wouldn’t be enough time to have a civil argument before they reached Beit Safafa.

“What do you think about our prime minister?” the driver asked instead.

“Racist,” was the one-word response. “The government is racist. It’s an apartheid state, you know.”

Oh, no, the driver sighed. We’re going down that road after all. “How do you propose to solve the situation?” he asked, glancing again at the mirror. His passenger avoided his eyes, as if somewhat embarrassed to be having a civil conversation with a Jew.

“If you would treat us as equals, it would solve the problem. All of us—the Palestinians who live on this side of the Green Line and the Palestinians who live on the other side of the Green Line.”

“One state?”

“One state. Equality for all.”

That would be the end of the Jewish state, the driver thought, but what did he know? He listened to the television news and read Yediot Aharonot every day. The situation wasn’t good; he knew that much for sure. But he loved Israel just the same.

An elderly couple was waiting near the Malha Mall and they seemed quite relieved when he stopped for them. Tourists! The driver spoke some English but at times he found it a challenge to find the most appropriate words to use in his speech.

“What do you say about Israel?” he asked the couple. “You know, we’re having elections again this year. It’s the third time! For sure, in America things are better!”

“Ha!” the grey-haired tourist said with a laugh. “You think you have tsuris? We have tsuris! We have a real schmuck as president but at least he’s a mensch who supports Israel. That’s all that’s important!”

The driver didn’t know any Yiddish and he wasn’t fully aware of American politics, so he didn’t know how to reply. The tourists were nice enough and left a big tip. At noon, the driver enjoyed grilled chicken steak and fries instead of his usual falafel.

“Why do you always talk to your passengers?” his wife had asked him once.

“I love talking,” he admitted. Maybe he viewed his travels as therapy, a way to voice what concerned him. Despite her feigned interest in what he did at work, his wife couldn’t bother with meaningful conversations, and certainly not discussions of Israeli politics. Talking with the total strangers traveling with him, on the other hand, not only offered a fascinating glimpse into their lives but also helped relieve the monotony of long hours parked on Jerusalem’s streets waiting for a fare. His wife never understood any of this. But he loved her just the same.

Later, he stopped for his last passenger of the day. The driver asked what he thought about the upcoming elections but the passenger barely acknowledged him. From a quick glance in the mirror, the driver assumed that the man with a closely-shaved head was relatively well-off, someone who would never consider traveling on the city’s crowded buses.

“Who will you be voting for in the elections?” the driver repeated. He expected the question to be ignored but a minute later, the passenger spoke up.

“I won’t be voting.”

“What do you mean you won’t be voting?”

“I’ve voted in elections twice this year already. Why should I vote again? It won’t make a difference.”

“It will make a difference!” the driver argued. “You have an opinion, and that opinion counts.”

“No, whatever happens, whoever wins, nothing will change.”

“How can you say that? As an Israeli citizen, you have a right to vote. No, you have an obligation to vote! Everyone must vote!”

The passenger didn’t argue with him because he was too busy getting out at his stop. The driver wasn’t surprised when he didn’t receive a tip.

He parked in the lot near his building. Election posters marked with the letters of the different parties hung from the balconies. Discarded propaganda pamphlets littered the pavement. He hoped his wife had prepared schnitzel for dinner. That was his favorite and it didn’t matter that he had eaten chicken steak for lunch. But he knew that his wife had probably been too busy all day with the children to even think about cooking. No matter. He would whip up some shakshuka and that would be a great meal, anyway.

What do you say about our country? he asked himself. Staging elections for the third time this year! Where else in the world do you have a country like this?

He didn’t have the answers. After all, he was just a taxi driver.


Originally posted on The Times of Israel.


Taxis on Jerusalem streets - image by Yoninah, shared on Wikimedia Commons.

The Cave - short story

They say the cave offers a passage to the underworld. In ancient Greek mythology, a musician, poet, and prophet named Orpheus, son of the god Apollo, descended through the cave into the subterranean kingdom of Hades in search of his beloved, Eurydice. There are many versions of this legend and none of them have happy endings.

They say that an outcrop of rock deep inside the cave’s interior resembles the face of the devil. This oddly shaped formation gives the cave its name. Devil’s Throat Cave. I don’t see the resemblance and I go into the cave six times a day, every day of the week. Except for the occasional Sunday.

It’s not all fun and games, this summer job of mine. My initial enthusiasm for working in nature and guiding tours of the cave has faded. The work is not hard, physically, but repeating the same talk over and over is tiring. Sometimes I wonder if anyone in my tours appreciates what they’re seeing. And sometimes I just can’t wait until the last person exits the cave so that I can lock the door soundly behind me.

Read the rest of the story on The Write Launch.