"It’s the people, stupid"

by Mike Saslawsky

“It’s the people, stupid.”  An old boss of mine told me that once when we were discussing management styles.  I could say the same thing about what makes Israel so… well…Israel.  To me, it’s not the land or the history, or archeological sites or even the constant state of war, (although all those things have an effect on the inhabitants) it’s the people.  I’ve been in Israel for a little over 2 months now.  That’s not a lot but more than the average visitor, I think.  Upon first arriving here, I was convinced that Israelis were the most obnoxious, rude and inconsiderate people in the world. 

Something’s changed in my perspective over the past month.  Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been having closer interactions with people while at work at my base.  I think, now, that Israelis can be some of the warmest people around.  I have no illusions; I am an outsider here, albeit a welcome one.  Maybe that gives me the opportunity to observe the interactions between Israelis with a “professional” distance.  People shake hands every day like they’ve not seen each other for years.  Everyone hugs one another.  The men and women kiss each other hello and goodbye.  Sometimes even men who are close friends will give each other a peck on the cheek.  Everywhere I look I see people making contact somehow.  Just today while eating lunch in the mess hall I watched two senior NCO’s, (non commissioned officers) men who’ve been in the army for decades, having a shoving match and laughing and having a great time.  When they were both winded they put their arms around on each other’s shoulders and went to get some water.  People lean on each other here, literally. 

Currently I work in an engine refurbishment facility.  Everything from APC’s to American made M-60 tanks and even the top of line Mercava main battle tank.  It’s a large open bay resembling an aircraft hanger.  Dozens of engines are being worked on all the time by dozens of soldiers (and one volunteer).  Every so often a newly overhauled tank will go roaring by outside.  It’s loud and sometimes hot but always fun.  I was totally surprised when one day, as I was sweating my way through yet another greasy starter motor replacement, I felt a tap on my shoulder and saw a cup of soda put in my hand.  A soldier, who doesn’t speak English (or American, there is a difference) smiled at me and said “Drink, drink.”  People look out for one another, at least if they know you.  I hadn’t noticed but everyone was taking a break and having Coke and cookies.   

Last month I was unexpectedly transferred from Tel Has Homer, a base near Tel Aviv.  I went to tell my supervisor that I wouldn’t be able to finish the day and that I would not be back in the morning, or ever.  Amnon is a grizzled character, in his late fifties and with the energy of a tightly wound spring.  I had worked with him for a month, packing medical supplies for soldiers in the field.  My custom is to give the people I’ve come to know as a volunteer a small gift of some sort.  For Amnon I had a small carving of an eagle.  Nothing much, just a token of my respect.  I thought for a second he was going to cry.  He rushed off to write his address and phone number on a piece of paper.  “You can call me and my wife anytime!”  Now I was the one who was touched.

I’ve met some very good people.  There’s Tamara, Miri and Boris, my Madrichot and Madrich at Tel Hoshomer.  Tamara’s from Argentina and off to develop a new training course for incoming Madrichot.  Miri insists I call her every week to let her know I’m OK.  Boris, who’s army service is finished in a month or so.  Naama and Nechama, my Madrichot at Julis.  Naama runs herself ragged taking care of as many as 52 volunteers and managing to find time to talk with me everyday.  Nechama who plans on studying art after her army service is done.  Shirley, a soldier from the education unit who is off to IAF flight school in January.  We spend our time talking airplanes.  My friend Maya who did me the honor of playing her guitar and singing a few songs.  I have a deal with her to shave my mustache if she’ll sing for me again.  There’s Maayan and Benny, young tank mechanics who are always laughing and slapping people on the back.  Amir and Alon, my supervisors at Julis, never pass up a chance to make sure I’m doing OK.  Neither speaks much English but we manage to understand one another.  Then there are the nameless others (I have CRS –can’t remember sh--syndrome) like the congregation leader at the local conservative synagogue who saw me struggling with Hebrew during the High Holiday services and invited me to sit with him so he could help me along.  All the other congregation members who made me feel welcome at the breaking of the fast.  The woman, who, after she learned I didn’t have a place to go for a meal on Rosh Hashana, invited me her home for dinner. 

While walking though the Machane Yehuda in Jerusalem last week, a Border Policewoman made eye contact with me.  At 6’-8” I do stand chest, head and shoulders above the crowd.  I recognized her as the one who searched my backpack as I entered the market (every bag gets searched before entering-no bombs or machine guns allowed in the fruit stands).  She had joked with her partner about the height difference between us.  As we approached she put her hand out towards me.  Not a real handshake, just a touching of fingers as we passed.  Apparently we weren’t strangers anymore.   

I’m coming home in a few weeks and I really have not seen much of the country, but I feel that I have met Israel.  It’s the people, stupid.  And I will miss them.

Mike Saslawsky, Aug - Dec 2002