Has Israel Become a Liability to the Jewish People?

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It’s tough being a centrist Jew like me these days.

I mean those of us who believe in Israel’s right to exist and defend itself but abhor the policies of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s right-wing regime — notably the collective punishment of Palestinians for the vile acts of terrorist groups like Hamas. We are being squeezed between extremist Jews on the left and right.

Progressive Jews on college campuses have joined with pro-Palestinian activists who, if not motivated by Jew-hatred per se, are de facto antisemites; many fault Israel’s very existence for the atrocities committed against its citizens. (I happened to be in Amman, Jordan, on October 7, 2023, and was so disgusted by Al Jazeera’s coverage holding Israel rather Hamas responsible that I nearly threw the television set out the hotel-room window.) Yet radical Zionists often side with neo-fascists and populists like Viktor Orban, who routinely exploit antisemitism for political gain; they’ve found common foes in globalization, pluralism and Islam.

I’ve seen Israeli “Kidnapped” hostage posters in my university neighborhood defaced with swastikas. Meanwhile, pro-Israel fanatics have unloaded on me the slander that liberal financier and Holocaust survivor George Soros was actually a Nazi collaborator as a teenager in Hungary.

When I traveled throughout Israel in 1979 it was still an idealistic nation, full of young, hip visitors from Western Europe and North America, many of them not Jewish. The causes of its rightward swerve aren’t simple but I blame it mostly on the decades of war, terrorism and every other conceivable type of hostility from the Arab and Muslim world. Across the political spectrum in Israel today, there seems to be little appetite left for the two-state solution. In my view, there’s no prospect for peace in the Levant and sovereignty for the Palestinians until they reject their most-radical elements and abandon the dream of destroying the Jewish state.

As a secular Jew (who attended Hebrew grade school in Montreal for a few years, and once spoke the language pretty fluently) I grew up with the standard belief that the welfare of our people depended on Israel’s role as a sanctuary; that Israel was an imperfect country for an imperfect world, which had nearly succeeded in eradicating us. But I’ve never been religious nor wanted to depart the West to live there. Now I wonder if Israel’s reckless behavior in Gaza has made it a liability to Jews worldwide, putting Israeli Jews along with those in the Diaspora in greater peril.

I began to sour on Israel when I learned at the end of the ’90s that my late wife’s conversion under a Conservative rabbi did not necessarily pass muster in Jerusalem, where Orthodox Judaism held sway. Since then I’ve noticed an attitude among very nationalist Israelis and their allies abroad that the Diaspora’s main purpose is to elect pro-Israel governments and provide financial support to the Zionist project. (I’ve also sensed a lack of respect when telling them of an ancestor who landed in Normandy with the Canadian forces and helped liberate Western Europe from the Nazis; and of another who risked prosecution by forging scores of documents to bring unwelcome Jewish refugees to Canada. It’s as if only fighting for Israel mattered to them.)

Despite the billions of dollars of direct aid the United States has given Israel under the presidencies of Barack Obama and Joe Biden, they boast that only the Republican Party is good enough, especially with Donald Trump at the helm. For the millions of American Jews who usually vote Democratic because we care about bigotry, climate change, healthcare, gun violence and democracy, this is unacceptable. Betting the house on MAGA also looks short-sighted to me, as younger Americans are less pro-Israel than their elders. When confronted with extremist Zionists here who ignore the harm Trump’s policies are doing to ordinary Americans and Canadians, I don’t hesitate to suggest that they pack up and move to Israel.

Netanyahu’s government and its rightist supporters appear not to mind if his nation is regarded as a pariah in much of the world, nor care if this fuels antisemitism globally. (Hateful assaults on Jewish civilians are never justified but, as unfair as it is, they’ve been a fact of life for centuries and should be denied any possible pretext.) Militarily powerful and backed (for now, at least) by Washington, Israel remains a small country vulnerable to attacks by unmanned aerial weapons from as far away as Yemen. I suspect that life has become highly stressful — indeed, difficult — for many Israelis.

Some readers will no doubt find this post offensive without getting beyond its admittedly provocative title. So be it. But I cannot evade the conclusion that the survival of the Jewish people is now at least as dependent on the Diaspora as on Israel itself, a notion that its current leaders should but probably don’t appreciate well enough.

Make the United States the 11th Province!

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Donald Trump says he’d like to make Canada the 51st state (probably without considering the likelihood that it would tip the political scales toward the Democrats he so loathes). I say make the United States the 11th province, if that’s what it takes to return the Stanley Cup to Canada where it belongs. And Canadians would be able to go back to Florida to see it!

Another (Minor) Milestone

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Almost 19 years ago I bit the bullet and purchased a brand-new Vision Fitness X6200HRT foldable elliptical trainer for the hefty sum of $2,320.92 (including sales tax). Weary of crowded health clubs, I had decided to turn my den into a mini-gym where I could enjoy mindless action shows on my big-screen television while sweating it out during cardio routines. Just the other day I celebrated a milestone, albeit a minor one, when I completed my 1,000th workout on that same Vision Fitness elliptical.

Somewhat analogous to the six decades it took me to log 250 scuba dives, the average of 53 or so sessions annually on my home machine is nothing to brag about. But note that I ended up joining fitness centers (both fancy and basic) again during those years, and often took advantage of the sturdier “professional” equipment available in their facilities. (The Precor ellipticals with adjustable incline, a feature common to treadmills that allows you to work different leg muscles as well as glutes, are perennial favorites of mine. When I’m in town, the Matrix machine that I ride once a week at the nearby Planet Fitness — where I also do resistance training three times a week — is decidedly mediocre.) Since the pandemic, and with the rise of streaming media, I’ve been using my home elliptical more regularly.

For a foldable machine meant for home gyms, the long-discontinued X6200HRT has proved very durable, operating more or less flawlessly from the outset. That’s more than I can say about its predecessor, a bulky Reebok Personal Trek elliptical that failed after 733 sessions in less than five years. It’s interesting (to me, at least) that, as of right now, the cost per use for both comes out almost identically to about $2.30.

My 19-year-old Vision Fitness X6200HRT elliptical trainer

To avoid overheating during workouts, I cool my den with its powerful through-the-wall air conditioner, assisted by a large ceiling fan and three different movable fans. To hear what I’m watching on my 55-inch Sony OLED television I wear JBL over-the-ear wireless headphones connected to an Apple TV streaming box, with the loudspeakers muted. If the entertainment is engaging enough, the cardio session passes very quickly.

Ellipticals have always appealed to me because their motion is low-impact and involves the whole body, upper and lower, unlike stationary bikes and treadmills. During workouts I wear a tried-and-true Polar T34 heart-rate transmitter, which both my Vision Fitness elliptical and the weathered Suunto Vector HR on my left wrist can still read.

My sole routine is with the “HRT Hill” program for a total of 35 minutes: 30 minutes forward followed by a cool-down interval of five minutes (which I do in reverse). I strive to reach or exceed my current theoretical maximum heart rate of 152 — simplistically calculated as 220 minus your age — at the apex of the workout. This formula implies that a person’s peak heart rate should deteriorate by approximately one beat for each year of life. (Note that I don’t pay as much attention to distance and caloric data, as they seem less meaningful or reliable to me.)

Curiously, when I began using this home elliptical in July 2006 at the age of 49, I averaged 150 beats per minute during a typical session. In the latest series I’m averaging 136 b.p.m., an erosion of just 14 over 19 years. In the echocardiogram stress test I underwent last month, my functional capacity was rated “excellent,” as I achieved 169% of the predicted exercise duration for age and gender with a peak heart rate of 154 b.p.m. Even my cardiologist was impressed.

And for that, my trusty Vision Fitness X6200HRT elliptical trainer deserves much credit.

My Underwater LIfe

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Exploring the S.S. Thistlegorm in the Gulf of Suez

My favorite outdoor activity after downhill skiing is in actuality an underwater activity: scuba diving. Recently, I celebrated my 250th logged dive while in the Dominican Republic. It was a pretty tame plunge lasting about 50 minutes, no deeper than 50 feet, on the reefs of Isla Catalina near the southeastern city of La Romana. Nonetheless it was still quite gratifying.

My introduction to scuba diving (almost certainly) dates back to the early 1960s, when I was less than 10 years old. Our family had driven down to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, from Montreal that summer for some beach time. “Uncle” Larry, an eccentric but fun scallywag friend of my dad’s, had brought with him some of the relatively primitive scuba gear of the era and convinced me to give it a try. He then hooked me up and, with scant instruction, I explored the murky shallows near the shore, spotting a pair of feisty crabs and a lost golf ball. It was a magical experience that I would never forget.

Coral-encrusted motorcycle inside the S.S. Thistlegorm

Frankly, 250 dives over the next six decades is not a big deal (though I have made a number of unlogged dives as well). But I wasn’t certified as an Open Water Diver by the Professional Association of Diving Instructors until 1984. (Years later PADI and the industry more or less compelled me to upgrade my certification to Advanced Open Water Diver so I could continue diving on wrecks, among other things; for similar reasons, I qualified to use enriched air, or Nitrox, last May.) However, from the summer of 1989 until the spring of 2002 — almost 13 years — I gave up scuba diving entirely because of an apparent medical misdiagnosis.

On July 8, 1989, after emerging from Palau’s legendary Blue Corner, I began to experience worrisome signs: abdominal pain and numbness in both legs. With a maximum depth of 110 feet and an average depth of roughly 85 feet for 25 minutes before surfacing, then a brief return to 40 feet, I had pushed the PADI Dive Table’s no-decompression limits. (Note that the sophisticated dive computers I’ve used since then were not yet widely available.) Perhaps my excitement at one of the most-spectacular dive sites in the North Pacific and the world — crowded with sizable gray and white-tip reef sharks, and barracuda — got the better of me. I sank to my knees on the beach, whereupon two well-meaning Aussies employed the dubious technique of turning me upside down; this supposedly keeps nitrogen bubbles from rising to the brain.

Spiny critter hiding in the reefs of Vieques, Puerto Rico

By the time our boat was ready to return us to the main island, all of my symptoms had completely resolved. But a retired United States Navy doctor who was advising the local authorities as a consultant insisted that I be treated for either decompression sickness or an air embolism, which entailed nearly five hours in a cramped, antiquated recompression tube. (How I endured the claustrophobia of that treatment without sedation remains a mystery to this day.) And because I was at risk of a serious or even fatal dive accident in the future, he warned, I should give up the sport forever.

A decade passed and I started to get the scuba-diving bug again. So I decided to contact a physician affiliated with the Divers Alert Network here in New York City. Having performed a full medical workup on me, and reviewed my dive logs, he concluded that I was fit to dive — partly based on his determination that I hadn’t suffered from the bends or an air embolism in the first place. For those conditions do not quickly resolve without treatment. He remained my pulmonologist for many years, and I have made almost 200 dives without incident ever since.

Facing Great White Sharks from a cage is not diving

Like alpine skiing, scuba diving is a great excuse to travel the world. In the Americas alone, I have dived in Aruba, the Bahamas, Belize, Bonaire, the Virgin Islands (British and U.S.), the Cayman Islands, the Dominican Republic, the Florida Keys, Honduras, Mexico, Panama, Puerto Rico, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, Tobago, and the Turks and Caicos Islands. I’ve also dived in Egypt’s northern Red Sea; Indonesia; the Maldives; the Hawaiian islands (Oahu and Kauai); Micronesia; Fiji; the Great Barrier Reef of Australia; and the Society Islands of French Polynesia. Come October I plan to dive in Zanzibar, off the coast of Tanzania in East Africa.

Among my most-treasured underwater memories are visiting the wrecks of the U.S.S. Liberty near Bali and the S.S. Thistlegorm in the Gulf of Suez. (I have encountered Great White Sharks from within a cage near Gansbaii, South Africa, but that doesn’t count as diving in my book.) When the subject comes up with novice divers I meet, I like to tell them that you don’t have to dive your entire life; but you should dive during your lifetime — to explore the nearly three-quarters of our planet covered by ocean yet unseen by so much of humanity.

On November 5, 2024

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Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard — H.L. Mencken

On November 5, 2024 — whether they realize it or not — a plurality of voters in our country chose autocracy and authoritarianism over democracy and the rule of law. The primacy of straight, white, Christian men over equality for women and racial, ethnic, religious and sexual minorities. Demagoguery over character. Bigotry over acceptance of diversity. Trickle-down economics over an equitable sharing of the wealth. Protectionism and isolationism over beneficial trade and the global defense of liberty. Guns over healthcare. Vulgarity and cruelty over dignity and decency. Fossil fuels and deregulation over environmental protection. Corruption over accountability. Conspiracy and crank theories over evidence-based science and expertise. Lies over facts.

The list is almost endless.

Paradoxically, many people who are upset by price inflation also voted for broad tariffs. Some effectively supported and opposed women’s reproductive rights at the same time. A nation populated by immigrants and their descendants voted against immigration. There has already been much post-election analysis and there will be more, rife with undue credit and blame. Pundits who praised one political campaign and criticized another just a few days ago have reversed their positions.

A lot of things could have been done differently in the past few years, but I doubt they would have changed the outcome.

The causes of this political earthquake are both recent and longstanding. The COVID pandemic and surge of migrants across borders into Western countries angered enough citizens to put every incumbent regime in jeopardy, though not all of the major democracies are shifting to the right. And decades of globalization, technological advancement and free-market policies have caused economic disruption and greater inequality. (Ironically, the political forces largely responsible for this have now mutated into a populism that feeds off them.) Many people are also uncomfortable with novel demographic and societal changes, yearning for what they consider the virtues of a more-traditional society. Without a doubt, irresponsible and malign media have played a major role here too.

But, as history shows, electorates often choose poorly, and I fear that ours may soon regret what they have just done. Especially because it cannot be easily undone.

Reissa and Gary

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I believe it was Fran Lebowitz (although I could easily be wrong) who once quipped that, if you happen to be attractive when you’re young, make sure to take lots of pictures as proof, because people won’t believe you when you’re older. Well, maybe I’m biased, but I think my sister Reissa and I were pretty cute kids.

She was born nearly two years before I was, on December 21, 1954, and didn’t give me the best reception when I showed up. In fact, she told me that I wasn’t really her brother, that our parents found me in a trash can, felt pity, and brought me home. But as the picture above shows, we have clear physical similarities. And looking at her hands and feet in the hospital where she spent her penultimate days reassured me that we were indeed brother and sister. In many ways, there was nobody nearer to me.

Reissa and Gary as infants

Reissa Gibbs-Rogers (nee Vineberg) passed away peacefully in Toronto on March 17, 2022, of complications of lung cancer.

As children, we ate together, we played together, we even took baths together. Later on our paths diverged and we led very different lives. We didn’t always get along — but we never lost touch. She took loving care of our mother in Mom’s final years, and looking after Dad (who turns 90 years old in September) brought us closer more recently.

Because I was considerably taller than Reissa, I often thought of her as my little big sister. If either one of us needed a kidney, we knew whom to turn to first; I have no doubt that she would have donated one of hers if I needed it. She was artistic and had a lovely speaking voice. The thought of never hearing it again gives me great sorrow.

And because it’s possible to be sad and angry at the same time, I end with this admonition: If you smoke, please try to quit; if you don’t, please don’t start.

Why I Choose to Be Vaccinated

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Recently, I strolled over to a local chain drugstore to get my seasonal influenza shot. There was little waiting and no out-of-pocket expense, thanks to my comprehensive (albeit costly) medical insurance.  Back in March I received two doses of the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine for COVID-19 exactly three weeks apart, without any side effects to speak of; a third “booster” jab is in the cards for this autumn.

During my lifetime I’ve been inoculated against smallpox, polio, tetanus, diphtheria, pertussis, typhoid fever, hepatitis A and B, shingles and pneumococcal disease, among others. I’m fairly certain that, so far, I’ve never suffered from smallpox, polio, tetanus, diphtheria, pertussis, typhoid fever, hepatitis A and B, shingles, pneumococcal disease, or even the flu. Nor have I endured an acute reaction from any of these treatments.

Months before the COVID-19 vaccines were available to me, I began protecting myself by wearing a mask whenever in close proximity to people outside my household; for almost two years I’ve rarely logged a temperature above 98.3 degrees Fahrenheit! Upon returning from Japan in February 2020, I was bewildered by the resistance in North America to the use of cheap, almost weightless masks, which seemed a likely reason why East Asian countries had limited the spread of the novel coronavirus quite well. The opposition to COVID-19 inoculation is a more complex matter altogether.

I’ve never had an acute reaction from a vaccine

Ever since Edward Jenner pioneered immunization against smallpox in the late 18th century, fear has spawned powerful vaccine foes. Long before Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., became the contemporary face of the movement, the National Anti-Vaccination League rose to challenge Britain’s compulsory-vaccination laws.  But the safety and efficacy of medications have improved tremendously over the decades.  Often featuring some ludicrous claims, the central thesis of most “anti-vaxxers” – that the injections are more dangerous than the diseases they’re meant to prevent – has never been less valid.

(It’s a credit to medical science that the last time I inquired, a virologist said the risk of getting infected with smallpox from inoculation was greater than by living unvaccinated because the once-dreaded disease had been virtually eradicated – by vaccines!)

On the other hand, is it illogical for informed people to reject questionable Chinese, Russian or Indian vaccines — or even hold out for an mRNA vaccine from Pfizer-BioNTech or Moderna when only those from AstraZeneca and Johnson & Johnson are offered?  As for me, I would gladly accept the first one available and approved by credible regulatory authorities.  Yet this obviously high comfort level has a rather old backstory that needs telling.

Perhaps my earliest childhood recollection is of a trip to Atlantic City with my sister Reissa, my mother’s young sister Ruth, and my parents.  All I remember of it was watching my mother and father ride off in the motel’s golf cart, presumably to tour the property.  My attempts over the years to reconstruct the trip became a Rashomon-like experience, as all of the participants recalled certain details differently.

However, everybody agreed on why our Atlantic City vacation ended so badly.  It was the late 1950s or early 1960s, and Reissa, Ruthie, Mom and I had all been immunized for polio – but not my father. Dad fell deathly ill, although he was fortunately spared the paralysis often associated with that sickness.  I heard that Uncle Ralph drove down from Montreal to bring the children home while Mom waited as my father recovered well enough to return.

When asked why my dad alone was unvaccinated, my late mother always gave me the unsatisfactory answer that he was too busy with work.  Since then, he has confessed to believing that he really didn’t need it.  “I thought I was a big shot, and it almost killed me,” he stated, having learned the proverbial hard way.   And so earlier this year, at the age of 88, he rolled up his sleeve twice for Pfizer-BioNTech jabs without hesitation.

The Fall Guy

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The tragic finale to the West’s 20-year quixotic attempt at nation-building in Afghanistan comes complete with a fall guy: Joe Biden. His three forerunners, Presidents George W. Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump, all effectively passed the buck to him; Trump even set a devious trap by agreeing to an unsound military pullout with the Taliban that would occur either during his second term or on his successor’s watch. Some Republican critics actually blame President Biden for losing the war, with the farcical claim that a force of merely 3,500 soldiers could have maintained the status quo. But after two decades of dealing with largely corrupt government officials and an often-indifferent population, we knew that Afghanistan’s society could not support a modern state on its own.  Having once driven the Taliban from power by force, we would be foolish to expect them to wave goodbye to our personnel and allies at the airport.  And had the evacuation begun earlier, the Administration would’ve been blamed for the collapse of the Afghan military.  In the short run, Biden’s approval ratings have sunk, accompanied by calls from political nemeses (who apparently saw little wrong with their party’s leader inciting a violent raid on the Capitol) for his resignation, impeachment or removal from office with the 25th Amendment of our constitution.  Perhaps because he was never committed to running for reelection at 81 years of age, Biden was prepared to take the heat for ending a doomed war, and his historical legacy should reflect that.

Imagining

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I regret profoundly that I was not an American and not born in Greenwich Village — John Lennon

It was almost five years ago when Chris suddenly passed away.  Since then my life has changed — yet remains much the same.

Looking for a picture of her on this occasion, I found one from our trip to England and Wales with our friends James and Nicky just weeks before she died.  That was the last time she saw her mother Cathy.  She posed next to a statue of John Lennon we had found in a Liverpool street.  Gazing at the photo I can’t help but imagine the two of them having a conversation somewhere. Chris could win over anybody.

Chris and Liverpool Pal

In December 1980 I was driving from graduate school in California to an unknown future in New York City.  At nighttime in the middle of Nebraska I heard on the radio that John had been shot in front of the Dakota apartment building.  This made me wonder: How could I go there now?  John was an early idol of mine, along with Bob Dylan and all the other artists that have drawn me here since my youth.

I came anyway, followed by Chris several years later.  Nearly 40 years after my arrival I imagine her with me, walking the Greenwich Village streets we both loved.  Like John she left us far too soon.  But I doubt I’ll regret spending the rest of my time in the city that became our final home.