Flat Bread : On the Hospitality of a Refugee

Flat Bread : On the Hospitality of a Refugee: The tiny village of Welz, Germany, is typical of villages in this part of North-Rhine Westphalia. Like the other villages on this plain near...

Courage and Fear and the Refugee Crisis

With the refugees I think about a time a little less than four years ago, when my daughter Olivia and I arrived in a little Spanish town called Las Cabezas de San Juan, a three day walk from Seville. We unloaded our backpacks on a bench in the Plaza Mártires del Pueblo near the church just as it got dark. It was a church evening-- maybe a Saturday-- and several well dressed locals gathered nearby to chat before going to Mass.
"Maybe someone from the church will take us in tonight," I said to Olivia. "If not, we'll sleep on benches the way we did in Dos Hermanas."
"Okay, Dad," she said.
An internet café was located at the other end of the plaza, and after we ate a little bread and cheese I walked over to it to get online and communicate with the world. By the time I had returned to our bench, Mass was over and people filed out of the church. I made sure the sign I carried on my back was visible. 'Peace pilgrimage to Egypt,' it said in Spanish.
"Okay," I said. "Let's see what happens."
But nothing happened. No one even paused to read the sign. No one looked at us. We were invisible.
"Christians!" I said. "Okay Ollie, your turn to use the internet."
"Okay, Dad," she said, and she headed to the internet café.
I watched as the evening Mass participants chatted together and then went home for the evening. It wasn't going to rain, so it wouldn't be so bad sleeping on benches in the plaza.
Before long I noticed a man standing nearby, watching me. He looked rougher than I did, though I'd been a month on the road.
"It's cold," he said.
"Not so bad," I said.
"No, it's cold," he said. "I know how it feels. You need a place to stay tonight."
And he walked away. 
I sat on my bench and watched as the plaza thinned out and people went home for the evening. Olivia and I wouldn't sleep until the plaza was nearly empty, which meant staying up late as there were always some people around.
I noticed the rough looking man who had spoken to me passing by, and then passing by again. He seemed agitated.  Finally, he stopped  in front of me.
"I have a house where you can sleep to stay warm," he said.
I paused to consider this offer. He looked like an addict, or an alcoholic. He looked like someone we might try to avoid. But the people coming out of the church had thought the same of Olivia and me. They had thought we were people to avoid-- people who were dangerous or unpleasant-- and they had made us invisible. I wasn't going to be like them. If this man had the courage to offer his home to us, I would have the courage to accept.
"Okay," I said. "Thanks. But it isn't just me. I am with somebody else."
"That's fine," he said. "You are both welcome."
"In about half an hour my daughter will return and we can go to your house then," I said.

So with the refugees now I think about this man, Francisco, who had once been homeless himself and though he had nothing to feed us with he took us in to his house for the night. I think about all the good citizens of that Andalucian town, well-dressed church-goers who listened to a homily, maybe about helping out the stranger, and then ignored the strangers just outside their church.  I think that they must have been good people, but people who were afraid. They probably put money into the poor box that night, for the church to distribute, but the idea of contact with people in need may have terrified them, and the difference between Francisco, the outcast who helped us, and the church-goers, the good citizens who ignored us, was that Francisco had not only compassion but courage, and the church-goers were afraid.

Before Olivia and I had begun this walk, which began four years ago and ended two years ago in Egypt, she'd asked me about my pacifism.
"What about World War Two?" she had asked. "How could pacifism have stopped the Nazis?"
I'd thought about that before and I didn't know how it could have stopped the Nazis and I had decided then that pacifism wasn't about defeating Nazis in that way.
"I hope I would have had the courage to take in Jewish refugees," I had said. "That's how I would have contributed to defeating the Nazis."

And with this current refugee crisis I think about those who took in Jewish refugees in Europe and risked their own lives and their family's lives by doing so, and how looking back through the safety of time we all believe these people who hid Jewish refugees in their attics were heroes, and we all believe we would have done the same.

Yet so many of us believe that by taking in Syrian refugees, we are acting naively. So many of us believe we must protect ourselves at all costs, like people in a half-full lifeboat kicking away those who are still in the water for fear they will swamp the boat. But I believe that some 30 or 40 years in the future, when the grandchildren of refugees are playing with our grandchildren, history will look on those who helped the refugees as those who stood up against fear, and history will view the  xenophobia of the times as something disgraceful.

As I write this, local police have made several arrests in Alsdorf, a town just 10 kilometers from where I live. Those arrested are suspected of being involved in the recent attacks in Paris. Three kilometers in the other direction, in the village of Bourheim, I have recently made friends with a family of Syrian refugees. I can focus on Alsdorf and what's happening there and see every local Muslim as a potential terrorist, or I can focus on the family in Bourheim, asking myself what I can do to help them. The choice is either fear or compassion. For me it's an easy decision.

Trickle Down Economics as Practiced in Morocco

Along the N2 running from Tanger to Tetouan Olivia and I take a break by the road where the traffic slows for a traffic circle. Several people stand or sit waiting for a bus or a taxi or a ride and we sit among them on our packs drinking from our water bottles. I pull our supply of khobz out of our food bag and hand one to Olivia for her to eat with the triangular processed cheese we bought at the last hanut.

“We’ve got way too much khobz,” I say. “This stuff will get stale if we don’t eat it today. Why don’t we give some of it away?”

“Okay,” she says, and she takes two of the flat, circular pieces of bread from the plastic bag and walks over to a man who is lying on the ground, reclining on his elbow. She holds out the bread to him and he takes it unquestioningly, nodding and speaking a few words to her. Olivia returns and we watch as the man tears a piece of bread from the circle and eats it, still lying on his side on the dirty ground by the highway.

We eat our khobz with processed cheese and it is not very good but we are hungry and don’t care that it’s not good. As we eat we observe the Moroccan transport system at work. Private drivers stop their cars to take on or discharge passengers, either for hire or just for the sake of giving someone a ride, but the man lying on the ground eating khobz seems to be waiting for a particular ride, or maybe he lives nearby and he’s just relaxing on the ground by the highway.

“He just put the bread on the ground,” Olivia says.

The khobz now rests on the ground which wouldn’t be so unusual if the ground weren’t so trodden on and blackened by the road traffic. The man hasn’t discarded the bread though, and he occasionally picks up one of the disks to tear off another piece.

We chew silently and watch as an overloaded car stops and passengers unfold as they clamber out  either silently or laughing and talking. A man who has been waiting for a ride speaks a word or two to the driver before squeezing in with the others who are still inside.

The man lying on the ground is also observing and chewing silently. When a tall, thin man in ragged dirty clothing approaches, the man lying on the ground springs up with the khobz and hands it to him. The tall man nods and speaks a few words and the man who was lying on the ground returns to his spot to lie on it again, again reclining on his elbow and watching the highway activity.  The tall man stands silently eating his khobz as others around him chat. We finish our meal and drink again from our bottles and pack up and move on and everything feels right.  

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A couple of weeks and over 300 walking kilometres later we have taken a break at a petrol station—‘Oil Libya’—not far from Fes, and like so many petrol stations in Morocco it is complete with a mosque and wash basins for those entering the mosque to wash their hands and feet, and hole-in-the-ground toilets with a cleaning woman standing just outside the stall door ready to clean up after you. A large popular restaurant is also a part of the complex, but we sit on a curb near the restaurant to eat our khobz and processed cheese. As we eat we watch the patrons eating at the tables outside as they enjoy their meals, and I can smell grilled meat but I try to ignore the smell.  I notice one man watching us from a table and he has a look on his face that could be a look of unfriendliness, but he brings us khobz and ground meat kefta wrapped in napkins from his table.

“Chokran!” I say and he nods and smiles and returns to his table where everyone there is nodding and smiling and waving to us. I nod and smile and wave back and for a moment I feel like bursting out in tears but that passes quickly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give up being a vegetarian to eat this?” I ask Olivia. “It’s still hot.”

“I’m sure, Dad,” she says, but the khobz is warm and soft and much better than what we’ve got and Olivia is happy enough with that.

I breathe deeply and close my eyes with the taste of the succulent, savory kefta.

“Man, oh, man, that’s good,” I say. Then I say, “Sorry,” and I shrug, but Olivia seems happy that I’m happy.

Before long a man exits the restaurant and beckons for us to come in. We hastily gather our things and follow him inside. He has us sit at a table and gestures that we should eat there instead of out on the curb. When he orders the waiters about it is clear he is the manager.

“Said,” he says, pointing to himself.

We introduce ourselves and thank him and Said asks if we want coffee, and of course we do. He barks out some orders to a waiter and we soon have more khobz and kefta spread before us as well as olives and spices and our milky coffees. Olivia feasts on the olives and I feast on the grilled meat sausages and we both grin over our coffees.

Said wants to help us further though, and with a little English and gesturing he manages to make it known that he would like for us to stay with his family once we get to Fes. He writes down his phone number and after we’ve eaten as much as we can we thank him again and we take what’s left—two meals’ worth of food— and we pack it all up and get down the road.

We are soon walking on a path between the highway and an olive grove, and the workers in the grove are quitting for the day as the sun has just set. When a little motorbike sputters up the path behind us we turn to see a man driving it and a woman snuggled up behind him and I wave to them to stop. I give them all of the khobz and keftas that are left as I am bloated and the food won’t keep and tonight we should be at Max’s apartment in Fes. The man accepts the food without question—with only a big smile and a nod—and he hands the food to the woman on the back and she puts it in a basket and they sputter along down the path, and Olivia and I smile and we march onward into Fes.

Ten Days of Vipassana

Day One:
Noble Silence is interesting. No words, no gestures, no eye contact. When someone cuts in line at lunchtime I want to glare at the guy, but just look at my shoes. The anger passes. So what if someone cuts in line? I want to ask my roomate a question, compare meditation experiences, but can't. When we're not meditating there's nothing to do but walk around quietly while looking at the ground, or to lie down in bed.
The meditation is a bit boring at this point, and my mind wanders a lot. Also the long hours of meditation are painful. I'm experimenting with different sitting positions. We can stretch a bit if we really need to, but I am trying to keep as still as this guy in front of me who sits like a statue of Buddha. Pain, boredom, I'm probably wasting my time but I'll see it to the end no matter what.
I am a bit depressed when dinner at 1700 is a piece of fruit and tea. I hoard a banana and smuggle it to my room.
Day Two:
One of the days that people most often run away. I have no intention of doing that.
Woke up at 0400 to the sound of a gong. It was a nice way to wake up, despite the ungodly hour.
Started meditating at 0430.The meditation is more interesting now, as we are focusing on sensations in the nostril. I often feel a nose hair move. Great success.
Nevertheless, I am probably still wasting my time here. My legs hurt, my ass hurts, my knees hurt.
Day Three:
The excitement of feeling a nose hair move is gone as we are now focusing on the little area beneath the nostrils. Sometimes I can feel the breath coming out of the nostrils and hitting the upper lip, but meditating on the inside of the nose was more exciting.
I still haven't found a suitable sitting position. I have to adjust my position every 20 minutes while the guy in front of me only moves once every 40 minutes.
My upper back is killing me. Pain, boredom. Also, lack of sleep. I've had nightmares the last two nights. I wake up at 0300 and lie there waiting for the gong at 0400.
Day Four: 
After lunch we start real Vipassana insight meditation.
Goenke tells us we can't move now. We have to sit still for an hour at a time.
And the meditation is wild and wooly after focusing on the upper lip for a day and a half. We are to observe sensations throughout the body, from the top of the head to the tip of our toes. After 25 minutes I'm in pain and I want to move and I can't concentrate on sensations in little areas of my body. There is only one big sensation. Pain. After 40 minutes I am sweating profusely. I take note of this sensation to go along with the block of pain. After 45 minutes I have to move a little. It does me no good. I want to run, run. Pain, pain, pain. To hell with Vipassana. After the hour is up I unfold myself and stand and I start to black out and I am toppling but I get to the wall in time to support myself. Outside I curse under my breath for voluntarily torturing myself. I fight back tears from the pain, and from anger but also because I suddenly think of our little dog, Piglet, who was poisoned and suffererd horribly for three days before she died, and I think my one hour of pain was excrutiating but what about Piglet's pain? So I cry from compassion for all creatures suffering excrutiating pain. But mostly for myself. Just a few tears that go unnoticed.
Day Five:
At the 0800 meditation session I march into the meditation hall with the idea I'm going to kick Goenka's ass-- I'm going to sit the hour without moving-- he can torture me all he wants and I won't react to the pain.
I do it, for the most part. Once or twice I hunch my shoulders forward a little. The pain is there, but not as bad as before and what there is I keep at a distance-- it is only temporary pain, not crippling pain-- it is only pain. Go to hell pain.
By the end of the day I am sitting through the hour without moving one centimeter and I am observing the sensations throughout my body and the overriding sensation is still pain and some hard pain too but I'm pushing it farther and farther away.
I talk to myself, thusly:
"Oh, looky here, we have a block of searing pain just below the right shoulder blade, isn't that interesting? That must be very painful for our subject. But let's not linger here, let's move on to the next area. Ah. More searing pain! So very interesting. Ah, here it's just a knot of tension, and here it is numb, and here... more pain! Isn't this sensational!"
But I feel the day is a success. I showed Goenka a thing or two.
Days Six and Seven:
Observing the pain, but also finding the pain isn't as much as I had thought it was. The block of pain is actually a fingertip sized area of pain, and all around it it is tense, numb, heavy feeling... but not exactly pain. I am observing all of these unpleasant sensations with a degree of equanimity now. I feel I have really accomplished something here, though the whole process is unpleasant.
Also, I am well accustomed to the silence now. In fact, I dread the day we can speak. There will be a return to obligatory sociability. I enjoy walking around all day looking at the ground, which will be rude or weird back in the talking world.
Also, I am completely out of touch with what is happening in the world beyond, and I find this refreshing.
Day Eight:
At the morning session I am observing the pain. There's old faithful-- the searing pain beneath the right shoulder. Good morning, Old Faithful.
Then, my left hand starts tingling. Really tingling. A zippy tingling sensation then moves up my left arm. It feels very nice, but I wonder if it isn't some permanent nerve damage from all the sitting.
No matter, as it is quite a blissful sensation. As I observe the sensations all around my body, the tingling follows. Soon, I am one big tingling entity. I am tingling in space. I realize that the universe is tingly. I am tingly too. I am the universe. There is that pain, Old Faithful, but Old Faithful is far away, buried under all the tingling. I know I am smiling. Is this what it's really all about? Is this the goal? You get through the most excruciating pain and then you are rewarded with this? I am Buddha.
Then, the tape of Goenka's chanting comes on, as always, for the last five minutes of the hour. It has been my signal that I will only have to endure 5 more minutes of torture before a few minutes of freedom, but now it is an interruption. I want to keep tingling. The lights brighten, people groan, stretch, but I remain cross legged in the Burmese position, eyes closed, smiling, tingling. When I open my eyes the tingling fades, but the afterglow continues right through the break and when it is time to sit again I do so eagerly.
The teacher sitting up front wants to talk to some of us, as he does every so often to check on our progress. He asks what sensations we are feeling.
"I'm not sure if it's normal," I say, "but I'm tingling all over."
He smiles a bit, and says, "Yes, it is normal, but don't grow attached to this feeling. The pain will return."
Later that evening, at the discourse, Goenka tells us the same thing. If we are now experiencing these 'uniform subtle sensations,' do not crave them. The object is to observe pain, tingling, or no feeling at all with equanimity. Equanimity is the goal. Not 'free flow', as these uniform subtle sensations are called.
Day Nine:
Nevertheless, when I have two more big tingly sessions on this day, I'm happy about it.
At the discourse we are warned again. If we crave free flow and have aversion to pain we will simply build up more sankara-- the bad stuff-- and make no progress. we must observe these sensations-- just observe. I really dig the free flow though. But-- okay. The mission is equanimity, so the last time we meditate for the night, and the tingling arrives, I say, "You are just an impermanent sensation. Don't titilliate me, subtle sensation."
The tingling goes away and the pain returns.
I say, "You are also just an impermanent sensation, rising and falling-- anicca...anicca..."
And then I realize there is tingling but very mild, and there is pain, but ever so mild, and I could sit there all day and night in equanimity.
Day Ten:
Noble speech ends and it's just meditation summer camp now and I find myself talking and wishing I wasn't.

Epilogue:

It is a week later, and I meditate for an hour in the morning, first thing, and for an hour in the evening just before bed. The tingling is subdued, and so is the pain. It is more difficult to focus now, and my thoughts wander what with all the input from the world. My biggest enemy is no longer pain but drowsiness. But the meditation centers me, and gives me some measure of equanimity that I didn't have before.
I am on this machine far less now, and I feel more peaceful, happier, though I still get annoyed from time to time, like at that lady the other day at the supermarket who was pushing up against me at the checkout counter because she wanted to go faster-- as if things would go faster by her doing that.
I glared at her and said, "Have a little patience!"
I didn't call her any names though. 
I plan on returning to Buddha land to be a server for ten days, and then I plan on returning after that. 

https://www.dhamma.org/en/courses/search

Send Them Back to Europe

I propose a new bill to solve the immigration problem-- it is called the
"Send Them Back to Europe" Bill.

The way it works is like this. Anybody from the Americas who wants to immigrate to the United States gets to choose a person from a list of anti-immigration Americans of European ancestry. For example, 'Sean Hannity'. So a child refugee from Guatemala can pick Sean Hannity, (whose ancestors came as uninvited guests and then never left), and Sean Hannity would be deported to Ireland and the Guatemalan kid would get to live in the USA. If the Irish refuse to accept Sean Hannity, that would be no problem because a flotilla of donated boats would be ready to take such undesirables. These 'boat people' would undoubtedly find a home somewhere. If they don't, tough shit.

In the case of anti-immigration people with mixed ancestry, they would get to choose the country they wish to be deported to. Ted Cruz, for example, could choose between Cuba, Ireland, or Italy. What a wonderful variety of options!

Anti-immigration people of European ancestry who do not like the idea of being deported would have the option of doing community service to avoid deportation. For example, they could join a welcoming committee at the border, to welcome incoming immigrants. Or they could give tours of remaining segments of the wall, left standing as a reminder of a barbaric age. Or they could host a family of immigrants for a couple of years.

Let's Make Things Like They Was Before

For example:

Back in those days when The USA was a Christian nation and nobody challenged the Second Amendment --which was handed down by God to Moses to Jesus to Thomas Jefferson to Wayne LaPierre to Ted Nugent.

Here it is, the Second Amendment:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Back in those days, though, the concept of an army and a militia were different than nowadays.

Here is a soldier in today's army. They didn't have these back then.

Here is a soldier from the army back then.

Ah, sorry, I've gone back a bit too far. The right to bear arms back then meant swords and things like that. Let's try again.

Yes, here are some reenactment soldiers representing those times.  They are firing their smooth bore muskets. These here guns could almost hit the side of a barn at 100 meters. Also, they took some time to reload. A well trained soldier could get off three rounds a minute-- lots of time for the intended target to run like hell and get out of range.

However, such an army was not a regular feature of early American life. As such, a Militia was necessary to defend the nation. Hence that first part of the Second Amendment:

 A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State...


 Here are some guys reenacting what the Militia looked like back then:

And here are some guys who call themselves Militia now:

No, no, sorry. Those are some of the enemy Guatemalan children that the modern 'Militia' are hunting. Let's have another go:

Ah, well that's just a disrespectful, inaccurate picture of a 'Militia' guy nowadays. Let me see if I can get this right...

Yes, here are some guys who call themselves  'Militia'.

But if we are to go back to the original intention of the Second Amendment, we must do away with a regular standing army. We must do away with this...

and we must also do away with guns and apparel that modern 'Militia' members carry. We must do away with this...

and we must return to this...

That would fully represent what the Founding Fathers had in mind when they wrote the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America.


They could drill every Saturday, but not on Sunday as Sunday is the Sabbath.

There would be no more standing army, except in time of declared war. The War on Terror is not a declared war. George Dubbuyuh dubbin it a war don't make it a 'declared' war. So no more army. Only the Militia would be there to defend our shores. The Militia with muskets.

Militia members could exercise Open Carry without scaring the hell out of people. In fact, it would be quaint, having Open Carry aficionados strutting about in knee breeches and tricorns set at a cocky angle on their heads, and cradling muzzle loading muskets in their arms. 

"Hail to thee, neighbour!" I might say to one of them in the produce section of a Piggly Wiggly supermarket. "Any word on the British?"

"Never ye fear, friend," they might retort with a wink and a nod. "The Militia is here to defend ye."

Every Militia member in the USA could bear their muzzle loading musket wherever they went and no one would be up in arms about it.

Mules and horses could replace gas guzzling cars and coal burning pickup trucks too.

It would be grand.

When I was Jewish

In the spring of 1984, somewhere in the Pacific, the Jewish sailors of the US Navy's Battle Group Bravo gathered for the Passover meal onboard the USS Kitty Hawk, the battle group's aircraft carrier. Among the signalman of the USS Lewis B. Puller, Seaman Oseas and I donned our cranials-- US Navy flight deck head protection-- and vests and goggles, and we stood by on the Puller's helo deck as a big CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter hovered overhead. A crewman dropped a cable with a loop in it down to the flight deck, and one of the Puller's boatswain's mates grabbed it and waved me over. I ran, head low, through the windstorm created by the helicopter's twin rotors. The Boatswain's Mate jammed me into the loop and I was jerked upwards into the air, spinning around until the helicopter crewman pulled me onto the ledge of the machine's open hatch. I was dragged inside as the loop was lowered to pick up Seaman Oseas and the other Jewish sailors from the Puller. In all, we numbered only a handful. Once we were all safely seated on the CH-46, another Boatswain's Mate on the helo deck spun his hand around, then extended his arm, index finger pointing, to send the raucous machine away. It lifted and turned and I got a good view of the entire battle group in formation, and though it seemed large from the signal bridge, it seemed insignificant from the air, backdropped against the vast Pacific ocean. I looked at my Jewish shipmates, and among them, only Oseas also seemed to be enjoying the view. The others kept their eyes cast downward. After a short flight of just a few minutes, we landed on the flight deck of the Kitty Hawk. We were quickly shuffled off the CH-46 -- every aspect of navy flight ops is fast-- and we scurried out from beneath the windstorm of the big rotors. Once at a safe distance, we removed our flight gear, gave each other a dazed look, and heard a voice from the heavens.
"Shalom," it said, like a voice from God in a Biblical Hollywood film. Then it said, "Welcome to the USS Kitty Hawk."
In fact, the voice was from the Kitty Hawk's Commanding Officer, who was godlike if not God. It was delivered over the ship's 1MC-- the intercom system-- and was not from heaven after all. Nevertheless, we were awed to hear the voice, as it meant our arrival was deemed to be of special importance.
We were ushered off the flight deck and into one of the ship's wardrooms, which are usually meant only for officers to dine in. We were seated at a long table with other Jewish sailors from the battle group, and eventually a Jewish officer from the Kitty Hawk seated himself at the head of the table. We waited in silence for him to speak, and when he did he spoke joyfully. He told us about the Passsover, as related in the Torah, and about the customs and traditions linked to the meal we were about to participate in, called the Passover seder. Questions were asked-- Why the unleavened bread? Why the bitter herbs? Why dipping twice? Why reclining? Answers were given. We ate matzah ball soup and gefilte fish and a hard boiled egg, among other things. There was singing. There was even a glass of wine.
It was a joyous occasion, and even Oseas-- who had not wanted to come as he was not a practicing Jew-- enjoyed the time there, and seemed even to find some pride in his Jewishness. I also took pride in my own Jewishness. It was like being a part of a big, worldwide family. I had never felt so Jewish as on this occasion.

The only problem was that I was not really Jewish.

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I may have wanted to be Jewish even when I was a kid. The Jewish kids that I knew all seemed to be smart, and friendly. 'Fiddler on the Roof' made me believe that Jewish people were very special, and that they were the underdogs, and that they could sing well, and that they took hardship graciously. They were tough without being arrogant. They were funny. I wanted to be Jewish.

I don't remember the '67 war so well, though I am sure my father and mother would have spoken about it, and I may have understood that the Jews in Israel were fighting for their very survival. Later, I learned about the holocaust, and I decided not to like Germans. In elementary school I was in one class with a German girl who spoke with a heavy German accent. I joined in when many of the kids in the class surrounded her at recess and taunted her. We made her cry, and the teacher had some harsh words for us later.

I remember what happened in Munich in '72. I remember the war in '74 even better. The Arabs were dogs. They were throwing around their weight with all of their oil, and they were going to drive the Jews into the sea. But the outnumbered Israelis prevailed, and I remember seeing the news on TV and thinking the soldiers of the Israeli IDF were admirable.

When I learned about the raid on Entebbe through a made-for-TV movie, I was sure the Israelis had the most admirable fighting force on Earth. And they were all in it together. Even the women were soldiers.

In my early 20's, after having spent several years in the navy drinking and carrying on like a sailor, I decided to get religion. I was a little fed up with Christianity and all of the hypocrisy behind it. I had a few days off from the ship and I rented a little hotel room and instead of throwing a party I got some books and spent the whole time reading alone. I read a book about Judaism and decided then and there that I was Jewish. I also decided that Jesus was a Reform Jew. Reform Judaism appealed to me the most but I also decided that once out of the navy I would go to Israel to live on a kibbutz, and I would join the IDF. As Reform Jews weren't considered real Jews by the Israeli government, I decided I would be a Conservative Jew, and once off the plane, I would also be an Israeli citizen.  I bought a Torah and a book explaining the Talmud and a big set of cassette tapes to teach me Hebrew. I was on my way to being Jewish. I even believed in God.

While still in San Diego, I secretly attended a Reform Jewish service. I sat in the back of a small group of sailors being led by a Jewish navy chaplain in song and prayer. I liked that it was an informal group. When the rabbi asked what the group should do for Hannukah, one of the sailors said, "Get a Christmas tree!" and there was laughter all around. After the service I asked the rabbi for a few minutes of his time. I told him I wanted to be Jewish.

"In what faith were you raised?" he asked.

"Methodist, I guess."

"So what's the matter with being a Christian?" he asked.

"I don't know... too much hypocrisy maybe."

"So what about Jesus?" he asked. "What's the problem with Jesus?"

I think I must have shrugged at this question without a word.

"See me in another year," he said.

Rather than being put off by this, I was encouraged-- it was like getting on a good team-- they didn't take just anybody.

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So when the word was passed a few months later that all the Jews in Battle Group Bravo were invited to the USS Kitty Hawk for the seder meal, I saw this as an opportunity. I went straight to sick bay, where the medical records were kept, and I asked the hospital corpsman for my medical record, and I found that part in it that listed my religious preference, which was indeed 'Methodist', and I took out a pen and scratched it out and wrote 'Jewish'.

"I thought so," I said. "Says here I'm Methodist when I'm Jewish."

"You're Jewish, Schroeder?"

"Oh yeah."

"Strange..." said the corpsman, looking over where I'd re-written my religious preference. He then put the medical record back in its file.

I then had to request permission to fly to the Kitty Hawk for the seder meal, and our commanding officer was one to know all about his sailors, and he knew I wasn't Jewish, but  I was granted permission to go anyway, and the CO never said a word about it to me.


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After my Jewishness became widely known, some of my friends just laughed, some shook their heads, a few thought it was interesting that I was now Jewish, and a few showed an ugly side.

In the chow line I stayed away from pork.

"The ethnic Jew don't eat pork no more," said Parker, from Tennessee, eliciting laughter.

I'd driven with him from Tennessee to San Diego when we were both on leave, but now he kept his distance.

In Guam some of us went for pizza after a day of SCUBA diving. I wanted my pizza without bacon.

"It's fucking stupid, this no pork thing," said one of my friends.

While at sea I chatted with another friend.

"Why do you want to be Jewish?" he asked. "Where I live you see these Jews and on Saturday they won't even push the button to get the green light to cross the street. Are you gonna be like that?"

Another friend, from North Dakota-- a quiet type who seemed a little insecure-- now seemed emboldened. "Hey Jew!" he would say whenever our paths crossed, and he would laugh.

Yet another jestingly said, "Yoodah! Yoodah!" and pointed at me when we saw each other. He was imitating a Nazi or something. 

But in Hawaii I went to a luau and met some Jewish guys there and I ate everything but the big pig and they said I was more Jewish than they were because they ate the big pig. They had seemed a little afraid to talk about their heritage in the beginning but after seeing my pride in 'being Jewish' they seemed to have a little more pride too.

In the meantime, I studied Jewish history, and how the wealthy Christians, in order not to dirty themselves with Mammon, would hand over their money to the Jews to manage it, and the Jews managed it well, and so got a reputation for being money grubbers, though the money grubbing was mainly for the benefit of the Christians. I learned about 2000 years of persecution that the Jews suffered at the hands of Christians, culminating in the Holocaust, and I learned about the Balfour Agreement and Britain's false promises to both the Jews and the Arabs, and I learned about Jewish terrorism against the British and the Arabs, and about Israeli Prime Ministers and politicians who were former terrorists, who had bombed hotels and massacred Arab civilians, and about the terrorism waged by Arabs against Israel, and about the wars and right up to what was then the present-- the invasion of Lebanon-- and I thought even then that that was the end of the IDF-- that the most moral army in the world was now just another invading army committing atrocities.

Then I got married to a Catholic and that was the end of my Jewishness. 


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Nevertheless, while living in Portugal for fifteen years, I was a defender of Israel. When a young student commented that all of the problems in the Middle East were caused by Israel, I lectured the class for 15 minutes on how Europeans had driven the Jews to Palestine, so that whatever problems were caused by the presence of Israel were problems created by the Portuguese and Spanish and British and Germans and all of Europe. When a friend said something about the Jews killing Jesus I spent a full two hours lecturing him on who really killed Jesus-- those who hate anyone undermining a status quo based on fear and intimidation and on false gods like Mammon or Emperor (or flag or nation...). He couldn't escape my lecture because he was getting a ride from me. He was trapped in the passenger seat. He still talks about the experience.

When I walked from Portugal to the Middle East as a statement of peace I carried two mainly symbolic petitions: one for Hamas to resist injustice (because it is injustice) with non-violent resistance, and the other for Israeli settlers to stop building settlements on Palestinian land. Time and again, through Spain, Morocco, France, Italy... Turkey and Egypt, I defended my petition for Hamas, as many people thought it unfair to ask Hamas to resist non-violently when Israel was so brutal in its use of force. Everybody signed the petition to stop the settlements, but fewer signed for Hamas to use non-violent resistance. I argued with them that if they really wanted peace, they would want Hamas to stop using violent means to remedy injustice.

Then I was refused entry in Haifa.

I said all the wrong things.

"Walking for peace.  Palestinian rights. Quaker. Wanted to walk through Syria. Walking to Egypt. In Turkey for three months. A friend in Iran. Not much money."

"But I love Israel!" I said. "I was even going to be Jewish once!"

"And now?" my interrogator asked, "Are you going to become a Muslim?"

I was refused entry at the Taba border crossing in Sinai too.

"Why are you coming to Israel?" I was asked.

"I have an invitation from an NGO that works with Bedouins in the Negev desert," I said.

They looked a little harder at their computer, then asked, "What happened in Haifa?"

Which essentially meant, "Go back to Egypt."

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Now in Germany, I was recently on a Facebook page that was supposed to be about making peace in the Middle East, but what I found it to be was a page on which Israelis and American Jews shout down anyone who suggests that Israel is at all to blame for the misery there.

With this recent Gaza massacre I have become inclined to completely disassociate myself from anything Jewish. Israelis have been openly and gleefully celebrating the deaths of children in Gaza.

In America, where people seem to be out of touch with reality regarding what is happening in the world, people nod and say, "Regretable, these things, but there will always be collateral damage in a war."

I must say that if any nation were to collaterally damage my family, by killing them, for whatever ideology or cause, I would be inclined to join whoever opposed that nation. Think about that. Your three year old daughter killed by some trigger happy punk in a tank or an airplane who says, "Whoops! Sorry!" Or even worse, your three year old daughter killed by this guy who says, "Yeah, well, she would have grown up to be a terrorist."

Anyway, as I say, I have become inclined to diss anything Jewish. But I won't do that. Though Israel seems to be a mean and ugly place right now, I will always love Judaism-- real Judaism-- just as I will always love real Islam, real Christianity, real religion of any kind.

And what is real religion? Real religion is about loving God and loving your neighbor, even loving your enemy.

Meanwhile, I would go back to that rabbi if I could-- the Reform navy chaplain that I talked to in San Diego--  and I would sit in for a service of his. Afterwards, I would remind him of what we talked about some 32 years ago, and if he asked me what my thoughts were now on becoming Jewish, I would tell him that I already am Jewish, and that Allah is for everybody, and that God is love.

On Bicycle Violence in the Netherlands

Since I began my fierce Facebook campaign for gun regulation in the US, I have challenged, and been challenged by many gun aficionados with many different arguments. Here are some of the arguments that NRA members and "Second Amendment" people have responded with:

1) FUCK YOU

2) Here is one for you Kenneth shit head: Germany early 1900's ADOLPH HITLER disarms the Germans, takes over their country, then STARTS WORLD WAR1. Who was the country that stopped that bastard from doing that? The UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Suck on that fact you NAZI PIG.

3)  We as Americans love our guns thank you!

4) Kenneth Lawrence Schroeder you make me sick!! Stay the fuck out of the US you weak ass pos!

5) The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government. -Thomas Jefferson


I believe these are all very good arguments for going grocery shopping with semi-automatic rifles slung over one's shoulder, and I had a difficult time responding to them. 

However, when I recently posted my admiration for the state of Rhode Island, which apparently has the strictest gun regulation, the lowest gun rate death per capita, and has recently divested from the gun industry, I was challenged by an old friend and lover of liberty in a new and unparalleled way. 

When are they going to stop bicycle violence in The Netherlands????  he asked.

I immediately Googled bicycle violence in the Netherlands to see if there was some news about a man beating another man to death with a bicycle. When my search produced no results, I searched further-- maybe it wasn't a whole bike being used to commit acts of violence-- a whole bicycle would make an unwieldy weapon-- maybe it was bicycle parts-- maybe there have been a series of mass bludgeonings to death in schools with the perpetrators using handlebars or forks or deflated inner tubes. But I found nothing. 

Then it occured to me that my thinking was wrong. By 'violence', my friend must have meant 'death' or 'injury'. And it occured to me that there must be a relatively high rate of bicycle deaths and injuries in Holland, given that so many people ride bikes there. What I discovered was that, indeed, in 2008, nine out of a million people were killed in Holland while riding their bike, compared to only two per million in the UK.  I couldn't find the statistics for bike deaths in the USA. By comparison, when I checked the statistics for gun deaths in 2011, in Holland it was about 5 deaths per million, while in the USA it was about 100 deaths per million. 

So I considered my friend's argument, which seems to be:  Both guns and bicycles are mere objects, and the use of either of them can result in death. 

It also seems that my friend chose bicycles in Holland to make this point, rather than, say, jelly beans (which can also kill if you choke on them)  because bicyles in Holland are thought of as good things by peace freaks such as myself. 

Yet, I am not convinced by my friend. I believe that it is also important to consider the purpose of an object. While both guns and bicycles can be used for sport, a bicycle is ultimately made for transportation, hence the wheels, while a gun is ultimately made to kill something, hence the bullets. Furthermore, the bicycle is a relatively passive mode of transport. Most of the cyclists who are killed on the road, are killed by cars, which are objects used for transport in a less passive way. Walk down the highway sometime, and you will understand.  

In any case, a  person on a bike intends to go from point A to point B. A person with a gun intends, at some point,  to shoot something or someone. 

So, to answer the question: When are they going to stop bicycle violence (sic) in the Netherlands????

My answer is that I believe the Dutch are working on it. They have very good bike paths there, and I believe they are serious about bicycle safety. And if everyone decides to ride a bike there, then aside from the resulting quiet and reduced carbon emissions and better health of the population, I believe bicycle deaths will be reduced, as there will be fewer cars to kill cyclists. 

But my question remains: When are we going to stop gun violence in America?