Seraphic Secret

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February 28, 2006

White Stone

"I visited Ariel's grave."

It takes me a moment to absorb what my guest is saying. It takes me a moment to catch my breath. Have I heard right? We have just had dinner at my favorite restaurant, Pico Kosher Deli, and as we step outside, I am trying to explain loss and memory.

"The thing that Karen and I fear most, I suppose, is silence. When people don't say anything about Ariel for fear of upsetting us. What they don't understand is that we love to hear about him. Even the smallest story, it just makes us so happy. You see we don't want him to be forgotten."

My guest is in town because it's his father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his father's death. He is here to visit his father's grave, and to pray with an established minyan, quorum.

I've arranged for my guest to lead the prayers in my synagogue, an honor usually reserved for shul members, but because he is my friend, the shul readily allows him to lead the prayers. My shul is a welcoming place, a warm environment.

It's the first time I've met my friend for he is another Seraphic friend. Commenting in Seraphic Secret for close to two years, I feel like I've known him my whole life.

Before my friend arrives, Offspring #3 wonders: "What happens if he's weird, afterall, you just know him on-line."

But I have learned that Seraphic commenters reveal themselves very quickly on-line. Those I've met in person--Pearl, Jake, Randi, Esther K--have been just who they present in cyberspace. Good and fine and smart people.

And so, hours after we've met, after lengthy conversations, my guest confesses:

"I visited Ariel's grave."
"You what?"
"I didn't know whether I should mention it or not, but I felt it was a way of honoring our friendship, and honoring Ariel."
"How did you find it?"
"You told me that Ariel's grave was in Simi Valley. I'm pretty good at finding things on the internet, it wasn't hard to locate. I drove there this morning, said Tehillim, Psalms, spoke to Ariel, and left a stone."

He shrugs as if it's no big deal. He seems embarrassed. I think he's sorry he told me.

On Pico Boulevard, Los Angeles, here in America, I am absolutely riven.

My night table is piled high with books about war: Eritrea, Sudan, The Battle of Algiers, Chad, Sierra Leone, Congo, Columbia, endless evil, endless butchery, I forget that there is still goodness.

I embrace my friend and thank him. And later that night, when I tell Karen, she breaks down and weeps.

A few days later, Karen and I visit Ariel's grave, and there we see a fresh white stone.

Lance Fogel's stone.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:38 AM | Comments (57)

February 27, 2006

Tajikstan Synagogue... Gone

The world goes crazy when a mosque in Iraq is destroyed by Muslims. But when a synagogue is leveled by Muslims--silence.

Read this and weep.

And do read Mark Steyn's latest column.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:31 PM | Comments (50)

February 24, 2006

Fun with Fyodor - Screenwriter's Cut, Bonus Footage

I've been reading Fyodor D. and oh boy, what can I say, not fun.

Several of Seraphic Secret's more literate readers, yes we have quite a few, pointed out that perhaps the translations we were using were doing a disservice to the fine Russian language. Was it Ezra Pound who said that it's the poetry that gets lost in the translation? Anyway, others suggested that perhaps we were just a wee bit, um, insensitive.

Very possible.

In any case, I thought that today I'd do a little mea culpa, and stroll down memory lane and present a kind of:

This is Your Life: Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky.

Fasten your seatbelts for this is grim as, well, grim as a Russian novel.

1) FD (1821-1881) is born in Moscow into a scheming, dysfunctional family. This makes for unhappy kids, but often fashions great writers. Anyway, FD's childhood is so miserable that he never mentions Moscow in any of his books. Not once. Which creates some pretty strange ellipses, especially in The Idiot when Prince Myshkin leaves St. Petersburg for six months in you know where.

2) FD's father, a physician, is, surprise, remote and violent. A totally creepy man, he is murdered by his own serfs when Fyodor is 17 years old.

3) Seven years later, FD publishes his first novel to great literary acclaim. He is instantly popular and fashionable. A sort of Russian Brett Easton. At about the same time, FD becomes involved with the Petrashevsky Circle, a group of revolutionary intellectuals who incite the serfs to rise up and murder, well, just about everyone--except the intellectuals. Duh.

4) 1849. FD is arrested and sentenced to death. He's subject to the famous "mock execution." Conspirators are blindfolded, and shoved up against the wall. The Commanding Officer calls out: "Ready, Aim..." The guns are primed. And then the Imperial Messenger comes galloping into the courtyard with a supposed "last minute reprieve from a merciful Tsar." Discerning readers will notice that this episode is used in The Idiot.

5) FD's sentence is commuted to a decade in sunny Siberia. Oh, forgot to mention that poor FD is epileptic. The condition worsens in exile.

6) 1859. FD returns to St. Petersburg. The literary world has, big shock, all but forgotten him. Like Hollywood, out of sight out of mind.

7) His wife, Marya Dmitrieyevna Isayeva, dies, slowly and horribly.

8) His brother, Mikhail, dies, slowly and horribly.

9) His epilepsy gets so bad FD's pretty certain that a) he's going insane or, b) he's dying, slowly and horribly.

10) Oh, also forgot to mention, FD's up to his neck in massive debt because he founded a slick magazine called Epoch, and gee, just what Mother Russia needs, another impenetrable literary/political/revolutionary journal that no one reads––except the government censors.

11) FD flees his numerous creditors, wanders through Europe: Paris, London, Vienna--which he claims to despise as "decadent." Though somehow young FD manages to consume barrels of decadent booze.

12) Oh, FD's also a compulsive gambler. Loses even more money that he does not have. Leaves IOU's in salons all over western Europe. Comments one irate casino owner: "Fyodor is a scoundrel! But his IOU's are just beautifully written!" FD also has a tendency to check out of hotels in the middle of the night, bills left, need we say it, unpaid.

13) 1867. FD marries his "stenographer," Anna Grigoryevna Snitkin, do you love that name, or what? Everywhere they go he introduces her as: "Staffmember, Stenographer and Soulmate, Snitkina." They have a beloved daughter, who dies almost immediately of pneumonia. FD crawls into bed for several weeks with a depression that only Snitkin can rescue him from.

14) FD writes constantly, though he's crushed almost hourly by Grand Mal seizures. FD is clinically depressed, and runs through manic binges of playing roulette, which he can ill afford.

15) Forced to enlist in the Tsar's army, FD's platoon is made up mostly of vicious ex-convicts, and others from the "lower classes." The only book he's allowed to read is The New Testament. He spends four long years in the army and this brutal experience changes the "structure of his soul."

Here's the thing I want to point out, and I'm certainly no expert. I don't even like FD's books on a word-by-word basis. However, on a conceptual level I get and admire him. Enormously. Ditto for Leo.

So: It seems to me that Fyodor's near-death experience takes a vain and self-important young writer and changes him into a person who now believes in moral and spiritual values. FD deeply believes that books, his novels, have to have a moral and spiritual center or they are just empty husks, depraved things--corrrupt and probably evil.

It also seems to this non-enthusiastic reader, that the unblinking emphasis on religion and values, these big ideas, are what make FD's novels... simply majestic**.

And conversely this is why so much contemporary literature is just plain bad; narcissistic, self-referential junk.*

Notice, if you will, that Mr. Tom Wolfe's last novel, I am Charlotte Simmons, is sneered at/dismissed/cold-shouldered by the NY literary elite. It's not hard to understand why. Mr. Wolfe writes in the grand, sweeping tradition of Fyodor and Leo.

Also, Mr. Wolfe's very great novel has, at it's core, the same big questions/ideas/themes that so preoccupied our Russians. Charlotte tortures herself with notions of good vs. evil, the religious life vs. secular society, and of course, the ever-present torment of carnal relations; when to give of the flesh, and to whom. And most vexing of all: the confounding relation between love and flesh, and flesh to love.

Mr. Wolfe treats these themes with the same unblinking earnestness as our Russians. Naturally, the chattering classes, far too sophisticated for such 19th century notions, are not even amused.

Quite simply, they yawn and ignore Mr. Wolfe's novel -- ignore America's greatest novelist.

**Am I a good person? Deep down, do I even really want to be a good person, or do I only want to seem like a good person so that people (including myself) will approve of me? Is there a difference? How do I ever actually know whether I'm lying to myself, morally speaking?

*See: Mailer, Roth, Updike. Granddads of the wretched movement.

**Notes From the Underground

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:30 AM | Comments (59)

February 23, 2006

Prince Myshkin, Flying at You - The Screenwriter's Cut

The KGB & Me

"We're going to smuggle siddurim, prayerbooks, into the Soviet Union and if we get arrested, good, they'll send us to Lubyanka Prison and we'll go on a hunger strike and die and then the world will know!"

I'm thinking to myself: What about my favorite pillow. Will the KGB let me bring my favorite pillow into prison with me?

I am in high school and I've decided to get involved in the SSSJ, The Student Struggle for Soviet Jewry. But I have to admit, most of the students, well, they really scare me, and I'm feeling vaguely ill at this, my very first meeting.

Eager and passionate, these Jewish kids fall into three distinct categories:

1) Hoods: These kids are so violent they've been kicked out of the JDL, The Jewish Defense League. If any of you remember the JDL, they were way extreme. These kids in the SSSJ are, let's face it, lunatics. They want to get arrested and horribly tortured by the KGB. Not only do they want to get thrown into Lubyanka prison, they yearn to get sent to Siberia!

2) Girl Hunters: There are a whole bunch of guys who have discovered that the SSSJ is a great way to meet girls. Look, when you're stuck in an **all boys Yeshiva seven days a week, from morning till night, well, I get it, I do, and --

**If I weren't so shy, so geeky, so hopelessly, helplessly in love with Karen Singer, a girl who has no idea I'm alive, I'd be chatting up the SSSJ girls too.

-- and the Girl Hunters can tell themselves that they are doing something for their oppressed Jewish bretheren. But really they're here for the smoldering Yeshiva girls.

3) Idealists: These guys and gals are like totally buttoned up. They're always making these long lists of things that have to be done immediately; they run the meetings with crisp, frightening authority. They are so focused that in a way I find them scarier than The Hoods--and The Hoods literally make me cower. The Idealists, to be fair, are the ones who get everything done, they actually travel to the Soviet Union and get the poor suffering Refuseniks out of their shackles. The Idealists give smooth, coherent interviews to The Daily News, The Post, The NY Times. In short, they are adults.

And then there's me. I'm with the SSSJ, sort of, kind of, because, and this is really embarrassing, because of a literary problem.

I'm trying to get educated.

My yeshiva high school, Brooklyn Talmudical Academy, no longer extant, comes up just a little short in literature. Actually, BTA comes up just a little short in everything, save basketball. But that's okay, we're basically all pretty smart, or so we tell ourselves, and we'll do fine in life, even if we're sent to a leper colony instead of to a high school. Come to think of it, all the other yeshivas actually do think of us as a leper colony.

And, deep nostalgic sigh, we take perverse pride in our outlaw status.

Leo and Fyodor

I hear, I don't remember where or how, that these Russian guys are really important writers and if you want to be considered an educated person, and I do, I really do, well, you have to read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.

I try, oh how I try, but well...

The prose and dialogue are stiff as my father's starched collars, it's mannered and, dare I say it, silly:

Here, just open War & Peace, any page:

"Is it much further? Is it much further? Oh, those insufferable streets, these shops and baker's signs, street lamps and sledges!" thought Rostov, when they presented their leave permits at the city gates and were driving into Moscow.

This from Dostoyevsky's The Idiot, again, at random:

"Isn't your poor little heart quaking, perhaps, in terror of a rival?"

See what I mean, I don't know, maybe it's the translation, but this is awful stuff. It's stiff and dumb and makes me laugh. What am I missing? I have to know.

There's other stuff that's just driving me crazy. People in these Russian books are always "shaking their fists."

I have never seen anybody shake their fist. Not even my crazy uncles who, when we have our family circles, get absolutely wasted on Slivovitz. They argue in Yiddish, scream extremely loudly –– about what I haven't the vaguest notion; and then they fall asleep, snore like oboes, and drool. Yuck. But no shaking fists.

Also: Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky characters are always calling each other "scoundrels."

Never in my life have I ever heard one person called a scoundrel. In fact, the first time I come across this word, I crack open a dictionary.

And then the crowning glory. And Fyodor is Elvis here, The King. People in his books are always "flying at each other."

Goodness gracious, whatever does this mean?

Mothra and Godzilla fly at each other, that's for darn sure. But in all my life I have never seen one human being "fly" at another human being. And Dostoyevsky does this in each of his books about a dozen times. Every single book without fail. And every time I come across this whacky phrase I just stop in mid-sentence and imagine people, yup, flying across rooms and wham! just slamming into each other. Which I know is not the intended image.

If it means to scream at somebody, why not say so, or at least translate it like that? If it means hit somebody, same objection, same remedy.

But fly?

There's also the business of Russian names. I am soooooo confused. Everybody's got really long and impossible-to-pronounce last name. Apparently they also have Christian names. And to make things even more confusing they've got a patronymic, and as if that were not enough, and believe me I'm tired just typing this, they've got a diminutive.

So I end up making lists of various character's different character's names.

You follow?

And sometimes I get so befuddled about who a character is that I'm not sure if the character is male or female--which presents huge problems of identity when two characters are kissing and I have not a clue as to who is male and who is female.

Don't even ask.

Even more bewildering are obscure military ranks, and civil service bureaucratic hierarchies that twist my brain into a pretzel.

Plus, really weird social ranks that make absolutely no sense, class distinctions that are so strange it's like reading science fiction.

I'm telling you, Russian society is so rigid and completely stuck in all these invisible class divisions that these people make the characters in Jane Austen novels look like relaxed free-love hippies.

Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment, is a "former student" (what the heck is that?) who is "impoverished," and yet he employs--and how he does this I have no idea for he's committing a horrible murder because he has no money--a servant!

I'm thinking, just follow me here, okay? Raskolnikov, don't kill the old lady, just fire the servant, he can collect Unemployment, and you can save a few bucks on the payroll. Show a little fiscal responsibility for goodness sake.

And keep in mind, I'm a math disabled sixteen year old idiot!

I'm also thinking to myself: We're not impoverished in Brooklyn, how do I get one of these servants?

Anywhoooo.

The Plot Thickens

Back to the SSSJ. Why am I here? This is the plan: join the SSSJ, naturally help my Jewish Soviet bretheren, I'm not completely heartless, and I am not a complete opportunist (I so dearly hope) and maybe meet one of these Refuseniks and get to ask:

"Do you guys in Russia shake your fists at each other?"

And:

Do they call you a Jewish scoundrel?

And:

"Do you have a servant?"

And if so:

"Can I have/borrow/share him?"

And the really BIG question:

"Do people in Russian fly at each other?"

After a few really wretched months at SSSJ meetings--everybody's intensely, self-consciously dead-serious 24/7, so that this SSSJ chapter has morphed into a relentlessly grim, irony-free zone. Plus: so many arguments, so many bitter schisms, not to mention all the bad blood among guys and girls who have gone out, broken up disastrously in dramatic flames, and now other guys are going out with other girls and well--everybody just seems to hate everybody else. It's like Peyton Place, only here framed by a cacophony of grating Brooklyn accents, with yours truly absolutely at the top of the fractal sonic environment.

I usually leave the meetings in the middle of the vicious procedural arguments, go to a local revival movie theatre and catch some really great old film. Preferably Japanese.

And you better believe that absolutely no one at the SSSJ misses me.

Anyway, our chapter finally has a real live Refusenik who's going to speak to us.

I'm so up for this.

He's gaunt and hollow-eyed. He's named Yitzchak. He has grown a beard, wears a huge yarmulke, his tzitzis, fringes, are down to his knees. And he's got that authentic: I'm-tormented-but-totally-at-peace thing going, just perfectly. I would kill to be able to pull off that look.

The little room in the shul, synagogue, we're meeting in, is packed as Yitzchak narrates his years of struggle with the anti-Semitic Soviet authorities. Years without employment, years in, yes, Lubyanka prison where Yitzchak taught himself Hebrew, and learned the entire Torah by heart. He was in solitary confinement for six months! He "fed his mind" by dreaming of freedom and Eretz Yisroel, The Land of Israel. His wife, radiant and hugely pregnant, just sits by the edge of the stage, knitting, yes knitting little baby booties, and every once in a while she just looks up at Yitzchak with pure love and total admiration.

Every woman is crying. Every guy wants to be Yitzchak.

The Q & A is more of the same. Torture, commitment to Torah and Judaism. Freedom. More horrible torture.

Sucking Poison

I quietly make my escape. There is no way I'm going to ask this good and brave man about Prince Myshkin "flying at" someone.

I do what I always do. Go to the movies.

Red River is playing at a revival house a few blocks away. I have to tell you, this film just puts me on the floor.

Montgomery Clift and Joanne Dru are trapped in a wagon train surrounded by warring, whooping Indians, er, Native Americans. He's shooting, she's loading his Winchester.

"Stay down," he orders.
Ziiiip.
He looks up, an arrow has pinned her shoulder to a wagon wheel.
Ouch!
"I told you to stay down," he growls.
"I must've forgot," she says, eyes hard as flint.

He pulls out a knife, cuts the arrow out of her shoulder--another big ouch--and then he sniffs the arrowhead. He shakes his head. Monty slits her dress open, then--and this just kills me--sucks the blood from her shoulder wound and spits it out.

"The arrow's poisoned" he explains.

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

"There's blood on your chin," she observes.
"You gonna faint?" he challenges.
"Not till I do what I've wanted to do since I met you," she says.
And she slaps him.
Hard.
Big music sting.
Then she faints.

Watching this I almost faint.

I gotta tell you, this is much, much better than Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. It's not even a close contest.

True Confessions I: I so so so so want to be Monty and so so so so want Joanne Dru to be Karen Singer. Boy oh boy do I ever want to suck poison out of K's shoulder.

True Confessions II: Still haven't sucked poison from my true love's shoulder. Got over that notion a looooong time ago. For this we can all be eternally grateful.

Anyway.

Never went to another SSSJ meeting. Have seen Red River another, ohhhh, fifty times. Know it by heart. Should know The Torah by heart, but there you go.

In college, never took a Russian Lit. Course. Asked a friend about the "flying" business. He explained that, "It's a metaphor for extreme emotional distress." Then added with a shrug: "It's a Russian thing."

Okey-dokey.

DVD BONUS ENDING: February 2006. I am thumbing through Joseph Franks' magisterial muti-volume study of Dostoevsky in my local library. All four volumes together weigh about a thousand lbs.

I just happen to open up to this little gem, it's by Dostoyevsky's long suffering wife, Anna Snitkin. Yup, honest to G-d her real-life name, not something from a Marx Brothers film. This is an excerpt from one of her journals:

"Poor Fyodor, he does suffer so much, and is always so irritable, and liable to fly at me about trifles..."

The nice librarian has to come (fly?) over to tell me that my laughter is disturbing the other patrons.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:31 AM | Comments (89)

February 22, 2006

Iranian High

This just in from CNN.

As Seraphic Secret readers know our friend and commenter, Jake Novak works over at CNN, every once in a while he runs across a story that, well, they just won't let him run.

Here's a beauty.

Lousy Iranian High School Student Blames Israel for Bad Grades

By Jake Novak

(Tehran) Ravi Parshavan, a perennial "C" student at Tehran's Ayatollah Khatami High School, has suddenly risen to the top of his class by systematically blaming Israel, the Jews, and the United States for all his sub-par marks.

"I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner," said a smug Parshavan after evening prayers, "I mean all day, all we hear about is how the Jews are responsible for all our problems. Our teachers say this, our newspapers say this, and our president doesn't really say anything else. I finally realized that my bad grades are my problem, so why not blame the Jews for that? Wouldn't you know it? A week after I start the whole, 'it's the Jews' fault' excuse, I'm getting straight A's!"

"We are very proud of Ravi," said his 10th grade math instructor Mahmoud Ramishaveri, "he successfully explained to the whole class that the Jews' control of the international interest rate system is the reason why he can't do simple percentage equations. Frankly, I always thought it was because he was a lazy dimwit, but then the nice armed gentlemen from the government showed me how smart Ravi really is."

Ravi's parents are showing the same kind of bewildered pride in his sudden success.

"Sure, I was a little upset when he stopped making his bed and doing the rest of his chores. But then I realized he was just trying to lay low so the Jews wouldn't find him and use his blood for their Passover rituals," said his mother Reza with the approval of several government soldiers in her living room. They proceeded to beat her anyway after the interview for speaking in public.

But the Jews aren't the only successful targets of Parshavan's blame game. His failing marks in gym and terrible performances in soccer matches have been explained away as the result of America's greedy domination of key resources like healthy food, athletic shoes, and air to inflate soccer balls.

"I would be a regular David Beckham, that infidel pig of the West, if the Americans weren't keeping me from getting the athletic gear I need. Curse them all!" Parshavan explained.

Parshavan is now guaranteed of graduating as his class valedictorian, and his new-found wisdom may also gain him admission to the world's leading universities.

"I very much look forward to having young Ravi join our Middle Eastern Studies program," said Professor Joseph Massad of Columbia University. "Not only has he correctly identified the sources of all his problems at an unusually young age, but he should be able to help me shout down the pro-Israel students in my class when I get a little hoarse."

Parshavan isn't sure if he will attend university in America, however.

"It could be fun to go to New York, but I do have an awesome rock-throwing team scholarship to Beir Zeit University in Palestine. So I do have to weigh all my offers," he explained.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:09 AM | Comments (23)

February 21, 2006

What Was Sharon Thinking? IV

In the great Japanese movie The Seven Samurai, Kambei, the leader of Samurai swordsmen who are defending the villagers against the bandits, makes a battle plan, and draws little symbols for each enemy soldier.

Why?

Because he's going to kill them one by one and he wants to keep count.

It's instructive, this film from 1954. At no point does Kambei say, "Hey, let's try and negotiate with these murdererers and thieves." At no point does he try and understand what motivates them. He really doesn't care. He just knows one thing: some people have to be killed. Evil exists and has to be stamped out--not psychoanalyzed.

Fighting Terrorism

Ariel Sharon and most sane Israeli politicians and soldiers understand this simple fact. Now more than ever, Israel is involved in a life and death struggle with an Islamic pansurgency that will only be satisfied with the complete annihilation of the state of Israel, Christians, and all of Western civilization.

The Palestinian national movement has been entirely subsumed into this larger Islamic pansurgency. They have just elected Hamas, and you better believe that you must read the Hamas covenant which clearly calls for the death of every Jew everywhere. It is one of the most odious documents on record--ever.

So let's be honest, Israel can pull back to 1967 borders and it will not satisy the Arabs. Only the annihilation of the State of Israel will satisfy this genocidal movement.

Update: Just last week Olmert announced that Kadima's position is that it will cede about 88% of Judea and Samaria to the Arabs.

And many Jews are going to be expelled from their homes. This is going to be a horror.

But this series is about strategic and military thought behind this withdrawal, and so let us proceed.

Once a pullback occurs behind a properly constructed security wall, how is Israel to defend herself against the terrorists who will come to murder men, women and children?

The first problem is to gain intelligence concerning future terrorists attacks. How to do it besides the normal methods of human intelligence, and eavesdropping over cell phone conversations, which the terrorists are wise to, using messengers with handwritten notes. You see we go high-tech, they go low-tech.

Aerostats.

Think of them as balloons with antennae. Compared to conventional aircarft, they are cheap to run. No pilots to worry about and rescue if shot down, and currently Israel is using them in the Negev to look across the Sinai and watch the Egyptians, make sure that they're not attempting to remilitarize that area.

Aerostats can stay aloft for about two weeks, some can go as high as 70,000 feet, so they can't be shot down.

They can be modified to watch single cars, and even individuals.

Even now, American and Israeli, German and Japanese defense contractors are experimenting with "brain signatures."

Sounds like science fiction?

Not really. Think of an MRI. Each person has a unique brain signature. The idea being that targeted assasinations will be made that much easier and more precise when we have brain signatures of targets, and then the aerostats acquire these signatures, feed them into a main frame and a helicopter or missle is dispatched for the kill.

Even now this is being experimented with in a very serious way. It won't be long before it's perfected. Terrorists will have to lobotomize themselves to find safety.

Then the Israelis just have to kill the drooling guy with the Kalashnikov.

In any case, several new pilotless flying platforms are being developed in tandem by Israeli and American firms and they are very promising in terms of anti-terrorist warfare.

There is another intractable problem facing Israel and that is terrorists released from prison. Lots and lots of terrorists.

Currently, there is no "there" to send them to. They are released and swim in the ocean of Israel.

With a proper wall in place, these terrorists who have probably become even better terrorists behind bars, can be sent over the wall, where they can fall into endless squabbles among competing clans, competing terrorist groups. For if there is one thing we can count on it is that Arabs will descend into hopeless and violent sectarian warfare given half the chance.

Interpolation:

The Arabs are a lucky people. When the history of Sharon's campaign against the Palestinian terrorists is written, it will be studied as a model of the cleanest counter-insurgency campaign war ever waged.

Think of the French in Algeria. The Paras were brutal with a capital B. Entire villages were leveled, bombed out of existence. Hundreds of thousands were imprisoned, tortured, and mutilated. Casualties of about 1 million Muslims.

After the French left, naturally the Arabs fell into civil war. Throat slitting was the preferred method of killing. This went on for over 20 years. Casualties? Over one million.

But Israel is accused of being brutal.

I could talk about the British and the Mau-Mau uprising, South Africa, The Arab Janjaweed in Darfur, Assad the Elder of Syria wiping out the entire city of Hama with poison gas killing 40,000 civilians, and Saddam using gas against the Kurds, but no one seems to care when Arabs kill Arabs. Besides, the Arab world is awash in lies and the most virulent form of anti-Semitism the world has ever known.

End of Interpolation:

Conclusion

Frankly, the only reality is fighting terrorism the best way possible. And for this, we must gird ourselves for a hundred years war. No more negotiations, no more accords, no more murderous road maps, no more concessions, no more talks with genocidal Jihadists who hide behind double talk.

Professor Yisrael Aumann, Israel's Nobel Prize winner lectured recently on his idea of game theory. He pointed out that taking the long road more often than not brings results even quicker than playing for immediate short-term gain.

The Arabs believe that Israel is another Crusader kingdom; all they have to do is wait and Israel and the Jews will be gone.

They must be disabused of this fantasy.

We must wait them out. We must be steadfast, patient and no longer say: "Let's solve this problem now."

Instead we must say: "There is no solution as long as the Arabs act as they do. When they change their civilization, let them come and act like decent people. Until then, we are here and we will fight when we have to, and if it comes to it, we will destroy them."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:09 AM | Comments (39)

February 20, 2006

Pity the Poor Anti Semite

I'm at a book signing today here in LA at Sinai Temple on Wilshire Blvd and Beverly Glen, unveiling the soft cover version of The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to finish Part IV in my series, What Was Sharon Thinking? to post today.

However,I'd like you all to read this fine piece by Shrinkwrapped, a psychiatrist friend of mine who writes a fine blog with a unique point of view. This post is titled: Pity the Poor anti-Semite.

I will continue with my series tomorrow. I'll be writing about fighting terrorism after a proper security wall has been built.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:01 PM | Comments (20)

February 17, 2006

No True Glory

This whole week, Seraphic Secret has been devoted to grand military theory.

And so, to continue the theme, I've just finished reading the best book about the war in Iraq that has yet been published: No True Glory, by Bing West. This is an eye witness account of the ferocious and bloody Battle for Fallujah by a former Assistant Secratary of Defense for International & Security Affairs under President Reagan, and more importantly a former Marine.

I'm excerpting an entire chapter because, quite frankly, I've never read anything that comes close to West's description of face-to-face urban combat, between well trained US forces and fanatical Islamic gunmen.

I read the book in two sittings. I would have read it in one, but I did have to get a night's sleep.

Buy this book. That's my review.

It is riveting.

Seraphic Alert: The following chapter contains language that is usually not found in Seraphic Secret. I could easily edit the languge of the Marines, but I will not. So, if you are offended by foul language. Stop right here.

Chapter 27: The House From Hell

On the morning of 13 November, Kilo Company set out to clear the dense blocks of houses stretching from Phase Line Henry west to the Euphrates. Captain Jent told 1/Lt Grapes that his platoon would take the lead and Grapes assigned a block to each squad. After the previous day's fight, the platoon was tired but excited, expecting immediate action, but the insurgents had retreated to the south and no contact was made in the first block.

The 3rd Squad began searching the second block by shooting and hammering at an unyielding lock on a courtyard gate. Admitting defeat, Corporal Ryan Weemer sat down to smoke a cigarette.

Screw this one, he thought, 2nd Squad has some C-4. They can clear it later.

Sergeant Christopher Pruitt, the Platoon Guide, ran across the street to pry open a side gate of the next house. Tough and muscular, Pruitt had a challenging nature and never relaxed.

”Hey, this gate's open," he yelled. "Let’s go!”

Weemer threw down his smoke and hustled over with Sergeant James Eldrige and Lance Corporals Cory Carlisle and James Prentice.

The five Marines slipped into the courtyard and Pruitt looked inside the outhouse. Fresh shit.

“They’re inside!" Pruitt whispered.

The cement house, with a dome-shaped roof and a small upper story, looked too small to hold more than a few enemy. So rather wait for a tank, the Marines decided to assault. Weemer, who had gone through the Close Quarters Battle (CQB) special training, posted Prentice as rear security and gestured to Carlisle and Pruitt to stack behind him. He slung his M16 and took out his pistol. Drawing a deep breath, he kicked down the door and charged across the room. He was “running the rabbit", a technique where the point man rushes across the room to distract the enemy while the second man in the stack does the shooting.

As Weemer sprinted across the entryway room, he glimpsed an insurgent with an AK hiding next to the door. As he ran by, Weemer fired three rounds into the man. Carlisle burst in after Weemer, almost bumped into the gunman and jumped back, spilling into Pruitt.

“Go!” Pruitt yelled, shoving him back into the room.

Carlisle stepped forward and fired a long burst into the insurgent, who sagged to the floor. Carlisle then fired another burst into the dead man.

“Stop shooting and get over here,” Weemer yelled.

Carlisle ran across the room and flattened himself against the wall next to Weemer.

"Ready to clear?" Weemer said, gesturing at the open doorway to his left that led to the main room.

With Carlisle on his hip, Weemer charged in and was blinded by the pulsing white flashes of an AK muzzle exploding in his face. Weemer thrust out his right arm and fired eight bullets into the insurgent. The two were standing five feet apart, looking into each other's eyes, firing furiously. Weemer could feel bullets whizzing by his face. Chips of brick and concrete were pelting him on the cheeks, his ears ringing.

Weemer was a qualified expert shot with a pistol. There was no way he had missed with a dozen bullets. He was close enough to slap the man. The man would not go down.

Weemer was running out of bullets. He shuffled towards the door, still firing, and pushed Carlisle back into the first room.

The AK rounds that missed Weemer as he made entry had passed through the door and struck Pruitt and Eldridge. Bones were shattered in the wrist of Pruitt’s firing hand and Eldridge was hit in the shoulder and chest. They staggered out of the house and Pruitt tripped and fell near the front gate. As he struggled to get up, an insurgent on the roof opened fire, the bullets kicking dirt into his face. He dove around the wall and joined Eldridge on the street.

Inside the house, Prentice, who had slid inside the doorway, saw a man wearing a green camouflage jacket and black pants rush out from a back room. Prentice fired a long burst from his SAW, hitting the man in the chest and head, killing him instantly.

Weemer turned back to Carlisle.

"Reload and we'll finish that other fucker."

Keeping his eyes on the doorway, Weemer patted his pistol leg-holster.

Where's my extra mag? he thought. Fuck.

He dropped his pistol and unhooked the M-16 from his back. He heard someone stumbling towards them and backed up as the insurgent hobbled out from the main room. Weemer shot him in the legs and, when he fell, shot him twice in the face. The man, wearing black body armor over a blue denim shirt, was light-skinned, with a red bandana tied around his curly hair.

Hearing the firing and seeing the wounded, other Marines were rushing to the house. Lance Corporal Samuel Severtsgard burst into the entry room. As he had done in yesterday's fight, Severtsgard was holding a grenade.

He nodded at Severtsgard, who pitched the grenade into the main room. Immediately after the explosion, Weemer and Carlisle rushed in. The air was filled with black smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Weemer broke right and waited a moment for the dust to settle. He saw a stairwell against the left wall and quickly raised his M-16. Above him was a dome-shaped skylight and a circular catwalk with a solid, three-foot high cement guard railing. The stairs led to the catwalk.

As Weemer brought his rifle up, he saw an insurgent leaning over the cement railing, sighting in. The M-16 and the AK began firing at the same time, the sound deafening. Weemer felt his leg buckle. A hard blow rocked back his face.

To his left, Carlisle was struck down in a fusillade of bullets, the shooters taking dead aim from the catwalk overhead. Deafened by the din, Weemer hobbled back to the entryway. In the dust-filled room, he didn't see Carlisle lying with a shattered leg and he couldn't hear his screams.

His face numb and dripping blood, Weemer limped out to the courtyard. He had flashbacks of a jihadist his team had shot in the face a few days ago. He saw Prentice squatting next to the doorway covering the roof.

“What’s wrong with my face? How bad is it?”

Prentice barely glanced at him.

“You’re cut above the eyebrow. Its nothing.”

Weemer took off his Kevlar and found the spent bullet lodged in the webbing.

Carlisle was screaming in the main room, lying directly below the catwalk. The insurgents were using him as bait instead of killing him.

The platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Jon Chandler, heard the screams and ran to the house, followed by Corporals Farmer and Sanchez. They huddled with Severtsgard.

" We’re gonna flood the room, OK? It’s the only way," Chandler said. "Everyone point their muzzles up high and blast away until we can pull Carlisle out. All right, lets go! Sanchez, you’re number one man, I’ll follow.”

Farmer thought it was a good plan." Let’s do it,” he said.

Sanchez thought, “Oh shit, here we go,” and his mind went blank—just doing, not thinking.

Severtsgard thought, Throw one grenade, then enter. He pulled a grenade from his deuce gear and thumbed the clip. Carlisle screamed again.

What am I thinking? thought Severtsgard, as he pictured Carlisle lying in the middle of the room. Hope nobody saw that.

He slipped the grenade back into its pouch.

Chandler kneed Sanchez in the buttocks to signal “GO!” and they flooded the room. Sanchez ran straight across the room. Chandler and Severtsgard broke right, aiming up at the catwalk. Farmer was the last one to the door, where he froze for a moment, trying to convince himself it wasn’t fear. A second later, a grenade landed in the middle of the room and exploded right where he would have been standing.

Farmer was blown off his feet back into the foyer. Severtsgard and Chandler disappeared in a huge swirl of dust and debris, as the deafening roar of AKs filled the main room. Chandler fell instantly, three bullets in his leg and both his shoulder and leg shredded by the grenade shrapnel. Severtsgard was also torn up, with shrapnel in his leg and foot. With one hand, he dragged Chandler from the kill zone into the kitchen.

Sanchez, who had raced across the main room, turned around and saw no one.

What the fuck? Where did they go? Sanchez thought.

In front of him was the door to a small room. Sure he was going to be shot, he kicked open the door and stepped in alone. The bedroom was empty. He propped his rifle against the wall and ran back into the main room. He grabbed Carlisle under his shoulders and pulled him into the shelter of the small back room.

Bullets were ricocheting off the walls and skipping across the floor. From behind the cement guard rail on the circular catwalk, the insurgents were darting back and forth. Their fires covered all angles of the main room below them.

In the kitchen, Chandler was howling in pain. Severtsgard had his rifle trained on the door so no one could enter and finish them off. After a minute or so, Chandler calmed down.

"Hey, man, the Corps will send us home now," Chandler said. "We're all messed up."

Severtsgard smiled and kept watch on the door.

Farmer was lying on his back in the foyer, his trigger finger and thumb badly shredded with shrapnel. He couldn’t hold his rifle. He leaned against the wall and let loose a barrage of profanity.

“Fuck! Those motherfuckers! I’ll kill’em. Those fucks!”

More Marines rushed to the house. Private Rene Rodriguez stood in the courtyard for a minute to sort things out. He had seen Sergeant Pruitt stagger down the street with a shattered hand. He had seen Weemer limp out yelling for reinforcements. The platoon’s corpsman, Doc Edora, was kneeling by the wall treating Eldridge for gunshot wounds in his chest. The word was the platoon sergeant and two or three more were down inside. And his fire team leader, Cpl. Sanchez, was in there somewhere, unaccounted for.

Rodriguez grabbed Lance Corporal Michael Vanhove and ran inside.

"Corporal Sanchez! Sanchez?" Rodriguez yelled.

"I got Carlisle," Sanchez yelled. "We're in the front room. Watch your ass. The center room's a kill zone!"

Rodriguez and Vanhove sprinted past Farmer, past the sprawled Iraqi bodies, the weapons, shell casings and blood. The insurgents above them opened up with a long burst of AK-47 fire. The rounds hit between the two Marines, forcing Vanhove to dive back into the foyer. Rodriguez plunged through the fire and into the bedroom with Sanchez and Carlisle.

“Take security on the door!” Sanchez said.

Sanchez had taken his pressure bandage from his shoulder pocket and was straightening Carlisle’s leg that had twisted backwards from the force of the bullets. As Carlisle screamed, Rodriguez’s stomach turned over. Sanchez spoke jokingly to Carlisle as he tried to staunch the flow of blood.

"Clean the wound, direct pressure, bandage, more pressure…just like in Doc’s classes.”

There was no back door, only a small window covered with sturdy metal bars. The insurgents were steadily shooting at the doorway.

A block away, Pruitt and Eldridge were wobbling up the street toward the medevac humvees. First Sergeant Brad Kasal from Weapons Company was walking forward next to a humvee. Kasal ran to Pruitt's side and pulled him to cover. Pruitt was close to passing out.

"Bad guys in that house," he mumbled. "We got people down inside."

Kasal grabbed the three nearest Marines and ran forward to the courtyard wall, where the squad leader, Cpl. John Mitchell, was crouching with five more Marines. Mitchell led them forward and they stacked along the wall outside the door. Mitchell was in charge. Kasal considered himself just another Marine pitching in. Taking no fire, they tumbled through the doorway.

It was a new house, with clean beige dry walls and a light, brown-speckled concrete floor covered with cement dust and swaths of bright red blood. Inside the doorway, Kasal saw two dead Iraqis. Sanchez and Rodriguez were yelling for a corpsman.

“Get Doc in here!” they yelled. "Carlisle's bleeding out!"

The insurgents knew the Marines had to move across the main room to get their casualties out, and from the catwalk they had an ideal field of fire. Joining Mitchell inside the house were First Sergeant Kasal, Private First Class Nicoll and Lance Corporal Morgan McCowan. For Kasal and Nicoll, this was their second day fighting side-by-side. After four years of service, Niccol was still a Private First Class, repeatedly busted by Kasal. In a battle of wills, Kasal had called PFC Niccol into his office nine times for fighting, drinking and tardiness.

Niccol's irreverence was legendary. On the eve of the battle for Fallujah, the battalion commander, LtCol Willie Buhl, gave him the microphone to motivate 900 Marines with his “I AM PFC NICOLL!” speech, a parody of Mel Gibson’s “I am William Wallace!” exhortation in the movie Braveheart.

"Niccol, you're with me," Kasal said. "Cover my back."

The firing had died down. Mitchell, a school-trained medic, decided not to hesitate.

“I’ll go across," he said. "You all cover me.”

Mitchell ran across the main room in a dead sprint to reach Sanchez, attracting only a few scattered shots. Kasal and Niccol stepped into the main room, staying close to the wall. Kasal looked at the stairs to his right leading to the second floor. Midway up, it looked like someone had chopped a peephole a foot wide out of the cement wall. He next noticed a small room the left of the room Mitchell had entered.

"Anyone been in that room to the left?" he shouted.

When no one answered, Kasal grabbed two Marines behind him.

"Cover that mouse hole and the ladder well," he said. "Niccol, we'll clear that room to the left."

Kasal kicked open the door and thrust the barrel of his rifle forward, sweeping or "pieing" the room from right to left, ending his two-second scan with his eyes locked on the muzzle of an AK pointed at his nose. The insurgent had been hiding inside the door next to the light switch.

Instead of shooting right away, he yelled in Arabic, then fired. In that instant, the shocked first sergeant had jumped a foot back and the AK rounds streaked by, hitting the wall. Kasal stuck his rifle barrel over the top the AK barrel and pulled the trigger, sending ten bullets into the man's chest. The thickset man, dressed in a khaki shirt with a black chest rig holding a row of AK magazines, slowly slumped to the floor. Kasal pushed back the insurgent's sand-colored helmet and, not wanting to be killed by a dying man, shot him twice more in the head.

Without looking behind him, Kasal shouted over his shoulder "Cover that ladder well!" and stepped forward to look around the small bathroom a second time. As he did so, bullets hit the wall around him and he felt like someone had hit his legs with a sledgehammer. He fell into the doorway and was hammered again. He started to crawl around the corner, then remembered Niccol was in the open behind him.

Lying on his side, Kasal looked back and saw Niccol propped against a wall. Niccol jerked and winced as the bullet s hit him, shoving his hand under his armored vest. When he pulled it out, it was covered with blood. Lying on his stomach, Kasal reached up and grabbed Niccol by the sleeve, pulling him down. As he did so, he felt a baseball bat hit him across the ass and he knew he had been shot again.

The insurgents had held their fire, then sprung their ambush. The firing went on and on, Kasal estimating it continued for thirty seconds. Why did those Marines take their eyes off that damn mouse hole, he wondered.

Kasal pulled Niccol to his left into the room. He propped Niccol's shattered left leg on his stomach, trying to tie a pressure bandage as a tourniquet. His hands were sticky with blood and he kept fumbling, worrying that Niccol was going to bleed to death due to his clumsiness. He heard a thump to his right and turned his head to see a pineapple grenade laying just out reach. He rolled left on top of Niccol and bear-hugged him as the explosion went off. He felt sharp pressure in his legs and buttocks and knew he had been hit again. When his head stopped ringing, he shoved his rifle out the door so the Marines would know which room they were in. He didn't want to be hit by friendly fire and he knew they would be coming for them.

Down the hall, Mitchell heard Nicoll yell, “I’m hit!” and First Sergeant Kasal yell, “Get that goddamn cocksucker!”

“Is Nicoll OK?" Mitchell shouted. "Is he going to die?”

Sanchez felt his stomach turn over again. Nicoll was one of his best friends. He couldn’t die. This was all wrong. They had to get them out of there.

Mitchell told Sanchez to take care of Carlisle. Without a word, he ran out of the room, hugging the wall as he sprinted for the bathroom. A grenade bounced and exploded behind him and several AKs started firing. One round hit Mitchell’s rifle in the chamber. Another ricocheted off of his weapon and tore into his thigh—his third Purple Heart.

He skidded into the bathroom. Kasal lay on his side to let Mitchell attend to Niccol in the cramped space. As the blood dripped from him, Kasal's blood pressure fell and he drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he jerked back, he yelled at Niccol to stay awake. Niccol was nodding off for minutes at a time, then muttering that he was OK.

"Get him out," Kasal said, "or he'll bleed to death."

Outside, Lieutenant Grapes ran up to the house as Pruitt, Eldridge, Weemer and Farmer were being helped into medevac humvees. Over a handheld radio, Grapes reached Mitchell.

"Find us another way out," Mtichell said, "or to kill those fucks so we can walk out!”

Corporal Wolf, who had bandaged Mitchell's arm in the fight the day before, pushed into the entryway next to Grapes and started shouting to Mitchell.

“I got to get over there man! You’re my boy! I’ve gotta come over there!”

Grapes and Wolf circled the house and found no other doors. The five windows had one-inch steel bars covering them.

“Where are they firing from?” Grapes asked Mitchell over the radio.

“There’s a ladderwell, and a skylight over the living room. At least one of them is on the roof!”

“All right,” Grapes told Wolf, “you get your team ready to pull them out. I'll put shooters on the roof across the street to suppress those guys. Once I give you the signal, get in there and pull them out.”

Wolf agreed. While Wolf put together his rescue team, Grapes led a heavily-armed squad onto the roof.

Sgt. Byron W. Norwood, who commanded a humvee with a .50 caliber, entered the foyer with Wolf to see how he could bring the heavy gun to bear. Formerly a crewmember on Colonel Toolan's humvee, Norwood came from a small town in Texas. His sharp wit had reminded Toolan of New York City-type humor. Norwood poked his head around the doorway just as an insurgent let loose a burst. Rodriguez, guarding the door to the bedroom, saw Norwood peek into the main room and watched as his eyes suddenly grew wide. The bullet hit Norwood in the forehead, killing him instantly. Wolf was hit in the chest by the same burst and fell back unharmed, a bullet lodged in his armor vest.

Seeing the expression on Norwood’s face terrified Rodriguez. I’m gonna be the next one shot, he thought. Rodriguez asked Sanchez to relieve him in the doorway.

The Quick Reaction Force, a squad from Lieutenant John Jacobs’ 2nd Platoon, arrived on the scene. Within seconds, Jacobs had his Marines maneuvering to bring fire on the insurgents.

On the nearby roof, the Marines with Grapes poured fire toward the skylight. They were at the same height, though, and the bullets were passing over the heads of the insurgents. With the wounded inside, throwing grenades or bringing heavy weapons into play was out of the question. Wolf couldn’t push across the main room without better suppression.

Chandler and Severtsgard, trapped in the kitchen, thought they could batter their way through a padlocked metal panel leading to the entryway. After shooting and hammering at the panel for several minutes, they pried it open and squeezed through. Wolf laid down suppressing fire and they staggered through the entryway and out into the courtyard.

Both were bleeding badly. Chandler was howling in pain, his leg twisted in a spiral fracture from hip to foot. Severtsgard slumped down against the courtyard wall, blood pouring from his fractured foot. Lance Corporal Stephen Tatum came to his aid. Tatum, who had the thickest pair of glasses in Kilo Company, offered to remove Severtsgard’s torn boot.

“Go to hell you blind fuck! No way you are working on my foot!” Severtsgard yelled, getting to his feet and limping toward the nearest humvee.

Grapes and Jacobs knelt by the wall to plan what to do next. Five Marines were trapped inside. Rifle fire wasn't budging the insurgents hiding behind the cement wall on the catwalk above the main room and Mark 19 fire or hand grenades would injure the trapped Marines.

“Flashbangs! The insurgents will think they're grenades and duck,” Grapes said.

Jacobs led his men to the entryway, flipped in two flashbangs and rushed in firing. The insurgents immediately returned fire. Stalemate.

Back outside, Grapes, Crossan and Pvt Justin Boswood crept up to a bedroom window in the back of the house. Grapes and Boswood took turns on a sledge hammer, hammering at the steel bars. Grapes could hear his wounded Marines wailing in pain inside. He could hear Mitchell yelling, “Get us the fuck out of here!" After smashing and smashing, they pried two bars slightly apart. They stripped off their armor and gear and squeezed through. Marines handed their weapons to them.

Boswood pulled a dead insurgent’s body out of the doorway, the blood from his skull covering the floor. Grapes slid on his back into the main room, his sights fixed on the skylight above. Boswood knelt over Grapes chest, covering the stairs.

Grapes, Jacobs and Sanchez at last had the catwalk in a three-cornered crossfire.

"Ready?" Grapes yelled. "Fire!"

From three angles, the Marines fired up at the crosswalk, forcing the insurgents to duck behind the wall.

Lance Corporals Christopher Marquez and Jonathon Schaffer sprinted across the kill zone, grabbed Kasal and dragged him back to the entryway. Then they ran back and brought out Niccol. Then Mitchell.

That left Sanchez, Rodriguez and Carlisle in the back bedroom down the hall.

The Marines could either continue running the gauntlet across the main room or get through the bars over the bedroom window. Corporal Richard Gonzalez, a demolitions expert known as “the mad bomber,” suggested blowing the bars off the window.

“Are you fucking crazy?" Sergeant Jose Nazario yelled. "You’ll fucking kill them! Don’t blow it!”

Corporal Eric Jensen came running up with a long chain that was looped around the bars. Jensen hooked the chain to a Humvee and pulled out the bars. Sanchez and Rodriguez put Carlisle on a makeshift stretcher and passed out his limp body.

With all the wounded out of the house, Grapes linked up with Mitchell.

"Now we let Gonzalez do his work," Grapes said.

The Marines peppered the house with fire and hooted and hollered as if they were still inside while Gonzalez prepared a 20 pound satchel charge - sufficient to blow down two houses. Gonzalez crept inside the house and placed the satchel on top of a dead insurgent’s body. A few seconds later, he ran outside.

“15 Seconds!”

They ducked for cover. The house exploded in a huge flash of red, followed by chunks of concrete thudding down as a vast cloud of dust rose. A pink mist mixed with the dust and gunpowder in the air. Grapes was happy to see it.

The Marines waited several minutes, then moved forward into the dusty rubble. They saw two bodies lying among the slabs. As they drew closer, they noticed one of them move.

“They’re still alive!”

An arm flicked limply forward and a grenade tumbled toward the Marines. They turned and ran for cover. Sanchez saw Grapes and Crossan racing by him. I’m too slow! I’m fucked! he thought. The grenade went off, injuring no one.

Seven Marines climbed back up the rubble and fired two hundred rounds into the two insurgents. Among the detritus, Lt. Grapes found a woolen winter skullcap with bright colors, the kind worn by fighters in Chechnya. He kicked it into the dirt.

Bing West served as Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs in the Reagan administration. A graduate of Georgetown and Princeton Universities, he served in Marine infantry in Vietnam. His books have won the Marine Corps Heritage Prize, the Colby Award for Military History and appeared on the Commandant's Reading List. West appears regularly on The News Hour and Fox News. He is a member of St. Crispin's Order of the Infantry and the Council on Foreign Relations. He lives in Newport, RI.

All original content is © 2005-2006

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:17 PM | Comments (28)

February 16, 2006

What Was Sharon Thinking? Part III

"Know the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril." Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Security Wall

It is impossible to know when it happened, at what point Ariel Sharon realized that the conflict with the Palestinians no longer mattered.

Perhaps the moment came, as it did for so many, on that frightfully bright morning of 9/11, when Jihad hit American soil with a body count suited to a country at war.

America had been at war for years; The Black Hawk Down incident in Mogadishu, the bombing of The Marine Barracks in Beirut, the bombing of the USS Cole in Yemen, the bombing of the US Embassy in Tanzania, the first attack on the Twin Towers in NY, the underreported persecutions, kidnappings and beheadings of Christians by Muslims in the Philippines, Indonesia and East Timor.

But it took 3,000 American corpses and a resolute American President to finally recognize the evil spreading like a virus and finally, correctly, letting slip the dogs of war.

Which is why Ariel Sharon realized that the Arab-Israeli conflict had changed from a local terrorist movement, with ties to various other Arab terrorist groups such as The Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, and Hizbullah in Iran, into something far more dangerous, something even more virulent.

This is a movement, Ariel Sharon must have realized, that has been growing for years and finally taken root in Palestinian society that is unique; this is an uncompromising fanatical religious movement that has absolutely no interest in establishing, much less building a Palestinian state.

In truth, its only interest is in destroying The Jewish State.

With the rock n'roll-like popularity of the homicide bombers and their proud, ululating mothers and boasting fathers, Sharon must have recognized a truly perverted new stage in this ancient war.

Pansurgency.

The concept of Pansurgency was pioneered by Dr. Ilana Kass from the National Defense University, for a briefing to the White House. Dr. Kass defines Pansurgency as the organized movement of transnational terrorists seeking to overthrow values, cultures, and societies on a global level through subversion and armed conflict with the ultimate goal of establishing a new world order.

No longer was Israel fighting a Palestinian national movement. Osama Bin Laden was in the asendancy in the Muslim world. His face was on T shirts everywhere in Gaza. The PA was a fiction, a kleptocracy; the old Tunisians lining their pockets, sending every penny of American and European aide to their Swiss Bank accounts. By the last reckoning of the Shin Bet, Arafat and his men had personally stolen over 280 billion dollars. Enough to have financed several Palestinian states.
To seal off Israel from the homicidal culture next door, Sharon understood, was the only way--short of a Carthaginian Peace.

This must be a high-tech wall, not a fence, let us be honest. The foundations must go deep into the earth so terrorists cannot dig tunnels. Whatever culverts are built under the foundations to allow for rainwater should be fitted with alarm systems, again, to guard against terrorist incursions.

Above ground, there must be death strips sown with anti personnel mines and guarded by automatic machine guns.

The wall must not be aesthetically pleasing. Citizens should be outraged by its appearance. It should be a blight on the landscape. A structure so fearful that just looking at it induces fear in the bravest of men. Yes, the wall should be as forbidding as possible. So tall that even clouds and birds will bump into it.

As a student of war, Ariel Sharon was aware that there is no such thing as an impregnable barrier. But, history shows that to prevent terrorists from crossing by using lethal force whenever necessary, walls can be amazingly effective.

History provides some fine models.

The Great Wall of China kept out barbarians for centuries, allowing the Chinese to develop sucessive layers of ever more refined civilization.

The same can be said of the Roman frontier or limes; had these two enormous edifices not been built, history would have been far different--or not at all.

In modern times, the Berlin Wall. Awful as it was, that wall provided breathing space for the Americans and the Soviet front line troops. Everybody knew how far they could go before being shot and killed.

The two Koreas are separated by heavily fortified fences, a situation that has been working for over fifty years.

The barrier that separated Greek Cypriots from Turkish Cypriots has been operable for thirty years, even though, on paper both sides refuse to recognize each other and, in fact, have sworn to destroy each other.

Even on Israel's volatile Northern border, the fence in place is working as well as can be expected. Though on the other side of the fence sit Hizbollah one of the most disciplined and belligerent terrorist organizations on the planet. Supported by Syria and Iran, Hizbollah wants nothing less than the death of every Jew and Christian in the world, the "burning of America and Europe" and the establishment of Islamic rule everywhere. How long this border will remain stable is anyone's guess, but stability allows the IDF to electronically penetrate Hizbollah's defences and war game future belligerencies.

From the years 2000-2003, 125 homicide bombers made their way from Judea and Samaria into Israel proper. Of these, a great number succeeded in achieveing their goals, murdering innocent Jewish men, women, children, and hooking up with the seventy willing virgins--which by the way, does not seem like such a great deal if you're talking about eternity--but hey, that's just me.

But I digress.

The fence that surrounds Gaza, during that very same period, worked very well in containing homicide bombers. That fence is marked on both sides by a strip of land 200-300 meters wide, fitted with ground radar and infra-red sensors that feed into a central control room.

The area is constantly patrolled by specially trained troops in vehicles and on foot. Crack Bedouin trackers who like nothing better than a good man-hunt are attached to each squad. As one of these trackers once quipped to me: "I can track a single ant from the desert, through the streets of Haifa, deep into anthills--right through this strip--then kill it."

And he was not lying.

Sharon's plans for the security wall are eerily reminicent of his finest battles.

The physical result of the security wall will be to bottle up the Palestinians, geographically isolate them, not only from the west but from the east. Surrounded by Israel on three sides, the only other country with which the Palestinians will have a common border is Jordan.

Jordan's Hashemite Kingdom and Israel have been quietly but effectively cooperating with one another in opposition to the Palestininan terrorists for over thirty years. Meanwhile, the Palestinians are not sure whom they hate more, the Jews or the Hashemite rulers of Jordan.

Next: Fighting Terrorism After The Wall

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:29 AM | Comments (30)

February 15, 2006

What Was Sharon Thinking? Part II

“To make abstractions hold in reality is to destroy reality." Hegel

Defensible Borders

There is a moment in the seminal Japanese film, The Seven Samurai, when the leader of the Samurai, Kambei, played by the great Takashi Shimura, lays out his battle plan for the peasant village, and points to two isolated homes on the outskirts of the village announcing that they cannot be defended. "It's too large of an area to hold," he explains. "We have to shrink our perimeter in order to save the whole village."

There is a long and terrible silence as his order sinks in.

Kambei ruthlessly orders that the homes be burned to the ground so the army of marauders cannot use them as a base from which to launch attacks.

The owners of the two homes declare that they will not allow their homes to be destroyed and further, they vow that they will not be part of the communal fight against the bandits.

Kambei tells the villagers that he will not allow a rebellion in this village. They must all stand together and fight the common enemy. The dissenting villagers sprint for their homes. Kambei orders his Samurai to surround and kill the protesting home owners if they do not comply with his orders.

It is a frightening moment for it is all too human, all too recognizable.

The rebellious homeowners do comply and though their homes are burned to cinders, they eventually become the fiercest warriors in the terrible battles that follow.

I don't know if Ariel Sharon ever saw The Seven Samurai, but the tactical and strategic situation in this film eerily echoes the one we find ourselves in modern day Israel.

The question of defensible borders for the State of Israel has been a contentious issue from Biblical times until modern times.

But the real question is, strategically, how is Israel to be defended?

Before the Six Day War, 1967, Israel was dwarfed by its Arab neighbors, geographically and demographically. After 1967, even though the territory under Israel's control quadrupled, that territory was still dwarfed by its Arab neighbors.

Some numbers: Including all the territories Israel now controlled about 31,000 square miles of land. By contrast Egypt alone, even without the Sinai Peninsula, still measured 360,000 square miles. With all the other Arab nations taken into consideration, you need a magnifying glass to find Israel on any world map.

As for demographic balance. There are approximately 5.5 million Jews--6.6 million Israelis, if one counts over a million Arab Israelis--who are facing almost 100 million supremely hostile Arabs in Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria. These figures do not include other Arab--let alone Muslim States--from Iraq to Morocco. Every single one of them hostile to Israel and to Jews.

As David Ben Gurion, Israel's founding Prime Minister was fond of saying, "The first battle lost might well be the last."

This is one of Ariel Sharon's fondest maxims which he likes to repeat over and over again.

Israel's grand strategy in war has always been to strike preemptively, crush the enemy armies in a short but decisive war, and then reluctantly abide by the inevitable truce that will be called by the UN, saving the wretched Arab armies from having to surrender to Jews, the ultimate degradation.

Thus the 1967 Six Day War, staged perfectly from the old borders was fought with a minimum of Jewish casualties; several Arab Armies crushed by a terrible swift sword.

But then came the Yom Kippur War in 1973, and for General Sharon it was fought in the worst way possible.

There was no preemptive strike.

And, even worse, Sharon clashed with the Israeli General Staff on the use of strategic depth.

Sharon argued that with the added territories the IDF now possessed, the Israeli army should now engage in maneuver warfare. Which is what the IDF excels in. Simply put, this means, getting in your tank, or armored car, shooting and scooting: killing whatever the Arabs throw at you.

But the Chief of Staff, Chaim Bar Lev (1968-1972) had decided not to use strategic depth. Instead the decison made was to hold on to every inch of land it had conquered in the 1967 war.

In this way, Israel made a joke of what it did best. It lengthened its supply lines, and turned the territories from assets into self-made traps.

During the early days of the Yom Kippur War, fortifications along the Suez Canal were surrounded and overrun, hundreds of Jewish troops were killed or taken prisoner.

Entire armored brigades were sacrificed in supremely brave but ultimately futile attempts to save the doomed men in these fortifications.

There are recordings of an anguished General Sharon begging the men in these forts to try and escape, even giving them directions. To read these transcripts is painful beyond words. You can practically hear the anguish in Sharon's voice because he hates his inability to save his men.

In short, Sharon must have realized that the more land Israel conquered the more land it would have to defend.

A vicious military cycle ensues.

There are longer supply lines that have to be fed. That means more fuel, more spare parts, more supplies, more ammunition, food, water, medical supplies, money, much more money -- and more men. Which Israel does not have.

Demographics, remember?

No, Sharon's type of war was simple and elegant: you entice the enemy forward, surround him and utterly destroy him.

You cannot do this when you are defending acres and acres of extra territory.

In fact, these acres of land end up being a military liability and as the 1973 Yom Kippur War tragically proved to General Sharon, these lands end up as graveyards for incredibly brave young Jewish warriors.

Tomorrow: The Security Fence

Also: Please sign this petition so that the vile pro-homicide bombing film Paradise Now is not eligible for an Academy Award. Even in Hollywood, the feeling is, this film is disgusting. It is not too late.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:06 PM | Comments (53)

February 14, 2006

What Was Sharon Thinking? Part I

"War is a matter of vital importance to the State; the province of life or death; the road to survival or
ruin. It is mandatory that it be thoroughly studied.”

- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

In the aftermath of the Gaza withdrawal, the Hamas victory--which clarifies the position of the Palestinian people towards Israel, and clarity is a fine thing, and with Ariel Sharon in a medically induced coma, I have been giving a great deal of thought to his painful decisions to withdraw from Gaza, from portions of Judea and Samaria, and to build a security fence between Israel and the Palestinian Territories.

I have done a great deal of research and one of the things that immediately jumps out at me is the absence of coherent thought dealing with perhaps the most substantial of issues in this whole decision making process: Strategic Thinking and The Israeli Defense Forces.

Most think pieces examine political and geopolitical processes. American pressure, European pressure, internal political Israeli pressure, economic pressure, moral pressure--but hard strategic thought is hard to find.

One of the reasons I assume is, because the IDF does not easily hand out information for global consumption. In fact, the IDF makes a point of handing out a great deal of disinformation. For this, we and the citizens of Israel can be most grateful.

I am, and this is very hard for me because I am an Orthodox Jew, reluctantly leaving out any and all religious, ideological reasons for living in Gaza, Judea, Samaria, in fact, anywhere in the world. Why should Jews be restricted from any plot of earth?

It is a simple question that no one has ever answered except the Mad Mullahs who at least counter with the honest call for Jewish genocide.

Ah, clarity, love it.

I am also leaving Torah--oh my family is going to kill me--out because I do not believe that it came into Ariel's Sharon's mind at all. I believe that his thinking was purely military, purely strategic.

The other reason there is so little military analysis is because, well, let's be honest, most journalists are woefully ignorant of military matters. They wouldn't know a Brigade from a Division. They are northern bred elite liberals with no tradition of military service. In fact, I think I'm pretty safe in saying that most journalists sneer at soldiers. Which is pretty funny considering most journalists couldn't get into West Point if they begged. Yup, it's academically that challenging.

Why am I am trying to understand Ariel Sharon's decisions? Because he is one of the greatest military leaders who ever fought. His battles are studied in military colleges every day. He matters. His thought matters. And he is the one who originally championed the settler movement. And because he would not have made the decisions he made without solid strategic and tactical reasons to back it all up. Say what you will about Ariel Sharon, but his whole life has been devoted to the land and people of Israel.

I am not advocating nor condemning. Simply laying out a line of thought which I believe led General Sharon to make the decisions he made.

You can send all the hate mail you want, I'm just analysing.

Settlements as Military Assets

Do the settlements make any contributions to Israel's defense?

This question goes back to the founding of the State. During The 1948 War of Independence six Kibbutzim played a role in holding up the Arab invaders: Mishmar HaEmek, on the southern edge of the Plain of Esraelon, where the "Arab Salvation Army" was beaten; Degania, on the shores of Lake Galilee, where the Syrians were repulsed; Gesher, and Tirat Zvi, on the Jordan River, south of Degania, where the Iraqi army was halted; Negba, south of Tel Aviv, where the last Egyptian offensive was halted; and Ramat Rachel, on the outskirts of Jerusalem, where another Egyptian column was halted.

To this day, visit Kibbutz Degania, and the Syrian tank that spearheaded the attack still sits, dead in its tracks, where it was met and killed by the brave Kibbutzniks.

Unfortunately, the situation has changed. Kibbutzim and settlements have changed from front-line battle stations into soft, middle-class suburbs that must be vigorously defended by IDF troops. The exact number of troops is impossible to discover, but the ratio of soldiers to settlers is apparently very high.

In fact, some settlements, are so small, so isolated, so awkwardly situated on remote mountain tops that defending them is a military nightmare. To defend such an outpost, by any reckoning takes one soldier per settler. Militarily, this makes very little sense. Some might call it disastrous. The outposts are sitting targets for terrorists who have no moral qualms about slaughtering women and children and Yeshiva students.

As for Kibbutzim, the very first thing Moshe Dayan did October 6, 1973, before the outbreak of the Yom Kippur War, when he learned of the coming Syrian offensive, was to evacuate the civilian population of the Golan Heights. The Kibbutzim were, militarily useless.

And so, one of the hard lessons learned after the Yom Kippur War was: the few settlements that existed in the Sinai were dismantled. The IDF high command realized that not only were they not defensive assets, but they actually got in the way of the people who had to do the real fighting.

Tomorrow: Defensible Borders

Oh, and check out this link in Kesher.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:47 AM | Comments (17)

February 13, 2006

Cruisin' Mom - Natural Born Shooter

"I think we missed our exit."

Randi and I are on our way to the LA Gun Club, it's about a six minute drive from Casa Avrech, but put two bloggers in a car together, two bloggers who have been talking to each other for a year on the internet and, well, conversation happens. Lots of conversation.

Time and exits slip by.

Anyway, I turn around, manage to find the right exit.

This is all part of my diabolical plot to turn Cruisin' Mom, a liberal Democrat, into a gun totin' Republican.

We sign in, and step into the range. Randi is a fast learner. I start her off with a single action pistol, a Ruger Vaquero. Randi shoots, misses, shoots misses. But this is a determined lady. She bears down and soon enough she's getting some hits.

Shooting a gun is easy.

Hitting what you're aiming at is hard. Very hard.

In truth, most soldiers in every army in the world simply spray and pray. In Viet Nam, the average American soldier shot off over 250 rounds for every kill made. Whereas a trained sniper will expend 1.5 bullets for every kill--and this at distances of over five football fields.

Anywhooo. Back to Randi.

She's laughing and smiling like crazy. She is having a great time. Her hits are going where she aims them. More or less.

Every once in a while she makes a nice hit, swivels and cries: "Look at that!" And I gently remind her,"Um, you might not want to point that weapon in my direction."

"Oh, whoops."

The thing about Randi's patterns is, she hits the throat a lot. Sheesh. That's a tiny area. So, I can only conclude that Randi not only wants to kill, she wants to muffle all discussion.

Very interesting shooter.

Randi moves on to my Springfield .45 automatic, which kicks like a mule.
"Wow!" cries Randi, grinning hugely.
She likes it.
I mean really like it.
More throat hits.

I give her my rifle, a Winchester lever action--the rifle that won the West.

"It's sooooo heavy."
The rifle is 12lbs. of mahogany, brass and steel. A beautful machine.

But Randi is, if anything, fiesty, and she lines up the sights and blasts away.

More throat hits.

I have to admit, at this point, Randi is, well, sort of scaring me.

We actually run out of ammunition. Brass shell casings litter the floor. Randi has fired enough rounds to have fought the Battle of Fallujah.

While Randi washes up, I add her name and address to the NRA sign-up sheet.

Believe me, she's ready.

Check out Randi's side of the story at her blog, Cruisin Mom.

P.S. Randi, thanks for the cake. Delicious.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:44 AM | Comments (92)

February 10, 2006

Mascot Needed for Seraphic U.

As some of you know, a few days ago we established Seraphic University. So far we have a Jousting Squad, a Sharpshooting Team, and Ladies who wave handkerchiefs from the stands.

Our school motto is: "Where Men are Men and Women Have to Have a Sense of Humor."

Jake has already penned a school anthem. Just as good as the one from "Chariots of Fire," I might add.

Seraphic University Song, (sung to the tune of ‘Oh Tannenbaum,’ --- no religious disrespect intended):

Seraphic U., Seraphic U.
To thee we give our love.

The fields are green, the cholent’s warm
It fits us like a glove

Online our bosses think we’re hard at work
But if they knew, they’d go berserk

Seraphic U., Seraphic U.
We pledge our hearts to thee

A blog of love, a blog of truth
It fills our days with glee

We learn, we laugh, we do it all
Avoiding the usual internet vitriol

Seraphic U., Seraphic U.
Our school is blessed from above!

And now, our loyal reader Rachel has kindly pointed out that Seraphic University needs a Mascot.

She is so right.

Rachel suggested a chicken – but only the Right Wing.

Ouch.

So, we are asking our imaginative and brilliant readers for some ideas.

What do you think would be the ideal Mascot for our beloved Seraphic University?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:31 PM | Comments (47)

Muslim Sensitivity

Let's take a look at some cartoons by those who claim that the west is trampling on their religious sensitivities.

I'm looking out my office window and gosh, look at the Jewish street erupting.

Not.

Meanwhile:

A student newspaper has published the cartoons. Yup, a college newspaper has dared what the MSM have not. The Daily Illini from The University of Illinois has shown some guts. Hat tip to Little Green Footballs.

Mazal Tov.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:48 PM | Comments (11)

Something's Not Rotten in Denmark

A few days ago, I wrote a piece about the great Danish film director Carl Dreyer and his monumental movie about intolerance and betrayal, Day of Wrath. I took the opportunity to point out that little Denmark was the only country that chose to save it's Jewish population during World War II. I even used what little Danish I knew, saying: Tak-Tak, thank you, to whatever Danish readers I might have.

Well, how were we to know that just a few days later, little Denmark would find itself at the center of an international storm. This time besieged by another group of genocidal facists.

Look, I'm sure the Danes wish this whole thing would just go away, I'm sure they wish that this had never happened, but it is here and they have acted admirably.

They have stood up against the Islamofacists with real heroism

Which is more than our manistream news organizations have done.

The New York Times and LA Times and practically everybody else have not reprinted the cartoons, claiming that they do not think that "it will advance the story."

This is a complete lie.

They are afraid of having their heads cut off.

Which is perfectly legitimate.

But at least admit it.

Sheesh, I thought these people were newspapermen. They ran pictures from Abu Gahraib prison for thirty-eight straight days. Did those pictures advance the story?

If it weren't for the internet we wouldn't have a clue as to what the heck is going on with these harmless cartoons.

The mainstream media have proven once again that they are nothing more than a concierge service for Islamic mobs and tyrants.

And so, as as a service to Denmark, I present these links.

Support Denmark

End the Boycott
More Stuff Made in Denmark
United Against Islamic Intolerance

If you really want to know what's going on with this important story, read Michelle Malkin. She's covered it thoroughly. Will she get the Pulitzer Prize? Of course not. They'll give it to some clueless wimp over at the NY Times for writing about "prisoner abuse by US forces." But make no mistake about it, the mainstream media have failed miserably once again.

And finally Queen Margrethe II of Denmark has called on her country, "To show our opposition to Islam, regardless of the opprobium such a stance provokes abroad.

"We are being challenged by Islam these years - globally as well as locally. It is a challenge we have to take seriously. We have let this issue float about for too long because we are tolerant and lazy.

"We have to show our opposition to Islam and we have to, at times, run the risk of having unflattering labels placed on us because there are some things for which we should display no tolerance.

"And when we are tolerant, we must know whether it is because of convenience or conviction."

G-d Save the Queen.

We wish all our readers a lovely and meaningful Shabbos.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:40 AM | Comments (19)

February 09, 2006

Seraphic Secret: Not So Secret Anymore

Well, it's official. Seraphic Secret has won the Best Personal Blog category in the Jewish & Israeli Blog Awards sponsored by The Jerusalem Post.

Here is the link for the list of all the winners.

Karen and I are proud and happy, and we want to thank Yehudit of the fine blog Kesher who nominated us for the award.

Most of all we'd like to express our deep gratititude to all our readers and commenters, an unusually wonderful and raucous group who have built a true community where real friendships have been formed.

Seraphic Secret is a unique blog with a unique mission.

Gee, just yesterday we founded Seraphic University. It's a fine school to get a classical education.

And, get this, we have separate men's and women's housing facilities.

Look, if you go to Yale or Columbia they require you to live in coed dorms, plus use uni-sex bathrooms. They say it's to prepare you for "the real world." But the only place in the real world this actually prepares you for--is a career in adult films.

No, Seraphic University is committed to traditional values.

And what a great sports program we're building. Where else can you join a Jousting Squad where our students enter the lists in full steel armor. And let's not forget our crack Sharpshooting Team; they use real live ACLU lawyers as moving targets. Tempting, huh?

With joy comes sadness. I wish that Ariel ZT'L had lived to see Seraphic Secret. Even more important, I earnestly wish that Ariel has lived long enough to meet each and every one of you. Your intelligence, your good humor, and your depth would have touched him to the core.

Karen and I look forward to bringing you the best of our hearts and minds.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:11 AM | Comments (66)

February 07, 2006

The Seam, The Sword & Belle

The continuing saga, some call it a romance, of:

How I Married Karen — Chapter 33

"I've finally found Karen after all these years, and now I'm probably going to die."

This evening Karen and I have no plans. We're in that funny place I call: the Seam.

We're not officially in love.

Well, I am, always have been. But I am socially appropriate enough to know that saying such a thing is probably a very bad idea.

Stalker alert, Karen.

Anyhoo.

The Seam. We're going out on a regular basis. We're not going out, either of us, with anybody else. We are tethered to the phone every night — after our dates. That's meaningful.

We're looking at each other with what James Joyce calls "moo-cow eyes" but we're also... holding back.

More precisely, Karen is holding back.

She has been hurt one too many times and she's not anxious to make herself vulnerable to heartbreak again.

Karen does not realize that I'm totally in. Have been since I was 9-years old.

So this night, I insist on coming over to the apartment Karen shares with several other Orthodox young women.

"Maybe you shouldn't, the rain," Karen cautions.

"I'll get wet, big deal."

"There's the wind."

"It'll pick me up and drop me at your doorstep."

Karen laughs, then: "No really, it's pretty bad out there."

"I just bought a new Gore Tex rain jacket from REI. I need to test it out. They say it's been to Everest. I think it can handle the Upper West Side in a little rain storm."

Karen lives on 74th Street just off Broadway. I'm on 76th off Columbus. Walking along, I feel like Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain, perhaps the finest musical ever made. I splash in puddles, dodge spouts of water gushing from drains.

Sans grace.

I am on my way to see the woman I love.

The woman I have always loved.

And it seems that she loves me too.

Or is about to love me.

But we're in the dreaded Seam.

And one of the reasons I'm schlepping through this miserable rainstorm is to break through the Seam. To let Karen know that I'm willing to go through hell and high water just to see her.

One of the truly sad, no tragic developments in modern romance is that we males have no way of displaying our manly virtues to the women we adore. Somewhere along the way somebody got the terrible idea that men no longer need to be, well, men; that we should to be tamed, made more sensitive, more gentle.

Let me state it bluntly: men are now reeducated, Pol Pot-like, to be feminized.

Don't women realize what we want, don't women understand what men need? It's in our DNA, it is at the hot and burning core of our souls.

I want to climb into the saddle of a snorting, stamping medieval war horse, enter the lists, and SLAM! unhorse another rider. I want Karen to place her silken handkerchief on the tip of my sword and declare me her true knight. I want to endure bloody close-quarter combat to defend the woman I love.

Please, please, please, give me a Colt .45 and let me shoot it out against a bunch of psychotic killers who are out to crush Karen's modest Arizona homestead.

Instead, men have been reduced to... playing video games! Shopping for expensive Italian coffee blenders. Maybe playing a rough game of basketball.

When what we truly desire is to let slip the dogs of war for the women we love.

"I think it's time for you to leave." Karen says.

I've been sitting in Karen's apartment for maybe fifteen minutes.

"You want me to go?"

"Robert, it's really bad out there."

"Just a few more minutes?"

I'm practically begging. Oh, Karen is so lovely tonight. She's wearing a white turtleneck sweater, denim skirt, and those cute and clunky Swedish clogs.

There is a sudden crash from one of the bedrooms. Roommate Devorah cries out, comes running into the living room, announcing that a tree branch just smashed through her bedroom window. Her face is flush with fear and excitement.

Hurricane Belle is lashing New York City with atavistic power.

The rain is hard and driving, like steel from the sky.

Karen, the voice of reason, insists that I head home immediately. She walks me downstairs to the lobby, worriedly watches as I zip up my new jacket and adjust the high-tech hood.

It's so high-tech my peripheral vision is all but obscured.

"Be careful crossing the street, drivers might not see you."

"I'll be fine."

"Try not to walk under any trees, the branches might snap and --"

"Gotcha."

I heave the door open. The wind whooshes in and Karen shivers.

"Robert?"

I look at her.

"It means a lot that you came over tonight." Karen is hugging herself. Rain and wind pelt her.

I can only nod, for if I speak my voice will crack. I step outside, into nature made chaos.

This is truly insane.

I am, get this, the only person in the street.

So dangerous is Hurricane Belle that the Upper West Side, this night, looks like some drowning city, a modern deluge.

And I think to myself: "I've finally found Karen after all these years, and now I'm probably going to die."

I practically crawl over the threshold of my apartment. The phone is ringing. Has been for a quite a while. I heard it while I was still in the hallway.

"Robert?"

"Karen?"

"You're safe."

I hear her breathing.

The Seam. I need a sword to cut through it. Preferably a Samurai sword.

But I'm a writer. Words are my sword.

"I love you, Karen."

There is a long silence, and then:

"I love you too."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:04 PM | Comments (95)

February 06, 2006

The Winner

The envelope, please...

And the winner of the Seraphic Contest is...

Wait, I'm having trouble getting the envelope open...

Oh my gosh, she said she would do it. She bragged she would win. And she has.

Randi. Cruisin Mom.

Mazal Tov!

Here she comes down the red carpet wearing a Chanel gown, cut on the bias, natch, Manolo Blahnik heels, and jewels by Harry Winston.

Randi, we turn the comments section over to you for your acceptance speech. No longer than three minutes, please, then the music will kick in and so will the hook.

In the meantime, I'm signing a copy of The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden just for you and picking out our nicest Seraphic Press baseball cap--which I know you've been yearning for.

Thanks everyone. It's been fun.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:55 AM | Comments (42)

The Reveal

Okay, Seraphic Friends, in reality shows this is what's called: The Reveal.

The producers in these truly loony productions, "remake" some unfortunate young woman who is chained to a terrible job, lives in a tilted trailer, and no doubt, off-camera has a restraining order against the ex. Much network money is spent surgically enhancing the medical experiment, er, cast member, and turning her into a heavily painted creature who can now earn her daily bread as, well, an exotic dancer.

Here at Seraphic Secret, we're on a higher level of, um, so-called reality.

Here, at last, we can reveal our most frequent and eloquent commenters as children--and their identities.

So, check your scorecard, see how well, or how poorly you have fared. As Jake quipped to me: "It's harder than the NY Times Sunday Puzzle."

The envelope with the Seraphic Winner will be opened and announced, in five minutes...

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:37 AM | Comments (14)

February 05, 2006

Seraphic Reminder

Just a quick reminder, the deadline for submitting your answers for the Seraphic Contest is February 6, Monday morning, 10AM Pacific Time.

I plan on posting the correct answers, so if any of our Seraphic Photo Contributors do not wish your names posted with your pictures, please let me know by e-mail immediately: write to robert.avrech@gmail.com.

Personally, I hope you will all let everyone know who you were as a child. For we were all so young and innocent.

Let's go, folks. Make up your minds.

As Sun Tzu says: In battle, the worst decision is indecision.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:21 AM | Comments (25)

February 02, 2006

Seraphic Faces

Okay, the moment you've all been waiting for. More or less.

Drum roll, please.

Name the Seraphic Friend.

It all started because, well, I fell in love with Karen when I was 10-years old. So, commentor Pearl said, wouldn't it be fun to see pictures of Seraphic Secret Commentors when they were 10-years old? I went her one better and asked our readers to send in old photos -- and make a contest of it.

So, here's the idea: readers have to match up faces with the commentors who have submitted their photos.

Do the faces of the children reveal the future personalities that we find in the comments scattered in Seraphic Secret? Are there hints of this or that political belief? Does this expression betray a romantic heart, a personality that analyzes with the precision of a scientist?

Are the eyes truly the window to the soul?

Or are children's faces simply blank canvases upon which we paint future dreams?

Let's find out.

Below you will find:

My good friend, Joe Schick who writes the wonderful Zionist Conspiracy blog, that seems to be as much about the NY Jets as about, um, the Zionist Conspiracy.

Stacey, one of our first and most frequent commentors, and author of the delightful Stacey's Shmata. If she walked into a room, I'd know her in a second.

Psycho Toddler who comments here and writes the blog called, well, Psycho Toddler.

We have Randi, a frequent commentor who writes the Seinfeld-like Cruisin-Mom. She also brings me my morning coffee.

There's our correspondent from Taiwan, Danny Bloom, who tells us that he's never met a person he does not like.

Lance, one of our most frequent commentors who I have come to think of as Seraphic Secret's Karl Rove -- a huge compliment.

Sarah, our lovely friend from Israel, who writes the lovely blog Five Years Later.

There's Kent, a new and welcome commentor who writes the highly informative blog, Trolling in Shallow Waters.

Pearl, who's blog offers Pearls of Wisdom, and who is another frequent commentor, and a close friend.

We have Jack Be Nimble who writes the compelling Jack's Shack blog. We differ on many issues, but I love hearing his point of view.

Rachel L, who regularly comments from a very cold city somewhere in America. One of our first readers.

There's Michael Jennings our globe trotting correspondent who checks in every once in a while with incredibly smart comments.

And finally, Jake, whose comments frequently exceed in length my own posts, and whose lists of Ten Reasons Why cause me to type LOL with great frequency.

Okay, ponder the pictures. Then see the Offical Seraphic Rules Below.

Seraphic Rules:

1. This contest is open to all Seraphic Readers.
2. Match up the mug shot, er photo with the name.
3. Write me an e-mail with your answers: robert.avrech@gmail.com
4. You will not be credited with matching up your face with your picture. Sorry. Way too easy.
5. The idea is to go back and examine the comments made in Seraphic Secret and then try to match them up with the correct faces. Resist the temptation to google these people in the hopes of discovering an old photo. We're working on the honor system here, folks, okay?
6. The deadline is Monday, 10:AM PST.
7. The decision of the judges (Karen and I) are final.
8. In the event of a tie, well, it will be a tie.
9. First Prize is: An autographed copy of my prize winning novel, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, and a Seraphic Press baseball cap.
10. Ready, set, go.

Much thanks to all Seraphic Friends for submitting these adorable photos and leaving yourselves open, for all time, to cruel ridicule.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:03 PM | Comments (79)

February 01, 2006

Our Island Home VII

Seraphic Disclaimer: This post contains some language that is a bit, actually, a lot more graphic than is normally found in Seraphic Secret. So if you are young, under 18, religiously modest, or secularly modest, the following, which deals with life in a women's prison, might not be appropriate reading matter for you.

"My ladies will probably try and slip you some letters, ask you to mail them on the outside. Do not do that. It is contraband, you hear me?"
"Yes."
"One or two might try and hug you goodbye, in that hug, there might be an inappropriate touch. Resist the temptation."
"Yes, M'am."

It's my last day as a visitor in the prison. I'm being debriefed by the Warden, a tough, no-nonsense lady who has still managed to retain her femininity--and sense of humor.

"You got what you wanted?"
"Yes, thank you. Can I ask you a question?"
"Ask, I may not answer."
"Your opinion of the Pet Program."
She sighs wearily. "It's fine."
"I sense a 'but' coming."
"Mr. Hollywood, I'm dealing in numbers here, big numbers. I got three thousand four-hundred mis-creants within these walls. In the program, what five, six women. What does that solve?"
"Five, six women?"
She waves her hand as if swatting away a fly. She has no time for singular redemptions, she has a bigger world to wrestle with.
"Was it always like this?"
"Meaning?"
"So many female prisoners?"
"Oh, noooo. When I first started in the system, this prison was a backwater, a few hundred shop-lifters, petty felons, check forgers, disorderly conduct drunkards, your basic sad prostitute junkies."
"And now?"
"Hard-core killers. More like men."
"And that's happened because of?"
"Drugs, gangs. Almost all my ladies are mixed up somehow in the drug trade. Oh, sure, they don't have fathers, there's that too, and they all pick loser troll boyfriends who just beat hell outta them. But it's the drug world that puts 'em over the line."
"Would you legalize drugs?"
"I will not answer that question."
"Fair enough. How about this: would you decriminalize certain classes of drugs?"
The Warden chuckles. "You trying to lose me my po-sition? Move on Mr. Hollywood."
"You have any hope for rehabilitating these women?"
"Get outta my office." She laughs.
As I leave, I suppress an overwhelming urge to salute the Warden.

CO Cindy is waiting for me outside. My baby sitter, as I've come to think of her, walks me across the massive yard, towards the shed where the animals are trained as companion dogs for people with severe physical disabilities.

"You're awfully quiet, Cindy."
She shrugs.
Her helmet of red hair kicks light in the bright morning sun.

Cindy spots an inmate sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette, eyes closed, head tipped back.

"Wait here," she says to me.

Cindy steps over to the inmate.

"You're supposed to be hauling the garbage cans."
"I'm takin' a break."
"Get back to work, skank."
The inmate crushes the cigarette between her fingers, cooly glares at Cindy. This is the first time I've seen Cindy be anything less than respectful towards an inmate.

We continue our walk back to the dog-training shed.

"What was that about?"
"I'm doing my job, Robert, y'got a problem with that?"

Silence all the way to the shed.

The dog training is not going well today. The atmosphere is strained. The inmates, normally giggly and relaxed with the dogs, are impatient as the dogs make mistakes and drop on their bellies, not sure what their beloved masters want from them.

I step outside.

I know exactly what's going on.

"I'm sorry," says Cindy.
I turn around. "It's okay. I understand. I've been here quite a while."
"We got used to you."
"Now I'm leaving."
"You are."
"I have to write the movie."
"Do you know what you're going to write?"
"Partly, I'll discover the rest when I write it."
"Like I know what that means."
"Cindy, I want to thank you for all your help. You've been unbelievable."
"Aw shucks."
"No, really."
"You really wanna thank me?"
"I do."
"Tell me one true thing about yourself."
I look at her long and hard and offer her my core.
"I have been in love with my wife since I was ten-years old."
"What's your wife's name, what's she look like?"
"One question, Cindy. I answered it, right?"
"Right."

Inside, I say goodbye to Eden. I wish her good luck. She does not try and slip me any contraband, does not try to hug me. None of the women do. They all act like perfect ladies. Every single little murderer.

Cindy walks me to the front gate.
"I been thinking," she says.
About what?"
"Doing something else."
"I'm happy. You should."
She holds my gaze.
"Like you said, I'm like this fine sword, right?""
"Right."
She shakes my hand, gives me that shy smile.
"Robert?"
"What?"
She starts to say something, then just shakes her head and mumbles, "Nothing, nothing."

I climb into my rental car and drive away. The last I see of CO Cindy is her image in the rear-view mirror. She waves to me, hitches up her thick leather utility belt and heads back inside prison. Back home.

FADE TO BLACK

For this is

THE END

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:17 AM | Comments (42)