17/8/98

Poor ol' us

    "You know who's the most discriminated against in the country?" Zelda Harris asked.
    The Moroccans? Ethiopians? Russians? Romanian laborers? Arabs?
    "No. Us."
    The Anglo Saxim? We, who bear this superiority complex among the ingathered exiles?
    At first, because this was Zelda Harris on the phone, I assumed she was talking about discrimination against safe drivers. But no, this time her dander was up over socio-political clout which, in this country, is the only important thing.
    She had read in this column about the American woman who carved a niche as the classic sweet little old lady of advertising, and who had (almost) never been allowed a speaking part because of the taint of an (almost) unnoticeable accent.
    Zelda's been here since '49, and she's still coming up against it. "We [Metuna, the organization she co-founded to change driving behavior] were asked to provide someone to speak on TV about road accidents. And they said to make sure the person didn't have an Anglo accent. Can you imagine!"
    Can you imagine the rumble if someone was asked not to have a Moroccan accent?
    Israelis have a rapacious appetite for Anglo culture, but say "hamburger" instead of "humboorgehr," and they'll snicker behind your back.
    You can name the Anglos of influence in Israel's history on the toes of a three-toed sloth. Golda; Abba Eban; Chaim Herzog. The latter two climbed to lofty rungs, but they never achieved high respect even in their own parties.
    Who've we had in the last generation? Phht!
    Every other sizable ethnic has its lobby, political party, MK or spokesman. When we're slighted, we'd have to hope the American ambassador sticks up for us. Or Tal Brodie.
    Think about it: there's absolutely nobody.
    There is a Canadian in the Knesset -- but he's representing the Russians in a Russian immigrant party, for goodness sake.
    We're so feeble, no party has ever felt a need to include a token Anglo. Problem is, we can't make a stink about it, because as soon as we open our mouths they're laughing at us again. Perhaps we should get a native to campaign for us.     
    Take your dopy accent and go ask an MK for support or funding. He'll direct you to the nearest American millionaire.
    The establishment cannot accept that we've come here to stay. Israelis cannot understand why we've come here to stay. We're perpetually The Temporary Resident, the quirky foreigner making a brave attempt at a stuttering fluency with their language, but always on the verge of going back to where we came from, because we can't find a good hairdresser, or the price of Fluffernutter is too high.
    At a dinner party recently, I overheard this conversation between two former North Americans:
    "Y'know, next week I'll have been in this country 25 years."
    "Think you'll stay?"
    Only the Israelis didn't laugh. They didn't get it.
    We're the do-gooders, the eternal outsiders, a threat to the rule of mediocrity, the bloody-minded dreamers who willingly left homelands they desperately want to go to. We're a constant, irritating reminder of what this country could be, but can't be.
    There ain't much in the way of idealism here anymore, but it's usually those damn Yankees, Drommies, Britim, Canucks and Ozzies at the heart of it. Love 'em or hate 'em, the last vestige of active idealism -- the settlers -- are to an outsized degree Anglos. Women in Green, Women in Black, and what was formerly known as the Women in Red (Metuna's campaigners) are predominantly us. Voluntarism, self-help, conservationism, Project Renewal -- hey, they didn't originate in Poland, Iraq, Russia or Tunisia. Us again: the national freiers.
    But I'll tell you something: I've learned to use it to advantage. I've carefully cultivated my miserable accent, because I've found Israelis are amused by it, and they try a little harder to accommodate me because, nebich, I sound like I just arrived yesterday. I put on a babe-in-the-woods act that usually wins a little pity.
    Still, it doesn't put my kinsmen in the Knesset, or the Municipality. It doesn't provide someone to defend my ethnic honor, such as the time a clerk named Margalit, at the Ministry of Labor, screamed at me to "Get out of here and come back when you've learned to speak proper Hebrew!" It doesn't strike fear in Labor or Likud that there are maybe 100,000 of my ilk, and we want a say.
    The phenomenon hit home at the last great gathering of Anglos, The Event at Wingate in 1995. Yitzhak Rabin came to address us, but was jeered and shouted off the stage by right wingers. In English. Afterwards, one of the organizers apologized to Rabin. "Ah, what do I care," he responded with a dismissive flick of his hand, "they're just a bunch of Americans."