25/8/01

All Steamed Up With No Place To Go

Israelis are always on the go. Which is why this latest scourge is a form of national torture.

    In the UN, at the White House, in all the capitals of Europe, throughout the Arab world, even at CNN, where global policies and diplomatic cliches are carefully crafted, there's a new buzzword pervading the corridors of influence and power. The word represents a stunning reversal of sympathies in the Middle East, a bold new recognition that the people of Israel are innocent victims of barbaric cruelty by the Palestinians.
    Never mind who's right, who's wrong, who started it, or who's responding with excessive and disproportionate force. This, they all admit, is going too far.
    That word, that unspeakable cruelty is, of course, "The Pkak."
    "Pkak in Jerusalem, Arafat Blamed," major newspapers bugled the other day.
    "Middle East tensions soared today when a bomb scare in central Israel created a massive pkak," the BBC said in a bulletin, without even blaming Ariel Sharon.
    In cities plagued by massive traffic jams, like Athens, Bangkok and New York, gridlock is now being blamed on Palestinian terrorism.
    The UN condemned the Palestinians, for the first time in history.
    It's really not so surprising. Throughout the civilized world, people don't get riled about Arab terrorism (it's an accepted fact of nature, like bee stings), but traffic jams really inflame them,  they can identify with this, they understand.
    It's nice to have the world on our side for once, but it doesn't help when you're a victim trapped in the dreaded pkak.

ISRAELI policemen are well trained to deal with mob rage in traffic jams.
    "What's the problem?" you ask, or "How long are we stuck here?" or "Will we get out of here alive?"
    The specially-trained policeman knows, but he knows it's none of your business. "Dunno," he answers. You're lucky to get that much out of him, because after 50 or so idling motorists ask, he won't even tell you that much, as if you should know by now.
    So you do what everyone else does in this terrible situation. You honk. You don't honk because you think it's going to help traffic get moving, you honk because you are an Israeli, and that is how we communicate emotionally, how we express our national yearnings, frustrations, defiance. This used to be done by a blowing a shofar, but how many drivers keep a shofar in the glove compartment?
    (What you don't want is to be stuck in a pkak in front of an immense, foghorn-equipped semitrailer.)
    Eventually, when it becomes apparent that this traffic jam is political (everything in this country is), the thing to do is, turn off your engine, get out of the car, and mingle with your fellow victims to debate the issue.
    "Ah, it's probably just a false alarm."
    "Whatarya, crazy? Is this a false pkak? I have experience with this, it's a bomb."
    "Those *#@%$* Palestinians, ptui!"
    "What makes you so sure it's the Palestinians? Could be the settlers."
    "You *#@%$* leftists, ptui! You'd blame the drought on the settlers!"
    "No, for that I blame the haredim."
    "He could be right, about the settlers. Those bastards from Zo Artzenu do this all the time. This is how they get noticed, by blocking traffic for a few hours. Like, who are they punishing, the Palestinians?"
    "Could be an accident. Or a forest fire."
    "Sure, but whatever it is, the Palestinians are to blame."
    "Maybe the bridge fell again."
    "Palestinian laborers."
    Then, a major new development: a jogger approaches from the opposite direction. He passes 3,000 cars, and 3,000 drivers holler at him: "What's happening?!"
    "Pkak," he shouts back.
    The thing is, Israelis can't just sit around and wait patiently. So much can be accomplished in this time, like giving birth, which is a feature of the Israeli pkak.
    Everyone yells at the cop: "Do something!"
    "What can I do?" he shrugs dumbly. "There's a pkak."
    "I'll boil some water," a big, hairy guy yells, running back to his tender. It's not his first pkak, and he's fully equipped for any emergency; within minutes he's got a kumkum of turkish coffee going. He makes a killing at seven shekels a cup.
    Among the victims are, as the reporters like to say, "innocent women and children." (As if men are never innocent, and it's OK for us to suffer, so it's only a real tragedy if there's innocent women and children involved.) And you know what that means: children get hungry, and women won't let that happen.
    "Do something!" the women holler at their stoic husbands.
    "But there's a pkak," the men explain.
    But it's like it's his fault, this pkak. "Idiot!" the wives snarl, "gimme your cellphone." There's no way he would have thought of this, she grumbles as she calls Domino's. (Mothers always know where the nearest pizzeria is.) "Allo! Bring me two slices onion, two plain, three, no, four mushroom, and hurry, we're dying here." He asks for the address. "We're in the pkak, about 20 cars after the Paz, a white Subaru with a scratch on the outside and three kids on the inside. And a large Coke. For crissakes don't bring it to the wrong car!"
    The delivery boy gets stuck in the pkak (word of this leaks out to the media), but not because his toos-toos can't get through: he's taking orders from 3,000 other hungry drivers.
    This sparks a new conspiracy theory, that the pkak was a plot by Domino's, a classic example of how American capitalists get rich. Though most of the people are still blaming the Palestinians.
    As we say here in Israel (actually, we don't, but we should), "necessity is the invention of mothers." Some of them will plan for a pkak, bringing along a standard pkak pack that includes soup and schnitzel and chips. The Israeli mother, in a snap, can turn a basic Subaru into a fully-equipped kitchen. Her car is idling, the air-conditioner cooling the kids, and the engine heating the food.

I DON'T know how it is in traffic jams in other countries, but here, it's so, I dunno ... so Israeli.
    You got your deadheads who have to play their trance music full blast with the windows open (is there any other way?), so that everyone else can enjoy it too; you got those guys who have to play their whiny oriental music full blast with the windows open (to punish the Ashkenazim for 50 years of subjugation); and you got everybody all heated up because -- even though every full-blooded Israeli craves constant noise -- you never get two people in adjacent cars who like the same music. Besides, everyone's trying to talk on the cellphone, and who can hear anything?
    The cellphone was invented with the Israeli pkak in mind. We'll go on talking until the battery runs out or the pkak clears, whichever happens first.
    In every one of those 3,000 cars (statistically, that would be 4,500 phones) is someone who thinks they're clever and calls the police to ask what's going on over here.
    "There's a pkak," the police explain. "Wait. It'll be OK. Don't worry."
    (I've learned one thing in this country: When an Israeli says "Don't worry," worry.)
    In the Israeli pkak, you will be startled by someone tapping on your window. This will happen many times.
    Many times it will be a beggar. They get advance notice of a pkak, somehow, or else how do you explain that they automatically appear, like maggots on a corpse (l'havdil)? They make a fortune in a pkak, because nobody's driving off so fast, and how many times can you say no?
    Many times it'll be a haredi missionary, shtupping pictures of rabbis and personally blessed amulets at you, free but for a small donation.
    Or it could be a hitchhiker. Israeli hitchhikers don't passively wait for your accepting nod. They wham on your window and make it very hard to say no, because they argue. Alright, that's the way we are.
    Never mind the obvious, that you're not going anywhere; he's damn well not going to walk, and he doesn't mind sitting in your car for a few hours until traffic gets moving again.
    The person tapping on your window could be someone who knows you, or if you're a motek, would like to know you. Many Israeli marriages started off this way.
    Many times it'll be a grubby man with an offer you can't refuse. "Sell your car?" While you're curtly explaining that if the car was for sale there'd be a for-sale sign on it, he's got his head inside your window, inspecting the upholstery and odometer and asking "How much?" as if you never said a thing. He will also argue, and he'll launch right into the bargaining process, "cash-money," he'll offer brightly, making it clear you're expected to get out, take your things, and walk home.
    Actually, if you step outside your car, you'll notice that -- right here in your very own pkak -- dozens of cars are being bought and sold in this way. Guys are kicking other guys' tires, which is acceptable, and their bumpers, which is not. They're kicking the bumpers not to see if they're fastened securely, but because they object to the bumper stickers.
    In this country, everything is political, especially bumper stickers.
    An Israeli will find just the right car, in the right color even, take it for a test drive and decide it's perfect, and then bargain down to a great price. Then he'll check out the exterior (further knocking off a few shekels for each bump and scratch). Then he'll get around to the back, notice the political slogans, and the deal's off. You wouldn't want him marrying your daughter, why would you want to drive his car?
    I can understand this. I, for one, would not drive a car if I can't see out the rear-view mirror because the entire back window is emblazoned "DERI IS INNOCENT"; I would rather my neighbors did not think I was "PROUD TO BE RIFFRAFF"; and frankly, I just don't believe in "PEACE NOW (and the hell with later)" or conversely, "MOSHIACH NOW." The only partiality I show on my bumper is a very small "Montreal Expos." (Which is why I'd have no trouble selling my car, except to a Torontonian, which this grubby man was clearly not.)
    It is a fact that even the worst pkak clears up eventually. But not so fast: because exactly when it gets moving, there's someone knocking on your window:
    "I can't start. Can you give me a boost?"