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About Efrem Sigel

 
 

Efrem Sigel’s latest book is the true-crime memoir, Juror Number 2: The Story of a Murder, the Agony of a Neighborhood (The Writers' Press, 2020).  The review in Publishers Weekly, December 2020, said about "Juror": "Novelist Sigel (The Kermanshah Transfer) turns his sharp eye for detail to a beautifully written hybrid of true crime and memoir. True crime buffs and fans of memoirs will be enthralled by Sigel's irresistible mix of clear reporting, empathy, and thoughtful examination of the link between poverty and violence."

 

His first novel, The Kermanshah Transfer (Macmillan), a novel of Middle Eastern intrigue, came out in 1973. His second novel, The Disappearance was published by The Permanent Press. in 2009.  "Juror Number 2: The Story of a Murder, the Agony of a Neighborhood" appeared in 2020.  A third work of fiction, a short story collection entitled "Let There Be Light" is due in 2024.  Since the late 1990s more than 30 of his stories and memoirs have appeared in dozens of magazines, including The Journal, the Antioch Review, the Jerusalem Post, Midstream, Nimrod, Sixfold, Gemini, and PerSe and have won a number of prizes.  His recent OpEds in City Journal, the New York Daily News and Times of Israel can be seen below under the Efrem Sigel Blog.

Efrem has been a journalist, editor and founder, with his wife Frederica, of two business publishing companies. Under the auspices of the Harvard Business School Club of NY, Efrem leads teams of volunteers, all alumni of Harvard Business School, who consult to nonprofits in the field of education.  He's on the board of Futures and Options, a nonprofit that arranges intensive orientation, paid internships and career exploration for students from underserved neighborhoods in New York City.

He grew up in Staten Island, NY, graduated from Curtis High School, has an A.B. from Harvard College and an MBA from Harvard Business School. After college he spent two years as a Peace Corps teacher in Ivory Coast, West Africa. Swimming, tennis, walking and hiking in the Berkshires in western Massachusetts, and reading, writing and Scrabble are his favorite pastimes.  He lives in New York City.  He and his wife have two sons and four grandchildren.

For more about Efrem, see his Linkedin profile: https://www.linkedin.com/in/efrem-sigel-4b1b419/

T
he Efrem Sigel blog

 

President for Life, A Short Story  Note: this is an author's draft.  Do not copy or circulate.  Comments to: efrem.sigel@gmail.com

 

PRESIDENT FOR LIFE

Howard paused to catch his breath. With the three-clawed walker it was a slow pull up the front steps, past the two white columns—time to paint them, he wondered?—that stood to either side of the mahogany door.  The building had the feel of a grand, intimate, well-worn home; only a simple sign and the oversized mezuzah affixed diagonally to the door frame, identified it as a synagogue.

The frigid late December weather made the stump of his leg ache, as if the actual limb were frozen somewhere in space and he was condemned forever to feel the void of its loss. Two years ago while crossing 45th Street near Grand Central, a keg from a beer truck had bounced loose and smashed into him, breaking the tibia and most of the bones in the foot.  The damage was so severe that they'd wound up amputating just below the knee and fitting him with a prosthetic.  This marvel of engineering looked like a foot and even took a special shoe that looked like a shoe.  But no invention could replace the mobility he had lost.

The accident took place shortly after Ann's death, and, still in mourning, Howard paid little heed to the pain.  Six months later he cut back his hours at the law firm that had his name on the door, bored with the business after 30 years, bored with mergers and acquisitions and the big-ego media tycoons that he spent his days advising.  He felt more at home in this building with its odd nooks and rumbling pipes, a place where adults prayed or argued and kids sang songs and spilled grape juice on the dark wood floors. 

          Outside, snow had begun falling, coating the grass with what looked like a maple sugar residue.  Inside, a hiss of warmth pulsed from the radiator.  He and Ezra Sender were to interview a candidate for Hebrew school principal but neither Ezra nor the candidate had arrived. The time of year, the way the wind hurled itself against the windows, put him in mind of another winter's day and another Hebrew school teacher, long ago when he'd stood tall on two good legs.

      *****
          It was just as things were quieting down after the tumult occasioned by their South American rabbi, a Venezuelan named Carlos Kahan.  CK, as he liked to be called, was brilliant and mercurial, with black eyebrows and a brooding, malevolent air.  It hadn't taken long to catch on to him.  First CK requested emergency leave for a family funeral; they later found out he'd gone to LA for a short-term consulting gig.  Then he began dipping into the rabbi's discretionary fund for personal expenses: Pilates sessions, a roundtrip plane ticket to and from Caracas.

Called before the board at a contentious meeting, CK was unrepentant. "You can't fire me," he insisted. "I have a contract."  Howard, then the treasurer, met privately with CK.  He kept pressing the facts—misappropriation of charitable funds, lying to the board—and finally got the rabbi to quit. The next thing he knew, the nominating committee was in his house, sipping decaf, nibbling on Ann's mocha brownies and convincing him to be president. 

At the time, the synagogue in Good Harbor, a small Westchester community, had been struggling.  Their Hebrew school had consisted of a single teacher: Miriam, 31 years old, the daughter of former congregants who'd moved to Florida.  Howard had heard she was in the midst of a wrenching divorce from a violent man.

The Sunday of that long-ago Chanukah party began rainy and mild, with mist hanging outside the synagogue windows like some enormous billowing cobweb.  By five o'clock winter had roared in and a wintry mix of drizzle and sleet was falling.

In the early evening gloom when it was time to light the candles, Miriam dimmed the lights, the kids thronging around her; they would have followed her anywhere.  In the glow of the candles, Howard had marveled at Miriam's dark eyes and lustrous black curls.  She wore a long skirt and in the shadows her feet were hidden.  A long silk blouse covered her bosom and was buttoned high up on her neck.  Only a patch of white throat, her pale glowing cheeks and her nose, the color of mother of pearl, were visible.  As they sang, Miriam's rich contralto filled the sanctuary.

Ann was not there that night; their own kids, they were then 16 and 18, were too grown-up for Chanukah parties.  By 8:30 everyone had departed except for Howard and the caretaker, Willie Anderson, wheeling his green trash barrel and picking up paper plates covered with bits of greasy potato pancakes.  Howard went upstairs to turn off lights in the office and there was Miriam on her cellphone, confiding—to her mother? a friend?—some painful development in the breakup of her marriage.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Howard had said, halting in the doorway.

She flushed.  Her long curls were black against the pink rising from her throat.  "I shouldn't have brought my private business here."

"You did—you do—a wonderful job with the kids.  All of us were in awe, actually."

Howard stepped back so she could pass.  She was breathing rapidly and he inhaled her perfume, a fruity scent, raspberry or strawberry.

Ten minutes later, he found her in the parking lot, staring hopelessly at the cluttered trunk of her Chevrolet Geo.  A rear tire was flat and she was looking for a jack. The frigid wind plucked at Howard's jacket like the fingers of an anxious mother.  The raindrops had frozen in wavy ribbons on the blacktop. 

Gently nudging Miriam aside, he began clearing out the trunk—a seltzer bottle, filmy with age, maps and books, multicolored rags, a tennis racket—to unearth the spare.  The jack, folded down on itself, was icy to the touch.

 When Howard took off his blazer, tie and shirt his arms developed an instant case of goose bumps.  He pried off the wheel cover and cracked each of the lug nuts. In his undershirt, with numbing fingers, he changed the tire while Miriam waited at a distance, drawing her black woolen cape around her shoulders.

"How can I thank you?"

He looked at his sooty fingers, embarrassed.

"It's nothing."
 "Nothing?  Changing a tire for me on a night like this was a lovely thing to do."

"You'll be okay now," he said, smiling. "Any gas station can fix the flat for you."

Shivering in the Bet Shalom parking lot in his shirtsleeves, all Howard wanted to do was stay and talk to this woman.  Instead he began walking quickly to his car.

"Wait!"

Miriam had started the engine.  She leaned her head out the window. He saw a mass of dark curls, her pale cheeks hidden in shadow.

"I wanted to wish you a happy Chanukah."

*****

In the years since that night, the number of families at Bet Shalom had tripled, members had given generously to expand and modernize the sanctuary, kitchen and bathrooms, and turn part of the lawn into a playground.  Yes, they'd cycled through three or four rabbis but two of them had stayed eight and ten years respectively; only in one case had they failed to renew an initial thee-year contract. 

Now Howard was checking his watch.  Early, he thought, these days I'm always early.  In the gray light slanting in through the front doorway and the windows, he glanced up at the wall of raised memorial plaques, including the one that said Ann Berger Gold.  What would Ann have thought of his new-found promptness?  For years she'd nagged him to get ready earlier. "That's the trouble with you, Ann," he'd say.  "You miss the fun of the moment by always planning ahead."

"The fun of the moment?  You mean, when I'm already in my party dress and I'm having to fish your shirt out of the 'to be ironed' pile in the closet?"

At those moments Ann's nose was even more pointed, her black eyes flashing warning lights.   How her vitality had surrounded, energized and, yes, occasionally stifled him. 

Sharon Isaacs, one of four teachers—and also the acting principal—had called a week ago to say she was quitting to take a full-time job in a day school in Putnam County.   She supported her family by herself; her husband was a meek, clueless fellow who couldn't keep a job.  The synagogue offered her a raise but it wasn't enough.  "I'm sorry to have to leave," she said. "It's just the money."

Ezra arrived, followed by the applicant.  Of the three they'd interviewed, she was the most promising, a young woman with dull brown hair and little hairs peeking out from under her sleeves, like pencil marks that no eraser could remove.  Her social skills were mediocre; she barely looked at them as she spoke. She'd been a teacher for five years, assistant principal for two; she came with excellent references. After she left, he turned to Ezra.

"Is she really the best we can find?"

Couldn't they find someone better, he was thinking, not to mention better-looking? Before he could stop the words from coming out, he asked Ezra, "What about Miriam Twersky?  Any chance she'd be available again?"

          Ezra shook his head in disbelief. Miriam had remarried years ago. "Last I heard, she was teaching in the Judaic studies department at NYU.  Her twins must be 11 or 12 now."

*****

After that long-ago Chanukah party, he couldn't get the picture of Miriam out of his mind. Twenty-three years into their marriage, he and Ann had been suffering through a period of prolonged dissonance.  Every offhand comment, every annoyed inflection, every request to the other to do some meaningless chore was as irritating as poison ivy.  Ten days after the party Howard had left work in mid-afternoon and come to the synagogue.  He looked over the bills, had a word with the rabbi and found himself in the hallway just as the last pupils were hurrying into the back seats of cars and vans.  Miriam came up to him to thank him for his help the other night.

She was wearing a black woolen skirt with a dark red sweater.  All he could think of was her white throat, hidden by the turtleneck.

"Just part of the job," Howard said, smiling.  "Balance the budget, change a flat."  They went down the backstairs together.  He was dark-haired then, trim, handy with a pruning shears or a car jack. To Miriam, with everything in her life in flux, he must have looked like a man used to making things happen.

He gazed at her frankly.  There was a glorious warmth to being in her presence that both excited and calmed him.  Very occasionally he would get this feeling, on a chilly autumn morning during the Sukkot minyan, when dust particles danced on a beam of sunlight and the voices—his and those of a lonely dozen congregants—rose and fell in prayer.  Then it might come, this sensation of being bathed in something miraculous.

"How's your other teaching going? And the studies?  That's a lot to juggle," he said. Besides her two afternoons a week at Bet Shalom, Miriam also was a substitute teacher at a high school in the Bronx and was working on her Ph.D. at NYU.

"Sometimes I'll get in my car in the morning and I'll forget, literally, where I'm headed that day," she said. Her smile was enough to banish winter.  When she offered hm a ride. he imagined sitting side by side with her in the front seat, her long hair brushing against the sleeve of his jacket, and wondered whether the scent of her perfume would make him dizzy.

"Thanks, my car is out front."  Almost in a whisper he added, "Another time?"

Over the next weeks he left his midtown office early a couple of times, arriving as Hebrew school was letting out.  The two of them would wait until everyone else had left the building before they came near one another.  Then they'd walk out together and sit in the front seat of her car.

Miriam told him about her life, about the restraining order she'd gotten to keep her husband Frank at bay, about the dissertation for her doctorate.  She turned toward him and stared intently at his face, as if seeking not just advice but sustenance.

A couple of weeks went by.  One day Miriam said, "I'm working on something more important than the dissertation proposal."

Her tone was lighter, almost flirting. "My Dad is flying in and coming to dinner tomorrow," she explained.  "You can't imagine how fussy he is.  I'd almost rather be cooking for anyone but him."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone.  What's your favorite meal?"

"Oh, I guess brisket with boiled potatoes."

"That's easy."  She laughed, delighted. "Come for dinner some night, I'll make you a brisket."

Didn't she know that what she was proposing so innocently was impossible?  And yet her timing was good.  Ann was after him about everything.  Why hadn't he done more to intervene with their son Mark, listless and solitary in his junior year of high school? What about the leaky storm windows or the crumbling plaster in a bedroom closet? Most of all, why couldn't he just be there for her, her concerns, needs, fears? 

"Either you're at work," she hissed, "or you're on the phone about the synagogue. You're like some guest at a hotel, meals included, instead of a partner." Always the effective debater, he'd fought back, marshalling all the arguments for why she was wrong.  But he knew she was right. 

In February, Ann went down to Florida to visit her parents. Howard called Miriam, dry-mouthed, to announce, "I'm a bachelor for the next four nights."

"Come tomorrow night for dinner?"

By 7:30 the next morning he was calling Miriam to cancel.  Her number rang five times before the voice mail kicked in.  He tried her at 1:30 and again got a message.  A couple of hours later he called once more, but after two rings he hung up, knowing now that he didn't want her to answer.

She lived in White Plains, a half hour away; at 5:30 he got in his car and drove in a trance through the yellow-gray dusk.  When he pressed the buzzer in the lobby of the white-brick building, her quick voice answered.

"Hi, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Come on up.  Fourth floor, turn left when you get off the elevator." 

         *****
          The routine was simple: two years as president, and you were done.  They thanked you, gave you a gift. Old-timers reminded you that the happiest words in the English language were "ex-synagogue president."
          Yes, he'd served his term but then, four and a half years ago, they'd come to him again, Ellen Winter pleading, "Howard, please, please won't you do it?"

"Why me?  Once is enough.  There are plenty of others who could do it." 

"Howard, we're broke and you understand money.  We have a problem with the rabbi, and you're so good at dealing with rabbis."  They both laughed, remembering CK and his antics.

"Okay," Howard said, "but just one year."  Almost immediately Ann needed the mastectomy; then she needed a second.  The cancer spread.  She underwent a withering siege of chemotherapy, all the artillery of the oncologists trained on her weakened body. She was racked by nausea; a horrible cough twisted her body like a piece of hemp.  Nine months after the second operation Ann was gone.  Howard remembered sitting in the sukkah on a chilly October evening, wishing they would just bury him in the ground then and there so he would never have to go back into his empty house.

During those final months, their daughter Rachel took a leave from her job in Chicago to be with her mother.    There was in Ann's face in those last days a kind of timeless wisdom that expressed itself not in words or actions—talking, eating, walking, standing were all increasingly difficult—but in the subtlest of gestures: the quiver of her thin lips, the raising of an eyebrow.  Near the end Ann was unusually lucid, speaking slowly but precisely and looking at Howard out of bottomless gray-green, all-knowing eyes.
After the funeral, Ezra Sender arranged for a minyan at his house morning and evening for the shiva prayers.   Night after night his fellow congregants showed up, bearing baskets of fruit, roasts, aluminum baking pans bending with the weight of noodle pudding. 

Every year since, the nominating committee had asked him to stay in the job. 

*****

"Miriam Twersky.  Any chance she'd be available?" he'd blurted out to Ezra, as in his mind he relived that visit to her apartment.

Howard had closed the door behind him, very slowly.  He didn't know what to do with his hands.  He was absurdly conscious of having come with nothing, no flowers, no wine, no chocolates.  He was 48 then, and it had been 24 years since he'd visited a young woman alone in her apartment. 

Once inside he was greeted by the aroma of brisket and onions.  He looked into a small dining nook, where a festive table was set with a white tablecloth, two silver candlesticks, two slim wine glasses.  A salad bowl held greens, red and yellow peppers, celery. 

Miriam stood in front of him in a white blouse with a ruffled collar, her long hair framing her face.

Her smile was both brave and terrified.  Neither of them had yet uttered a word.

"Are you going to stay?" she asked.

"I can't believe you said that.  My thought was to come up, thank you for inviting me and get out of here as fast as I could."

"Well?"

"I don't want to leave.  Is it okay?" 
  She nodded, beckoning him to join her in the living room. He took a seat on the small sofa, done in a brown and white Berber fabric. The floor to ceiling bookshelves were filled with books, some in Hebrew, some in French.

Miriam brought him a glass of Chablis. 

"Dinner's ready any time.  I didn't know your schedule, I thought you might be rushed."  And then she added, "The kitchen is kosher, by the way."

Compared to the sin he was about to commit, the potential transgression of eating non-kosher food seemed laughably trivial.

"I'm not rushed.  Come and talk to me."

Miriam sat next to him.  She looked very young, like a child bride.  She brought her face near, her long curls tickling his cheeks.  He heard her intake of breath.  He'd imagined it was her special gift, the clarity of her soul, that had captured him, that explained his behavior. But kissing her sweet lips was surrender to something different, something imperious, insistent, carnal.  He was suffocating from the warmth of her. He clasped her to him and felt her strong shoulders and the bones in her back.  Beneath her blouse her heart was pounding, pounding, her kisses overwhelming him with their need. 

The brisket was room temperature, its gravy congealed, when they fell upon it hours later.

For five weeks they met furtively, once or twice a week, in out-of-the-way restaurants or at her apartment.  Her love for him thrilled him, lifted him to a different plane of existence. For both of them the stress was nearly unbearable.  One afternoon she broke down, weeping as if the tears would never stop. 

"We can't anymore," she sobbed.  "I can't do this to you, to your family."

Of course she was right, but the more she wept the more he protested, using every measure of lawyerly persuasion, every ounce of lover's passion. He swore that he loved her as he'd never loved anyone. He would leave Ann, leave their home of 20 years, leave Bet Shalom.  He spoke these words as if willing himself into the abyss of his own disgrace.

"No darling. No. No. No."

She wouldn't be swayed, so determined was she to save him from his own folly.  He forced himself to stop coming to Bet Shalom on days that she taught.  The pain was unremitting. He tore up every scrap of paper with her number, as if it weren't imprinted forever in his mind; he went through his hard drive, deleting every email.  Even so, when they ran into one another at some synagogue event he couldn't stop staring at her dark eyes, sadder but more luminous than ever.  How could everyone else in the room not see? Who on the board would come to tell him he had to resign?

*****

Ezra was gone; the afternoon was waning and still Howard sat in the library. His hair was silver.  His grip was as strong as ever, but what with the walker and the arthritis in his good knee he was moving more slowly, a lot more slowly.  Miriam? Surely her curls would forever be dark and full, not a speck of gray, her body as firm and willowy as the day he'd changed her tire.

   Willie was vacuuming the sanctuary and Howard called him over.

"Take a look at this," he said.  Willie and he were both new grandfathers, and he showed a picture of his ten-month old grandson, the toddler grinning as he stood unsteadily but triumphantly while holding onto the back of a chair.

Outside, the white precipitation had gathered in a slushy puddle along the walk, like a child's ice cream treat that has slipped out of the cone.  In the car he was still smiling over the photo of his grandson, imagining the delight on Ann's face if she could have seen it. Yet another scene came to mind: Ann propped against her pillows, talking to him in her feeble, still clear voice about times they'd shared, surprising him even in those last days with her uncanny ability to recall and retell.  He'd always half-suspected what lay behind her eyes, the secrets she'd known—must have known—but kept silent about.

One more year, Howard? they always asked when they came to him in April; surely it was time to tell them, No more, time to find someone else.

But as he pulled into the garage, he had trouble saying those words to himself. 

Another year, what was the big deal?  It wasn't as if he would be president for life.

 

 

Efrem's article in City Journal, April 14, 2024
Face the Bloody Double Standard: Young Americans' lopsided opinions on war endanger Israel and the United States  by Efrem Sigel and Hannah E. Meyers

Overnight, the United States and other allies helped deflect hundreds of Iranian cruise missiles, ballistic missiles, and drones that rained down on Israel. As regional tensions continue to mount, the long-term support of the U.S. will be more critical than ever for the Middle East's lone democracy. Waves of anti-Israel protests—coming from American campuses, in particular—pose an increasing threat to this support. Recent rhetoric from the State Department and the White House suggest that insistent demonstrators have shaken America from its firm support of Israel in its existential, defensive war in Gaza. This has encouraged Iran and groups like Hamas, whose primary goal is to destroy Israel and exterminate its Jewish population. 

 

College students are understandably horrified over war in Gaza and thousands of civilian deaths. Every innocent death is a tragedy. But they sidestep reality: the number of deaths in this defensive war is a fraction of victims killed, tortured, and imprisoned—with indefensible aims—by the Muslim leader of Syria, as well as leaders in Russia and China. Yet, American students are not chanting "Death to Syria!" They are not barring Russian professors or musicians from appearing on campuses. They are not calling for the bombing of Beijing. There's no outpouring of outrage against the perpetrators of these ongoing massacres, which are far worse both in carnage and in objective.

As Iranian menace grows, it is critical that American university students confront the moral double standards that have led them to champion forces committed to death and oppression. And to recognize that there is no other name for this lopsided crusade than rank anti-Semitism.

Indeed, the skew in these conflicts and their aims is stark. In the second Chechen war, from 1999 to 2009, perhaps as many as 100,000 civilians were killed. Under relentless Russian bombing, the capital, Grozny, "became a ravaged moonscape," writes New York Times correspondent Carlotta Gall. There were no safe corridors for civilians, no warnings of attacks, no procession of aid trucks from the UN. Almost all the victims were Muslim. Nor was the existence of the Russian Federation ever at stake in this conflict; the Chechens merely sought independence.

In the Syrian civil war that began in 2011 and continues today, more than 300,000 civilians and perhaps as many as 500,000—mostly Muslims—have died from ceaseless bombing, artillery fire, and chemical weapons attacks ordered by Syrian Bashar al-Assad and assisted or carried out by the Russian air force. The death toll includes "at least 14,000 people" who have perished by torture or summary execution in Syrian prisons. "By now almost every war crime and crime against humanity" has been committed in Syria, confirmed Paulo Pinheiro, chair of a UN commission of inquiry, adding that today nearly 17 million people in Syria are in need of food, water, and medical care. Here, too, Again, Assad is not battling to preserve his state's existence, only his own murderous rule.


In China's Xinjiang province, more than 500,000 Uighur Muslims were arrested and imprisoned between 2017 and 2021 as part of China's Strike Hard campaign against Muslim religious practice and cultural identity—a campaign that continues today. 
One million Uighurs have also been subjected to "political re-education" that includes "arbitrary detention, torture, cultural persecution [and] forced labor." The treatment of the Uighurs by Chinese authorities amounts to "a crime against humanity," says the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights. Xinjiang's 11.5 million Muslims are less than one-tenth of 1 percent of China's population of 1.4 billion, so the Uighur struggle for Muslim religious practice and identity could not possibly threaten the security or existence of China.

In contrast to these deadly confrontations, Israel is the only state waging a defensive war for its survival.


Hamas's codified goal is annihilating Israel, killing or exiling its 7 million Jews. That's also the stated policy of Iran, a Muslim country of 89 million people ruled by the country's foremost religious authority, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. Khamenei is yet another Muslim leader responsible for the detention and torture of Muslim women protesters, and whose regime supplies money, weapons, and training enabling Hamas and Hezbollah to murder innocent citizens of Israel, the U.S., and other countries. Indeed, Iran's act of naked aggression now confirms it to be a third source of direct attack, along with Hamas and Hezbollah, in the war of survival forced on Israel by the attacks of
October 7.

The UN's roster of 197 member states includes such violence-prone countries as Afghanistan, Haiti, Rwanda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo—and such unrepentant violators of human rights as Myanmar, Syria, North Korea, Russia, China, and Iran. Yet Israel, a democracy whose Jewish, Arab, and Christian citizens enjoy freedom of speech, religion, and the right to vote, is the only country whose existence is still being challenged, 76 years after independence. Zionism was originally a movement seeking self-determination for Jews and their return to their historic homeland, similar to the independence movements in India, Poland, Ireland, Algeria, Brazil, and dozens of other nations. Today, Zionism is, at its core, an affirmation of Israel's right to exist and of its role as a homeland for Jews.  

Unless American youth take a good look at the world around them, at all of the carnage, and consider the moral imperatives behind why and how a country wages war, they will continue to push geopolitical power toward forces driven to oppress and kill. They will put the United States itself into a weaker position in our ability to maintain our own freedom and act as a beacon and defender of freedom in the world. And they will expose to destruction countless more Muslim lives and sacred sites. Indeed, the only Israeli hurt by Iran's barrage last night was a young Bedouin girl, who is fighting for her life in an Israeli hospital. At the same time, Israeli defenses dramatically intercepted Iranian missiles in the air above Jerusalem's Al-Aqsa Mosque—where Muhammad is held to have journeyed to heaven.

If they maintain such geopolitical myopia, America's youth will become just the latest in history's ponderous ledger of those too morally weak, too willfully ignorant, and too easily led by demagogues to do anything but campaign for dead Jews.


Author's note: Efrem Sigel is the author of two novels as well as op-eds that have appeared in the New York Daily News and The Times of Israel. Hannah E. Meyers is a fellow and director of public safety at the Manhattan Institute.

 

_____________________ 

Efrem's  article, in the NY Daily News, January 25, 2024, p. 20

 

Three Lies About Israel & the Truth 

by Efrem Sigel

 

The worldview of the pro-Palestinian, anti-Israel, anti-Jew protestors massing daily in New York and around the globe, rests on three lies about Israel.   No matter how fervently protestors believe these lies, wave them on signs and chant them in unison, such beliefs fail the simplest of tests: the test of truth.

Lie number 1: The Jewish citizens of Israel are "settler colonialists" with no historical ties to the land of Israel and no right to reside there.


The truth: The Jewish presence in Israel precedes the arrival of Islam by 1,600 years. Dozens of kings of Israel, beginning with Saul, David and Solomon reigned in these areas from 1050 BCE on.  Even after the Roman defeat of the Bar Kochba revolt in 135 CE, which led to the dispersion of Jews throughout the Mediterranean, Jews continued to live in Jerusalem and environs.   The Arab armies spreading Islam by force didn't arrive until the seventh century CE.

Lie number 2: Israel has been oppressing and maltreating Palestinians (and denying them a state) for 75 years.

 

This lie turns reality on its head.  The truth: On November 29, 1947, the UN General Assembly approved the creation of two new states, one Jewish and one Arab, to replace the British Mandate.  Rather than accept their own state, the Arabs set out to destroy the Jewish state. Azzam Pasha, secretary-general of the Arab League warned of "a war of extermination and a momentous massacre."  Immediately following November 29, Arab militias began attacking Jewish towns; on May 15, 1948, a day after Ben-Gurion proclaimed the state of Israel, forces from Egypt, Syria and Iraq invaded.  Some 600,000 Arab residents fled the hostilities, a departure the Palestinians call the nakba, or catastrophe.  The real catastrophe was refusing to accept a state alongside Israel.

Since Israel's victory in 1948, terrorists from Arab countries, Gaza and the West Bank have regularly infiltrated Israel to murder Jews. Between 1949 and now, including the intifadas of the 1990s and early 2000s and the October 7 atrocities, 4,890 civilians have died in terror attacks.  Could there be worse "maltreatment" than Palestinians killing Jews by shooting, stabbing, car rammings, bombings, and most recently, rape, dismemberment and mutilation?

Arab armies also fought two major wars, in June 1967 and October 1973, aimed at annihilating Israel. Instead, they suffered disastrous defeats, losing the West Bank, Jerusalem, and the Golan Heights.

While Egypt and Jordan eventually signed peace treaties with Israel, Palestinian leaders squandered opportunities. In 2000, Yasser Arafat spurned Israeli Prime Minister Barak's offer of a Palestinian state encompassing most of the West Bank and Gaza. In 2008 Mahmoud Abbas declined an even more generous offer.

By rejecting their own state in favor of trying to destroy the Jewish one, Palestinian leaders tolerated, nay, encouraged, violence rather than coexistence, at a horrendous—and pointless—cost in lives.

Lie number 3: Israel is an apartheid state.

 

This is the easiest lie to refute. The truth: the 2.1 million Arab citizens of Israel have rights denied to Arabs in neighboring countries: the right of free speech, the right to education and healthcare, the right to vote   Arab students constitute 20% or more of enrollment at leading Israeli universities.  Arab doctors are 17% of all Israeli doctors. Two of the 15 judges on the Israeli supreme court are Arab citizens. And Israel's Muslims worship freely in 1,600 mosques across the country.

The UN Human Rights Council is notorious for lambasting Israel for alleged human rights violations while ignoring much more egregious violations by Cuba, China and others. Yet even Zeid Ra'ad Al Hussein, former UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, has acknowledged the truth: Israeli Arabs have "freedom of speech, freedom of religion and participation in political life." Mansour Abbas, head of the Israeli Arab political party Ra'am, rejects labeling Israel an apartheid state. "Our fate is to live together," he says, and to choose "peace, security and tolerance" over "fights, conflict, hatred."

It's understandable, if infuriating, that Palestinians indoctrinated in hatred for Jews accept lies as truth.  But what excuse is there for Rep. Rashida Tlaib slandering Israel as an apartheid state? For professor Joseph Massad at Columbia praising Hamas' barbarism as "awesome"?  As for those blocking roadways while chanting "From the river to the sea"—how many know even the basic geography and history of Israel? In a survey of 250 U.S. students., 86% of whom approved the chant, only 47% could correctly name the Jordan river and the Mediterranean.  Some thought the river was the Nile, that the sea was the Atlantic.  Fewer than 25% could identify Yasser Arafat. When asked about the 1993 Oslo Accords, a quarter said no such agreement ever existed.  As Ron Hassner, the UC-Berkeley professor who commissioned the survey, writes in the Wall Street Journal, those orchestrating calls for Israel's destruction count on "the political ignorance of their audiences" to spread their message of hate.

The truth cannot bring back the Israelis slaughtered by Hamas or the thousands of Gazans killed in Israel's response.  But when the fighting ends, honoring the truth and rejecting lies would be a vital first step on a very long road to peace.
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Author's note: Efrem Sigel is the author of "Juror Number 2: The Story of a Murder, the Agony of a Neighborhood" and
the forthcoming short story collection, "Let There Be Light."