15/2/99

Me? A politician?

    Psst! Wanna be a Knesset Member?
    Just pick a party (that's the hard part) and call Zvi Rimon.
    "The air is electric with politics, and people believe that the way things are now, out of control, they have a real chance to slip in." Rimon chuckles. "People think Amnon Shahak is sitting and worrying, oy-oy-oy, who will fill our slots?"
    Rimon's eyes crackle with amusement. A media advisor and author of ג€œPolitical Marketing,ג€ he placed an ad in a newspaper offering his services to Israelis looking to get into politics -- and oh, the responses he got.
    "One lady thought all you have to do is call me and poof, you're an MK. A guy called, sounded intelligent, but a little, uh, different. Anglo Saxon accent, Jerusalem area. He says look, I'm starting up a new party that's further right that Kahane. Are you willing to work with us? I said, I didn't know there was anything to the right of Kahane. He said oh yeah, there's us. I said, that's alright, we're professionals, we can work with anybody. He said look, I should mention, we're a messianic party." Rimon grins, and shakes his head in disbelief. "I told him, well, I might have a problem with messianic politicians."
    It sounds a bit fishy, a scam to reel in foolish dreamers. But Rimon was interested only in finding candidates who are serious and prepared -- and prepared for the worst. Of the 100 people who called his Tel Aviv office, he chose five to work with. And he makes it clear to all what their chances are.
    "Just about zero," he admits.
    The people who can best benefit from his services -- which range from copywriting, letters, pamphlets, photography and introductory videos, to image- and confidence-building -- are residents of the periphery, beyond Hadera and Gedera. "They're not well-connected, they're not media-wise, they don't know the insiders, the veterans, they really need help. And not everyone has that kind of money."
    Right. Money.
    "You need $30-50,000 to take a shot in the primaries. In a normal election year, it could take more than $100,000. We charge $150 per hour plus a retainer fee of anywhere from $3,000 to $10,000."
    Then again, Esther Salmovitz made it to the Knesset on a 50-shekel hairdo.
    Three of his chosen five know they have no chance this year -- they want to start preparing now for the next elections. "They say put me on the map. They want to attract attention." Four are men. All live in the periphery. There are four sabras and a North African, average age 35-45, two are university graduates, all are married ("very important"). All have opted for the big parties. None will earn so much as a mention in the newspapers, except in their own fantasies.
    "Mind you," he laughs, "this year we expect at least 50 different parties in the Knesset, so you never know."

ME, I SAY: do I have potential? Could you put me in the Knesset?
    He looks me up and down.
    "If you came to me, I would ask: why do want to go into politics?"
    "Um, because I want to improve the country."
    "And you think you could do that as an MK?"
    "Yes."
    "Now I would try to determine what kind of a person you are: naive idealist, cynical idealist; what kind of engine you have: turbo, or moped. Do you have lightning in your eyes? Are you hungry? If you say 'I'd like to try...' -- forget it. Then, where do you want to run -- big, small or new party?" 
    "Let's say ... Meridor."
    "OK. You want to run with Meridor. Good. Based on the way you're dressed, in Meretz, you'd be fine, for Labor, you like like a shlepper. (I'm wearing a brown corduroy shirt, quite nice, actually.) Then, I'll compare your answers: you may have a great CV for Rehavia voters, but if you want to run in a Kachist party, forget it, you won't get two votes. How do you look to the public?"
    "Well, I'd get a different shirt."
    "Forget the shirt. Are you known? What's your academic background? Your IDF rank? If you're a captain, and your competitor is a lieutenant colonel, sit, relax, you have no chance. You have to make people understand three things: Why you? Why you and not the other guy? Why is it worth voting for you?"
    Now I've got to know. Give it to me straight, I say, I can take it: "Would I have a chance? With my pathetic accent, and my corduroy shirt?"
    He looks me in the eye. "All things considered? Not a chance."

HE'S BEEN doing this work for 15 years: advising people how to get started, helping lower-level politicians advance.
    He hasn't exactly discovered a prime minister in that time.
    Rimon smiles. "No. But I'll tell you a story.
    "About nine months ago, along comes this guy, and he asks me to help him become a mayor. A mayor! I won't tell you who, or where: somewhere in the greater Dan region. This man spoke simplistic Hebrew full of basic mistakes -- and he came here in about 1945! Skinny, little man. He owns a vegetable stall. You're getting the picture, right?
    "And he sat in my office, and he said, 'Zvi Rimon, I'm going to be the mayor.'
    "Hey, I never laugh at anyone who says things like this, never. But this ... this was absolutely pathetic."
    And?
    "He's the mayor!"
    In this fellow's town, he explains, "there are a couple of new neighborhoods filled with 85% academics. He wanted to campaign to them, and asked us to escort him, to help. We agreed, we started for a while, but stopped because of a disagreement over money. We got him going, though. We gave him some sincere words to say about himself. And you know, those Ashkenazim, those yuppies, professors, executives, bankers, he touched them. And he won the elections!"
    Well, sure: he was probably wearing a white shirt.