If You Vote for Biden, You Ain’t Jewish: Joe Biden and the Jewish Vote (Judean Rose)

Disclaimer: the views expressed here are solely those of the author, weekly Judean Rose columnist Varda Meyers Epstein.

Joe Biden, if he hadn’t already lost the Jewish vote, lost it for sure last week. First, Joe spilled the beans to Erin Burnett: he’d already held up a weapons shipment to Israel. 

President Biden tells CNN’s Erin Burnett: “If Israel Goes into Rafah, I’m not giving them the bombs” @JoeBiden @OutFrontCNN #IsraelAtWar #Gaza #HamasisISIS #Rafah Follow the TJNEWS WHATSAPP GROUP 🔗 https://t.co/jesT9DsCP5 TELEGRAM 🔗 https://t.co/x9yrB4rD4X pic.twitter.com/G5JfhXWlNu

— The Jewish Voice (@TJVNEWS) May 9, 2024

Three days later, National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan confirmed that an arms shipment had been delayed. "We have paused a shipment of 2,000-pound bombs because we don’t believe they should be dropped in densely populated cities," said Sullivan according to a report in the Wall Street Journal.

In addition to the "pause" on arms shipments, the Biden administration let slip, one day earlier, that intelligence, too, had been withheld from Israel—intel that might already have led Israel to Sinwar and to the hostages as well, some of whom might still be saved, among them Americans. The Washington Post had the report:

“The Biden administration, working urgently to stave off a full-scale Israeli invasion of Rafah, is offering Israel valuable assistance if it holds back, including sensitive intelligence to help the Israeli military pinpoint the location of Hamas leaders and find the group’s hidden tunnels, according to four people familiar with the U.S. offers.”

The electorate knew what it was seeing. Joe Biden had betrayed an ally and a people. Biden was withholding arms and information. He had concealed critical intelligence for later leverage, and was now using it—carrot and stick—to force Israel to stand down from Rafah.

It was/is not a good look. And it has cost Joe Biden the Jewish vote.

Everyone knows why Joe Biden betrayed Israel—he did it to swing the swing state of Michigan, the state that voted Rashida Harbi Tlaib into office. But if Joe thought that betraying Israel would serve him well in Michigan, he thought wrong. As of this writing, Trump is ahead of Biden in Michigan by 7 points, with Trump at 49 percent, and Joe with 42 percent of the vote. And that’s without looking at how many of those voters are Jews.

But, for argument’s sake, let’s look at that. The Jews are only 2.4 percent of American adults of voting age. Does it really matter if the Jews don’t vote for Biden? Could such a small number of votes make any appreciable difference to an election outcome?

Biden may have weighed this in his mind: the small number of Jews versus the loud clamor of the left, perhaps confusing “loud” with “many.” This would be a grave miscalculation. In Why the Jewish vote matters (2020) Jonathan Sarna writes: "[In] Lincoln’s day, only about five out of every thousand Americans were Jews and today that number may not exceed 20 per thousand, one wonders why anybody cares about Jews’ political proclivities. The 'Jewish vote' would seem far too small to matter."

Sarna says that the answer to this question says much about how American politics work. For one thing, elections are often “dramatically close”:

Tilden vs. Hays (1876), Nixon vs. Kennedy (1960), Bush vs. Gore (2000) – these and other razor-tight presidential elections demonstrate why small groups, like the Jews, often hold considerable sway. When every vote counts, especially in the electoral college, hundreds of thousands of Jewish voters suddenly take on disproportionate significance.

Also, says Sarna, most of the Jews are concentrated in the areas a presidential candidate would want to carry:

Some 85% of Jews live in 20 critical metropolitan areas; the four states with the largest Jewish communities (California, New York, Florida and New Jersey) carry 128 electoral votes of 270 needed to win an election. In addition, numbers of Jews also dwell in historic swing states that often decide American elections, particularly Florida, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. This dramatically elevates the significance of the small Jewish vote.

Sarna puts Jews showing up at the polls in third place (I would have put it first): 

Third, Jews are known to turn out and vote in high numbers on election day — more than almost any other ethnic and religious group. Some 85% of Jews vote in key presidential elections. Asian Americans and Latino Americans, by contrast, turn out at a rate of less than 50%. As a result, although they are but 2% of the population, Jews may approach 4% of the electorate.

Money comes in at last place, from Sarna’s point of view. Maybe it seems a little unsavory, too much like an antisemitic trope to mention it, but campaigns don’t run on air, and the Jews are, in fact, generous:

Finally, Jews contribute to political parties in totally disproportionate amounts. An estimate published in 2016 proclaimed that “as much as 50% of all monies raised by Democratic presidential candidates are from Jewish funders; similarly, 25% of the Republican donor base is comprised today of major Jewish contributors.” So far this year, according to a recent Jewish Telegraph Agency report, 15 of the top 25 political donors in the U.S. are Jewish or of Jewish origin. The Democrats among them have donated over $165 million to their party’s candidates, the Republicans almost $88 million.

Sarna concludes that Jews “punch above their weight in American politics.” Biden would have done well to heed the author's words: “Small as the number of Jewish voters may be, savvy politicians woo them intensely, as they have done since the days of Abraham Lincoln.”

In Six Months Out: The U.S. Presidential Election and America’s Jews, Dr. Steven Windmueller elaborates on the significance of the Jewish turnout: 

Jews vote in exceedingly high numbers; somewhere between 72% to 85% of Jewish voters live in “purple states” (states neither “red” nor “blue”) where the 2024 contest for the control of the Office of the President, the Senate, and the House will be determined, along with several state and local contests. As a reminder for non-American audiences, the Electoral College, not the popular vote, determines the outcome for the White House, where the winner must secure 270 Electoral Votes out of 538 electors.

Approximately 1.8 million Jewish adults, just under one-third of the total Jewish electorate, live in 25 congressional districts. Of the top 25 districts by Jewish population, nearly half are in New York, with ten districts. The remaining districts with large Jewish populations are found in seven states: Florida, California, Illinois, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Florida’s 21st Congressional District, with 152,000 Jewish voters, and New York’s 17th Congressional District, in the Lower Hudson Valley, representing a significantly high percentage of Orthodox voters, constitute the nation’s two largest centers of Jewish voters. Identified below are some key states where the 2024 campaign may play out.

Many analysts believe that at this point, Florida (3.1% Jewish), Texas (.6%), and Ohio (1.3%) are most likely situated in the Republican column for this year’s election (parenthesis indicate percentage of Jewish voters), leaving several other states that are seen to be in play, among them, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Arizona, Wisconsin, Michigan, and North Carolina, collectively these states have 87 of the 270 electoral votes needed to win the White House. In several of these critical states (Pennsylvania and Arizona, and to a lesser degree, Georgia), the “Jewish vote” might be particularly significant in determining the outcomes:

• Pennsylvania – 2.3%
• Arizona – 1.5%
• Georgia – 1.2%
• Michigan – .09%
• Wisconsin – .06%
• North Carolina – .04%

Thane Rosenbaum self-describes as a "die-hard Democrat." But no longer. Not that he’s voting for Trump, mind you, whose name does not appear once in So Long, Democratic Party. No. He’s going to vote Independent. What brought about this volte-face?

For me, the breaking point came with Joe Biden’s shameful CNN interview where he made clear that the United States would not support Israel’s incursion into Rafah to route the remaining Hamas terrorists responsible for 10/7.

Let me get this straight: The United States devoted a decade to hunting down and assassinating Osama bin Laden, killing 250,000 Afghani and Iraqi civilians along the way. No condemning U.N. resolutions. No protests. No International Court of Justice proceedings. All throughout America’s War on Terror, Israel provided necessary intelligence and regional backup, and erected a 9/11 memorial—the only one outside the United States listing the names of all victims.

Yet, the Biden administration is withholding from Israel the necessary weaponry (already earmarked by Congress) with which to conduct its wholly justified military operations? Israel does not require Biden’s blessing. And the precision of the Rafah campaign will now be less precise.

Thane makes very clear, that for him, this is a moral problem, that Joe Biden’s behavior toward Israel is immoral. You can almost hear the writer gnashing his teeth in frustration:

Curiously, the president repeatedly acknowledged that 10/7 was an unprovoked attack for which Israel has a moral and legal right of self-defense, and that Hamas presents an existential threat that must be eradicated. Biden’s “ironclad” commitment to Israel has already gone limp. Apparently, unlike the United States, Israel must be denied its moral obligation to bring justice to its people and security to its borders. It can defend against missiles, but not dismantle them at the source.

Biden’s actions have given comfort to Hamas and its patron, Iran. Why should Hamas return hostages (some, Americans), if Biden is singularly focused on constraining Israeli military offenses?

Moreover, Biden just gave a shout-out to those ignorant college students and their Jew-hating, anti-American professors. Sorry, “Genocide Joe,” asserting your mojo and cultivating a youthful antisemitic constituency won’t help you come November.

Rosenbaum is bitter—to my mind, rightfully so—and concludes—as I do—that it’s all about winning Michigan:

For reasons only rabid progressives can explain, Palestinians, who are more like Hamas accomplices than true civilians, are more precious than the world’s other civilians. Is it because Jews aren’t permitted to win wars, especially against brown-skinned people? The Jewish state must always agree to ceasefires, perform humanitarian acts while fighting in self-defense, and sue for peace.

This betrayal has little to do with moral equivocation and everything to do with local politics. Biden will, apparently, do or say anything to woo the 600,000 Muslim voters of Michigan, and stay within the good graces of that dreadful Detroit Motown act, Bernie Sanders and the Squad. . .

. . . In the end, Joe Biden picked the Muslims of Michigan over moral clarity, a coherent foreign policy, and love of country. Yes, he’s increasingly addled. But he well knows that Jewish-Americans, or Jewish-Israelis, are highly unlikely to ever burn an American flag and shout, “Death to America!”

Thane is not alone in supporting Israel’s right to defend itself against Hamas. Back in December, a poll commissioned by the Israel on Campus Coalition found that over 80 percent of American Jews support what Israel is doing in Gaza, and wants these operations to continue:

American Jews are overwhelmingly united in support of Israel continuing its ground operation in Gaza and also approve of President Joe Biden’s response to the war, according to a new survey commissioned by the Israel on Campus Coalition.

The poll, conducted by Schoen Cooperman Research (SCR), found that 81% of American Jews support Israel continuing its military operation to “recover all Israeli hostages and remove Hamas from power.” Only 12% of respondents said they preferred “an immediate ceasefire to save Palestinian lives, even if that means “Israeli hostages aren’t recovered and Hamas remains in power.”

“We’re hearing increasing cries nationally for a ceasefire, and examples of American Jews who are against Israel’s retaliation of Hamas. That was the impetus for doing the survey, to hear where American Jews actually are on this,” Carly Cooperman, CEO of SCR, told JI.

By tradition, Jews vote Democrat as a block, but this election will be different. The viciousness of the attacks on October 7, followed by ever-increasing overt antisemitism seemingly in every sphere and in every country, have brought about a radical change. The Jewish people are no longer so divided on the question of Israel, or even on what it means to be a Jew. The Jews have closed ranks, and now they’re turning their backs on Biden. Joe’s latest perfidy against the Jewish state was likely the coups de grâce.

Thane Rosenbaum isn’t the only “die-hard” Dem who has withdrawn his support for Biden. Outspoken Israel supporter, actor Michael Rapaport has declared that not only will he no longer stump for or vote for Joe Biden, he may even vote for Donald Trump, a man he abhors.

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A post shared by Michael Rapaport (@michaelrapaport)

In the run-up to the previous election, Joe Biden famously (and offensively) told black people that if they vote for Trump, it means they aren’t black, "If you have a problem figuring out whether you’re for me or Trump, then you ain’t black.”

This time around, at least one minority will require no ignorant, bigoted declarations to tell them how to vote and who they are. With his latest double-stab in the back to Israel, Joe’s actions speak louder than any words might do. 

The Jews have figured it out. Those who vote for Biden, ain’t Jewish. 

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Buy the EoZ book, PROTOCOLS: Exposing Modern Antisemitism  today at Amazon! Or order from your favorite bookseller, using ISBN 9798985708424.  Read all about it here!

 

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The Rafah Refugees: Why Won’t Egypt Let Them in? (Judean Rose)

Disclaimer: the views expressed here are solely those of the author, weekly Judean Rose columnist Varda Meyers Epstein.

Photos of Rafah refugees fleeing however they might—by car, on foot, by bundle-laden donkey-driven carts—were everywhere yesterday, the unseasonable rain adding a poignant touch of pathos to their plight. The parents looked grim for the photos, while the children seemed cheerful enough, with smiles on their faces. They were leaving Rafah. It was an adventure.

The much-anticipated IDF operation in Rafah had already begun if you count the evacuation of some 100,000 Rafah civilians to a new humanitarian zone created just for them. For the refugees, it would be no picnic, obviously, but there would be “field hospitals, tents, and increased provisions of food, water, medicine, and other supplies,” said the Jerusalem Post.

Some of the refugees attempted to cross into Egypt, to no avail. They were turned away by the Egyptian military, who had beefed up their presence and level of preparedness along the 12-kilometer border between Gaza and Egypt.

You read that right: Egypt shares a border with Gaza. If you look at a map, you will see it is true.

(Red line: border fence between Rafah and Israel. Brown line: border line between Rafah and Egypt.)

But Egypt will not provide a haven for the desperate-to-leave Gazan civilians. Not unless they pay a fee of anywhere from $5,000-$12,000 a head.

Most refugees don’t have that kind of money.

A touching Ynet piece, 'We hate Hamas like we hate Israel': the Palestinians who managed to flee Gaza, shares the stories of various Gazans forced to relocate—in some cases, more than once—as a result of the war Hamas started on October 7:

The procedure of leaving Gaza went on for days. In the first stage, Dr. Mukhaimer Abu Saada, who lived near the upscale Al Rimal neighborhood, was forced to move with his wife Rosanne and his children to Khan Younis where he found shelter at a relative’s apartment. Two weeks later, IDF forces told the area’s residents to move to Rafah where the man, who until recently was head of the department of political science at Al-Azhar University, huddled with his family in a tent in appalling conditions.

Only then did they receive word and the family reported at the border crossing. They waited in line. Someone had made sure to pay $8,000 per person. Only then were they granted a permit to cross into Egypt. “It was a nightmare,” he says in an interview from his new home in Cairo. “We didn’t know until the last minute whether we’d be able to get out of there.”

Despite the upheaval, Dr. Abu Saada is considered one of the lucky ones. Since the start of the war, very few Gazans have managed to leave the bombed and burning Strip. Some only passed via Egypt en route to Europe or Arab countries that had agreed to take them in. Others have settled in Egypt. The transition cost a great deal – amounts of money most Gazans could only dream of . . .

 . . . Since November, when the Rafah crossing opened for around-the-clock activity, 600 Palestinians holding dual nationality have managed to leave the Gaza Strip. Then came the privileged, like Abu Saada, whose people paid for their departure. At the moment, it’s the rich who can get out. At first, they paid $8,000 per person. The price then dropped to $,5000 and it’s now risen to $10,000 (children paying $2500). The permit arrives at night and is only stamped the following day. If you miss that window of opportunity, you have to start the process all over – with increments of thousands of dollars per person. Only a few dozen people have so far managed to get out in this way. . .

 . . . Like Abu Saada, M., along with five family members, managed to make it to Cairo. “We were lucky,” she says, “we only paid $5,000 per adult and $2,000 per child. The price is now twice that.” She doesn’t want to disclose her complete name, and definitely not to an Israeli newspaper. “Yes, I’m in Egypt in a safe place, but I have first- and second-degree relatives in Gaza and I need to think of them.”

The Rafah civilians should be safe in the humanitarian zone created for them by Israel—unless Hamas finds a way to use them as human shields. But the homes they left may very well be reduced to dust. Hamas is behind that—behind all of the death and destruction. The rapists have wormed their way through Gaza every which way: from belowground in tunnels, and from aboveground, too, embedding itself in apartment buildings, schools, and hospitals.

Hamas makes extensive use of human shields, putting civilians in harm's way to shield itself. It’s a very effective tactic from the terrorists’ perspective. Hamas hides behind the civilians, and the IDF holds its fire. In this cruel manner, civilians provide the perfect protection for Israel's real nemesis: the Hamas rapist cowards.

When, however, Gaza civilians do get caught in the crossfire and subsequently die, it's a win-win proposition for Hamas. There’s nothing quite like photos of dead Gazans to demonize Israel and further Hamas aims. The photos are framed in such a way as to take the onus off the true culprit, Hamas, for  the Gazan death and destruction, while shifting the blame onto Israel. 

The AP and Reuters, of course, just lap this stuff up. It’s what their audiences crave most: Israel as murderer without mercy, the Gazans as poor innocent lambs. That’s the media narrative and they're sticking to it. And it is this narrative that continues to empower and embolden Hamas, who holds not only Israelis hostage, but the people of Gaza, too.

One might have thought, if one were inclined to think, that among the 22 Arab nations, there’d be one or two that might take pity on the people of Gaza, and absorb and resettle at least some of them, and on their own dime. They share a common language along with the same culture and religion as the fleeing refugees. Yet, not one of these 22 Arab countries will let them in. That’s a lot of places that might extend a charitable hand to the Gaza refugees, but fail to do so.

Of course, one cold-hearted country stands out from among the rest in regard to its lack of concern over the plight of its Gazan brethren, and that country is Egypt. Egypt shares a border with Gaza. And all Egypt has to do is open its gates and heart to its Arab brothers and sisters—the ones who will die if it doesn’t.

But it won’t.

There are many reasons why Egypt won’t take in its kin—won’t take in its own. But we won’t go into that here. Instead we will talk about the shame of it. How shameful it is that Egypt won’t take in its own people.

Confronted with this truth, those plugging the anti-Israel narrative have a rote response at the ready, "What does Egypt have to do with any of this—this Hamas war with Israel?"

Actually, quite a lot. Beginning with the fact that many if not most Gazans are of Egyptian heritage.

"Masri” is slang for "Egyptian" and according to “Palestinian Tribes, Clans, and Notable Families,” a prominent surname in Gaza:

Notable Families

The third clan-like grouping in Palestine in the urban elite notable family, a social formation typical throughout the Arab lands of the Ottoman Empire. Many of the most well known and prominent Palestinian families come from this notabsle, or a’yan, social class: Husayni, Nashashibi, Dajani, Abd al-Hadi, Tuqan, Nabulsi, Khoury, Tamimi, Khatib, Ja’bari, Masri, Kan’an, Shaq’a, Barghouthi, Shawwa, Rayyes, and others. These are extended families that dominated Palestinian politics until the 1980s, and are still relatively prominent today.

The preponderance in Gaza of the surname “Masri” (also “al-Masri” and other variations), betrays the Egyptian origins of a large number of Gazans. They’re the same people of the same stock; they’re Egyptians. But Egypt shares more than blood ties with Gaza. Egypt shares a border with Gaza, something the stupid don’t know when they talk about Gaza being an “open-air prison”

There are TWO ways in and out of Gaza, two shared borders. One with Israel and one with, Egypt, from whence the people of Gaza come. The Egyptians are their family, their kin.

But kids these days. These ignorant protesting dummies on college campuses, so drunk with genocide cool aid, that they haven’t even looked at a map. How could we expect them to do a bit of digging, apply some critical thought to the idea that they're fighting for—to look at the clues contained in the surnames of the people they claim are subject to Israeli genocide? It's their own family who won’t let them in!

Smart people know better than these campus idiots because they bother to look at a map, and investigate the facts. They see how shameful this is, how Egypt, only steps away from Rafah, should be ashamed of itself. That’s what intelligent people know to think when they see photos in the media of the sad and grim refugees set to wandering yet again. 

It’s what we should all be thinking and asking out loud: Why won’t Egypt give refuge to its brethren? Why won’t it save its own people? Why has Egypt trapped the people of Gaza in an open-air prison even now, when it counts most, when the homes and lives of the Gazan people of Rafah, lie in the balance?

History will not be kind to Egypt for its despicable behavior toward the people of Rafah. All will be noted and recorded, a new black mark on the reputation of Egypt, the country that once oppressed the Jews and now oppresses its own.

It's a shameful thing, a shonda. 

For shame, Egypt. 

For shame.

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Buy the EoZ book, PROTOCOLS: Exposing Modern Antisemitism  today at Amazon! Or order from your favorite bookseller, using ISBN 9798985708424.  Read all about it here!

 

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Screams Before Silence: The Proof the Evil will still deny (Judean Rose)

Disclaimer: the views expressed here are solely those of the author, weekly Judean Rose columnist Varda Meyers Epstein.

I watched Screams Before Silence* just before the final leg of the Passover holiday. I didn’t know whether I should. After all, I totally believe my recent cardiac arrest was due to the extended anguish of hearing about the atrocities of this war, and due also to thinking about what is still happening, right now, to our hostages. It has been unbearable for months, thinking these thoughts, and then chiding one’s self: ‘You think the thought is unbearable??’

Then you feel guilty for imagining that you suffer at all, for what is only in your mind, in light of what happened, is happening to them, still.

I reason with myself: ‘You shouldn’t watch—it’s almost candle-lighting time. Do you really want to go into the holiday with such darkness in your mind and heart?’

I knew the answer. That I shouldn’t watch Screams Before Silence right then, at that time. It would definitely be completely inappropriate to do so, as one is meant to be happy on a holiday. But I couldn’t help myself—I felt compelled to watch this documentary. It was a need, but also something to dread. I knew it would be bad, hard-to-watch bad.

There was time to watch all but maybe the final fourteen minutes of the documentary, so I reasoned some more: ‘I have an obligation to know, to bear witness, to internalize what happened—happens still. For me as a Jew. They are my people, a part of me.’

So I anyway watch what I can before the sun goes down. It is hard to watch and listen. I cry out, “Oh, God!” several times.

You can’t help it if you’re human.

Did watching Screams Before Silence color my yontif, my holiday? Of course it did. But I managed. By now these terrors, as well as expecting to hear of new terrors every day, are a part of life. Holiday happiness is, at any rate, for the time being, muted.  

From time to time, my mind flitted back to what Dr. Cochav Elyakam-Levy, Head of the Civil Commission on Oct. 7th Crimes by Hamas against Women and Children, had to say about the sexual violence of October 7:

This is a kind of pattern we’re seeing, that it’s not just sexual abuse, but it’s sexual abuse in its worst form. It’s like they wanted to inflict pain, in the cruelest manner possible. I think they have redefined evil and in ways that we will need to redefine international criminal law.

Then I would think back to somber recitation of the ZAKA volunteer, of how again and again, they saw the same thing. Hundreds of times. Perhaps more.

When you see one woman, then another and another, all with signs of abuse in the groin area, you understand that this wasn't a random thing. You can't reach that area unless you mean to. It's someone who has come to do different kinds of things to you.

If he doesn't have time, he'll just kill you. If he has a little time, he'll slit your throat. If he has more time, he'll cut off body parts. And if he has even more time, he'll also cause pain and defile, especially if it's a woman. He'll defile her body, not for pleasure but for humiliation. And that's what we saw.

 

ZAKA volunteer, screenshot from Screams Before Silence

After the holiday, and after I did my share of post-Passover tasks, I watched the last 14 minutes of Screams Before Silence. Then I thanked Sheryl Sandberg—on youtube, on X—we had all been waiting for this film, we needed this film, but she went and actually did it. She made the film.

We need this film to make the world understand. We need it to educate college protesters who don’t even know why they are protesting. After seeing Screams Before Silence, could these same young women continue to ally themselves with who yell, “We are Hamas!”?

🚨VIDEO: A REAL interview we had at NYU:

QUESTION: "Why are you protesting?"

PROTESTER #1: "I don't know. I'm pretty sure there's something about Israel [turns to other person] Why are we protesting?"

PROTESTER #2: "I wish I was more educated."

PROTESTER #1: "I'm not either." pic.twitter.com/8aB2ZoTCCk

— Rudy W. Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) April 24, 2024

We needed the film for the people who say it didn’t happen. For the people who say there were no rapes.

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A post shared by Keren Picker (@keren_picker)

And yet, it doesn’t help. Films, photos, testimony, proof of all sorts. None of it matters. They want to believe—choose to believe—whatever fits the narrative they, the haters, prefer to, want to believe.

Some believe the atrocities happened and are exhilarated by them.

 

They feel Israel/Zionists/Jews deserve atrocities and genocide—they can justify it however they like. They can say we are white Europeans who should go back to Poland or Russia, even though so many of us in Israel in particular, are dark.

Erasing both history and archaeology, they say we stole land from people who were here before us. The truth inversion continues when the liars claim that Jews do to Arabs what Arabs do to Jews, only worse. They will show you a 15-year-old photo of a dead Syrian child and curse the “criminal” Zionist soldiers, implying that to love your country is a crime. If you’re a Jew.

And when you say, “They burned a baby in an oven,” they will smugly smile and say, “That was disproven.”

You can try saying, “It was NOT disproven. It happened,” but all they will do is laugh at you.

“Where’s the proof?” they will say, and you can do nothing, can show them no proof, because that would be wrong.

There are photos, I always tell them, but you can’t see them. And that’s out of respect for the victims. For goodness sake, what have they left if not for their privacy? Do they have to forever be imagined in the world’s collective mind as naked and defiled? Like Shani Louk?

They gave that photo an award. The world lapped it up like a cat with a bowl of cream. They love it when the Jew gets it. They don’t care how.

They don’t even care that they contradict themselves. There are no photos. Give the photo an award. Which of those two statements is true?? Of the widely shared photo of Shani Louk, the antisemites make excuses, because it suits their narrative. “One rape, pffft.” they will say. “That’s your proof of systematic mass rape? One rape?? One rape is nothing compared to what Zionist soldiers do to Palestinian women in Gaza every day.”

They know that’s a lie, a convenient lie. It’s so ridiculous it makes you shake your head in disbelief. It takes your breath away by its sheer, evil chutzpah. The lie serves their purpose. It allows them to look the other way when Arabs rape and deface Jewish women. They twist the truth back on you and tell you the opposite is true.

It’s not just a boldfaced lie about soldiers (who are moral, that you care about)—it’s an aggression. They are raising you one—raising the stakes as if in a game of poker, lying right in your face/computer screen that it is Israel who is the criminal, while Hamas terrorists and their sympathizers are sweet angels, having a “justifiable” moment of rage.

Now some of these people—these liars—are truly evil. Others, we must acknowledge, are merely stupid.

So we needed this movie, and we didn’t need it. Because the film purposely does not display the really graphic images. “Out of respect for the victims and their families,” reads the text at the end of the film, in plain white letters on a stark black background, “we chose not to show explicit images in this film.”

Instead we see Sheryl Sandberg reacting to such images as they are shown to her on the phone screens of ZAKA volunteers. We watch her face as she looks at each photo and hears the volunteers describe she is seeing, what happened to each woman, all that was done to her. If you’ve got a heart and a soul, you don’t need more than you are shown in Screams Before Silence to visualize what happened, and believe it to your core. It is awful. It is the truth.

The Jew-haters on the other hand, will not be persuaded. They will keep on saying, “Screenshot or it didn’t happen.”

Those are the haters. But what about the stupid, the sheep like students caught up in the spirit of the thing, which they confuse with a spirit of justice? Perhaps they have a chance, the stupid, could be educated, if they watch this documentary.

Because the documentary rings true. You know it’s true when the women say they fear rape more than death, and when a grown man, a man big and burly, says “No one can see those kinds of things,” and then breaks into sobs.

Sometimes I think that if I could, I would show the ugly-hearted, Jew-hating campus protesters October 7^th footage on a loop. Such footage, after all, abounds. The terrorists themselves used their go-pros to document their own horrors. This footage is not hard to find. So I was excited when I read just this morning that an anonymous someone had done just that.

Played October 7^th footage to protesters. In a loop. On a big, outdoor screen. 

An anonymous group has funded and constructed a giant screen with loudspeakers outside the @UCLA Pro-Hamas Encampments showing footage of the October 7 Massacre on loop.

Bravo to these geniuses. #StandWithIsrael pic.twitter.com/t6bl12gvxl

— The Persian Jewess (@persianjewess) April 29, 2024

 Awesome!

Or is it? If the crowd prefers to jeer over allowing tragedy to move them, will it even matter—will it matter what you show them? No. They’ll invert the truth. Laugh at you. Say the footage is “heavily edited” or a photo is “obviously photoshopped”. Whatever lies they can throw at you, they will. That’s the game.

But we’re not playing. For us, it’s not a game. We have a duty to bear witness to the systematic torture of, and sexual violence against Jewish women by Hamas deviants, and so I remain grateful to Sheryl Sandberg. Screams Before Silence is a film that helps us to recognize Hamas for what it is, be firm in our resolve to eradicate this evil, once and for all, from our world. October 7^th was a concerted, premeditated attack against the Jewish people via its women.

As we watch and listen to protesters deny the obvious truth of Screams Before Silence, it will become easier and easier to see that they out themselves, and for us to distinguish between the humans and everyone else.

Humans will care. The evil will not. And should be eliminated from God’s green earth.

*Elder of Ziyon beat me to the punch with his excellent and concise take on the subject, Screams Before Silence, the documentary with select quotes from journalist Brett Stephens. 

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The Longest Pause: My Cardiac Arrest and Me (Judean Rose, Part III)

I slid off the chair to the floor, but I know nothing of this. I am gone. Only later do I ask Dov, my husband, how it happened. “Slid” was his word. “You slid off the chair onto the floor,” said Dov.

“Did I hit my head?”

“No, the medics kind of caught you and eased you down to the floor.”

“Then what happened?”

“The MDA guy immediately started compressions,” says Dov, with some awe in his voice. He is obviously impressed with the grace and speed with which this impromptu team of medics sprang into action.

I chew this over for a few days, this scenario, as described to me by my husband.

Slowly more questions occur. “What did I look like?”

“You were white,” his voice catches.

I hear that it is too difficult for him to speak about it—he had watched me die. Still, I have to ask. “Like all-over white? Were my lips white?”

“You were completely white,” he says.

I take mercy on him and table my questions. For now.

As for what I remember, it was this. I knew nothing. Not a thing. And then I was aware of blackness, and slowly color came, pixelated at first, and stole over the blackness and I heard, “Varda, Varda!” my husband’s voice, and the medics’ voices, and someone was slapping my face, and the MDA guy said. “Varda, your heart stopped for two seconds. You are going to the hospital.”

“No, no. I don’t want to go.”

Basically, at this point, I was not compos mentis. I think I hadn’t been for much of the time the medics were with me, because if it had really been a money thing—my mind would have long been at rest. The medics called MDA in spite of me, which already meant I was off the hook for payment. And now that my heart had stopped, there was no way I would not be admitted, which meant I would not have to pay for an ER visit. It is therefore impossible for me to explain the true reasons for why I continued to protest. “Is it about the money, or something else?” asked the MDA guy as I continued to protest.

“It’s the money . . .” I said.

“Ah ha! Varda,” said the MDA guy,” you are not going to have to pay. Your heart stopped.”

 “. . . and my husband,” I said, in a feeble voice. “He needs me to take care of him,” but no one heard me. They were too busy strapping me onto a stretcher in preparation to take me out of our apartment for transport in the ambulance.

“I’m sorry. I’m so heavy,” I said, embarrassed.

“You’re not so heavy,” said the MDA guy.

As they take me out of the apartment, I see the sky is no longer dark, as it had been when I awoke that morning. More embarrassment, thinking of the neighbors on our quiet street, waking up to the ruckus of medics loading someone in crisis (me) into an ambulance. I feel bad to be the cause of this too early, too noisy, rude awakening.

I am in the ambulance, and as we drive away, I feel as though I am flailing from side to side, unmoored. “But how will I keep from falling?” I say aloud.

“Don’t worry,” says Elisheva the medic, who is also my friend. “We strapped you in very well. You can’t fall.”

It didn’t feel like it. I didn’t feel the straps, but I trust Elisheva. There is no place to look but up, so I do. I am looking at the interior of the roof of the ambulance. Everything is as if in brownout. Then suddenly the brown lifts away and the “ceiling” looks bright white. “I feel better!” I cry out.

Elisheva says, “Good, good!” encouraging me. Then the brownout returns. This happens several times. Each time the foggy, beigey brown clears to white, I say, “I feel better!” surprised. Relieved.

Each time, Elisheva says, “Good!”

At some point during the ride to the hospital, I wonder why this is happening to me. And then I know. It is October 7. It is the atrocities, the war, the ongoing situation with the hostages. I lift my head and look at Elisheva, “The hostages,” I cry to her, knowing she will feel me. “I can’t bear it,” I say and both she and the MDA guy look at me, and the brownout comes once more.

It was the most alive I had felt since this whole thing began. And I knew that what I had promised would not happen, had happened.

At the start of the war I had said to myself, “I will not let Hamas break me,” and now it had. I had broken. It had been too much for me. I was human, flesh and blood. It was too much for a body to bear and not be overcome. I had suppressed it too much. Had tried to, anyway.

I had vowed not to write about the atrocities, not to play the poor us card before the world. I talked “around” the harshness, the hideousness of Hamas and what they had done and continue to do, in my columns. I wrote about rape fear, rather than rape. I wrote about Gazan support for Hamas; the “ceasefire deal with the devil;” the dirty money trail that led to October 7^th; the fickleness of Joe Biden in regard to his (non)support for Israel; and so on and so forth. Anything but to talk about women raped until finally dead, their legs that could not be closed, but stood at odd angles, broken. Raped front and back, the men, too. Women raped in front of their husbands, husbands raped in front of their wives. Daughters, sisters, children in front of parents, in front of each other. Sights and sounds that would haunt the survivors, the few of them that remained, forever.

I vowed not to write about any of this, even as it ate me from inside. I knew it was eating me from inside. But it was not fair for me to be feeling this. I was not the one suffering. The suffering belonged to the raped, the murdered, the decapitated—those who could no longer feel, and those who felt still, wherever they were, in the depths of some tunnel suffering unimaginable horrors.

I remember the day I heard about Hamas baking a baby in an oven. I was in the car with my husband when I read it on X, and I cried out. “What?” asked my husband.

But I could not tell him. First because I was too consumed with the pain, the thought of the baby and what it experienced, and then because I knew it was too upsetting to share. It was something that was new to me. It had obviously just come to light. I didn’t want anyone else to have to know this—to have to live with this knowledge of the baby, in the oven, and what it experienced. Even now, I can’t write about it without crying.

I moaned and cried in the car the whole way home, telling my husband, “You don’t want to know. It’s too awful. It’s too awful.”

He understood I had heard about an atrocity just come to light and he said I was right. He didn’t want to know. So I moaned and wailed the whole way home. I couldn’t stop. I cried about this on and off for days. Couldn’t, shouldn’t wipe it out of my mind, and it ate away at me and ate away at me. But I did not deserve to have this pain, I thought. It wasn’t about me, but about the victims. I had no right to make it about me.

Years ago, when my column was hosted on a different platform, it was understood that the terror victim beat was mine. I had a knack for making people feel the horror, for making it real, for making the victim real, someone the reader had never met. I had a knack for making women cry, reading my words.

And it began to feel icky, to feel exploitative. I didn’t want to have thousands of pageviews only when I wrote about tragedy that didn’t feel as though it rightly belonged to me. It was a writerly trick, no more. I stopped. I didn’t want to do it anymore.

Plus, I have to say it affected me. I took it to heart. I thought about the victims all the time. I dreamt of them. I carried them with me. It hurt my heart. My heart. And finally my heart stopped. It had had enough, had broken.

Hamas had, indeed, broken me. Broken my heart.

Several times a day I think about the hostages and the victims of October 7, and my eyes well up with tears. “No! It’s not about YOU,” I chide myself, though I know that this is my people and I too, own the sorrow and the tragedy.

And yet something inside me feels guilty for imagining that I know anything at all about what these people, MY people had suffered—even now continue to suffer! I can picture it all in my writer’s mind. I’m a creative. I picture everything in “living color,” the full horror of it all. I hear the sounds, the flames, the screaming, I picture the baby. I can’t, I can’t.

***
In the ER, Elisheva sits by me as I go in and out of that strange brownout. “How long is this going to take,” I ask her. “I need to get home to take care of Dov.”

“You’re not going to be taking care of Dov, now.”

“But he just had surgery!” I moan.

“You’re not going to be caring for Dov. And you’re not going to be cleaning for Pesach.

I continue to protest.

“Varda, this is serious,” she says.

Finally, I get it. Just as I finally understood that I had to go in the ambulance—had to go to the hospital. I lie back. I accept it for what it is. I died.

“You weren’t with us for a while,” says Elisheva, “You were lucky you were awake when it happened.”

***

The day the war breaks out, I awaken to the noise of war. Booms. Artillery. I know what I am hearing. My husband comes home from shul to tell me what he knows. But he sees that I know and understand that we are at war.

Not that I did know or understand. I could not have imagined the full horror of it all. No one could have imagined it except for the sick minds of the black-souled terrorists who perpetrated deeds the Devil himself could not imagine and would never have contemplated.

My youngest begins getting ready to go back to base. His elder brother says, “What’s with all the panic? Slow down,” and I hear the younger say, “You don’t understand!” and then whisper something about thousands of terrorists on the loose, terrible things happening, terrible.

He gets ready to go, and as he’s going down the walk to his car, the sirens go off and we make him come back in to go into the safe room. Finally, he is able to leave with whatever food I can pack for him in a hurry.

Later, as the holiday comes to a close, the other son says to me, “Don’t listen to the news. I’m telling you, Eema. Don’t listen to the news.”

Telling me not to listen to the news is like telling me not to breathe the air, not to drink water. I am all about the news. “Don’t do it, Eema,” he says, my son, so wise beyond his years. “It’s not just the war on the battlefield. There’s also the psychological war. They want to break us, Hamas.”

That stays with me. “Hamas wants to break us.”

I vow that Hamas will not break me. I say it to myself all day long—say it until I am blue in the face. But invariably, I hear things on the news. I cannot live under a rock. I need to know what is going on. And I hear terrible things. Things that break me more and more.

Each time I chide myself. “How dare you make it about you? How dare you,” but I can’t stop it from eating away at me. It nibbles at my heart, at the very core of me.

Sometimes I listen to the testimonies of the survivors obsessively. I can’t stop. I also cannot bear to hear them. “You’re not the only one,” I tell myself. “Everyone in the country feels what you feel. Everyone. And the survivors have it far worse—feel it far worse than you ever could”

But the hostages? How can I not feel this? The scenarios of what is happening to them come to me unbidden. I can’t help it. I picture it all. I picture it all. I cannot stop.

And it eats away at me, at my heart, until my heart says “ENOUGH,” and stops on a strange dark morning.

I don’t really understand why, after it stops, my heart once more begins to beat, except that God puts this instinct to live in all of us. We live, sometimes with terrible knowledge, in spite of ourselves. Whether or not we feel we can bear it all—all that life throws at us.

Later, in the hospital, the doctor comes to tell me that my heart stopped for 30 seconds. He seems impressed by this number. My son who accompanies me to the hospital trades glances with me. We’d gone from the two seconds cited by the MDA guy to 30.

That was in the ER.

Sometime after I am moved to the Intensive Care Cardiac Unit, another doctor comes and says, “You had a ‘pause’ of 40 seconds.”

My son and I look at each other, both of us thinking, “First two seconds, then 30 seconds, and now 40??”

The doctor nods. “Yes,” he says. “I counted it. There was a lot of ‘noise’ on the EKG but I counted it myself and it was 40.”

We can see this is a long time from his perspective—that he is impressed by this number.

Actual screenshot from my hospital release letter detailing the 40-second "pause."

The next morning, the ward cardiologist comes to see me and he explains that there are pauses, long pauses, and very long pauses. Mine was apparently impressively long. “That is a LOOOOONG pause,” the white-haired physician tells me, adding that in his entire career, he had never seen such a long “pause.”

After many days and much testing—the tilt test, a shot of atropine, an MRI—the doctors decide to put in a pacemaker. The local anesthetic doesn’t work, and I scream as the knife slices into my flesh. “This is nothing,” I tell myself on the table, “compared to what the hostages are suffering, compared to what the victims of October 7 suffered.”

I am certain Hashem is giving me just the smallest taste of what they felt/feel in their agony. Just the tiniest taste, so that I will have some understanding, just a glimpse of what they went through, are still going through. They deserve that, the victims and survivors. They deserve for us to know and to feel it, too.

Our people, a part of us. A part of my own flesh, my own blood, my own people, my nation. My heart. I hope that in some way, my experience on the table will serve as a kapara against whatever sins had brought this down upon our people. “This is my exchange, this is my substitute, this is my atonement.”

Once home, I ask two cardiologist friends, “What’s the longest ‘pause’ you’ve seen in a patient.”

One says, “Ten seconds,” the other says, “Ten, maybe 15 seconds. Three seconds earns you a pacemaker, he adds.”

Neither one had seen a 40-second pause.

When I go back for my two-week checkup, the doctor squints at me, trying to place me. I say, “I’m the one with the 40-second pause,” and she remembers the case immediately, if not my face. What was my face to these physicians? I was a “pause.”

The longest pause they had seen. I was a miracle: In spite of Hamas, and almost in spite of myself, I lived.

Hamas broke me, but didn’t break me, because I lived.

My heart is not the same and there is lasting damage, yet I live to tell the tale.

I live.

Because that is what the Jewish people do. We live and outlive our enemies. And there is not a thing they can do about it. It’s ordained by someone far more powerful than Hamas. And Hamas will come to know this as the flames begin to lick at their feet for all eternity.

No one can best Hashem. No one. The Jewish people will dust themselves off, never forgetting what has been done to them, and they/we will continue to live.

Our God is more powerful than Hamas, than even the worst that Hamas can do to us. The evil ones will never, ultimately, win.

As for me, my heart will never be the same, and that is only right. I am not stone, should not be stone when my/our people are suffering. 

Now I know: it’s not that my heart betrayed me. I had to break, a least a little. My injured heart proved to me that I am human, something that Hamas will never be.

Earlier: Part I: Varda wakes up, and begins to feel truly ill, and Part II: The medics arrive.

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The Longest Pause: My Cardiac Arrest and Me (Judean Rose, Part II)

I am on the phone with Hatzalah, faint, one hand on the tile floor to steady me. I just want to lie down and feel the cool tile on my face. But the Hatzalah guy on the phone won’t stop asking questions. He wants me to describe what I’m feeling. I don’t know how to explain that weird feeling in my face and hands in ENGLISH, let alone in Hebrew. Yet somehow, my blurred mind flashes to this, from Bava Metzia (58b):

A disciple taught before Rav Nachman bar Yitzchak: “Anyone who publicly mortifies his companion is comparable to a shedder of blood.”  He replied: “Your statement is correct, for the red color of the face disappears, and it becomes white.”

So in bad Hebrew, I tell the Hatzalah guy, “I feel like you feel when you’re very embarrassed or have a shock.”

He has no earthly idea what I am talking about, and I am filled with a hopeless despair. I need help. And I can’t make anyone understand. I hold out my phone to son down the hall and beg him. “Please. You talk. Just tell him to come.”

He takes the phone, annoyed. “Shalom. My Eema is dehydrated.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” I say weakly, from the other end of the hall. “Give me the phone.”

Son down the hall, truly exasperated, walks over to me and hands me the phone. “Eema, you’re just dehydrated.”

“Open the front door,” I tell him.

“Eema!” he says. Translation: Don’t exaggerate.

“Open the door,” I say, raising my hand to point in that general direction.

He stomps down the hall, goes to the front door. Opens it.

At some point the love triangle of me, the Hatzalah guy on the phone, and son down the hall, becomes a love quartet. “What’s going on?” calls querulous post-surgery Dov from the bedroom.

I would normally reassure him, but I can’t. I can no longer deal with anyone else. I am barely there. Words are difficult to form. I want to save them for the medics, to tell them what’s wrong, though I don’t know how. There aren’t words for what I’m feeling.

“Varda! What’s going on?” Dov calls out, his voice rising. When no one answers him, I hear the sound of his walker, smack creeeak, smack creeeak, and I know he is determined that he will know what is going on under his roof, though he hasn’t been able to get in or out of bed without help since his operation, four days ago.

It’s too much for me. I can’t worry about him now. The air around me feels wavy and brown.

“Eema’s dehydrated. She called Hatzalah,” says son down the hall.

“I knew it!” says Dov. “I knew it would be too much for you,” meaning me dealing with his care and our household in the aftermath of his surgery, which he had resisted for years. “You’re having a nervous breakdown!”

“No,” says son down the hall. She’s just dehydrated. She needs to drink.”

“Stand outside and wait for them, to show them where we are,” Dov says to him, pointing to the door, the exasperation plain in his voice.

I hear the medics come in. I know them. One of them had paid a sick call to Dov only seven hours earlier. When he comes in, Dov says, tongue in cheek, “Can’t get enough of us huh, Shlomo?”

Shlomo and the other medic, Moshe, crouch on the steps next to me. They ask me to tell them what’s wrong. I am fuzzy, but I try. “I’m nauseated, my head is spinning, and my hands and face feel like the blood has drained from them.”

“Do you want us to call an ambulance,” they ask.

“No.” I say, hoping there is a way for the medics to take care of me at home.

Here, I must interject with another story. This time, my husband’s. The pain of Dov’s spinal stenosis had made his blood pressure spiral out of control a few months earlier. I had suspected that it was the pain that did this, and my suspicions are now confirmed. Since the surgery, Dov’s blood pressure has improved and somewhat stabilized, as has his general health.

But one night, I woke up, saw Dov wasn’t in bed, and wondered what was wrong. I got up, went into the living room, and he was sitting there. “What’s the matter? I asked.

“I don’t know. Something’s not right.”

“Well, what do you feel?” I asked. “Do you hurt anywhere? Do you have a headache?

Dov was as unable to describe what he was feeling as I was on that otherworldly dark Friday morning. “I don’t know. Just something’s not right.”

“Should I call an ambulance?” I ask him.

“I don’t know,” he says.

I call an ambulance. When it arrives, one of the medics is my friend, Elisheva. They take Dov’s blood pressure. It’s high. So high that maybe they suspect their equipment has malfunctioned. They take his blood pressure during the whole ride to Shaarei Zedek Hospital, and I hear them wondering if the machine is broken, because the number is crazy.

When we get him into the hospital, his BP is 233. It’s a hypertensive crisis. Dov is treated over a period of some 18 hours, in the ER, until his blood pressure is a more manageable 180 (!). They take tests, and even though Dov is obviously showing signs of confusion, and keeps forgetting words, the hospital releases him. We pay for the ambulance, because I made the call. We pay for the ER visit because he isn't admitted.

Yes, we were able to pay the bill, but I mean, the man was seriously ill! And they didn’t admit him. Maybe they were too full up with wounded soldiers? I don’t know. But I knew that Dov SHOULD have been admitted.

This had been percolating in my brain for months, as I schlepped with my husband from doctor to doctor, and to all kinds of tests, some I’ve never heard of. They should have kept him. He is still now quite ill. I am angry at the hospital.

I was thinking of all this when the nice Hatzalah volunteer lady, my angel, said, “Why call Magen David Adom? Call Hatzalah. It’s free.”

I did not now want to go in an ambulance, because I’d be damned if they were going to make me pay for that again. In fact, Dov had called for an ambulance after he sustained minor injuries in a car accident only a few months before his hypertensive crisis. They made us pay for that ambulance, too. It was the money, but it wasn’t the money that made me say no to calling an ambulance. It was the principle of the thing, the injustice! 

This is WHY I had called Hatzalah in the first place. I didn’t WANT to call Magen David Adom (MDA) and pay for ambulance service. “Are you comfortable there on the floor?” asks one of the medics.

“Yes,” I say, grateful to give in to the desire to lay my head on the floor, to feel the coolness of the tile against my face.

“Your pulse is very weak,” said one of the medics. “We’re calling MDA.”

Maybe they won’t charge me, because Hatzalah is calling, not me. I think. But then I think of Dov. I can’t let him down now. He needs me right now, after his surgery.

The MDA medics come in and crouch around me on the three little steps that lead up to the hallway where I am prostrate. One of them says, “Varda, do you want to go in the ambulance?”

“No,” I say weakly.

“Do you think you can walk to the living room if we help you?”

“I’ll try,” I say, so weak.

Somehow, the four of them, the two medics sent by Hatzalah, and the MDA guys, manage to lead me to the living room. They motion to the chair we think of as “Dov’s chair.” It is close and I am relieved. I make for the chair, but Dov is about to lose his balance. At that point, even with the walker, he can only walk a few steps.

So I stumble to the next closest chair, on the other side of the room, directly in front of Dov. The MDA guy hooks me up to an EKG. He really wants to take me to the hospital. But who’s going to take care of Dov? I think. And what if it’s just dehydration, or like Dov says, I’m working too hard, I’m overwrought?

So I say to the MDA guy, trying to sound nonchalant, “Can’t you just hang a bag?” I ask, meaning give me some IV fluids here at home, and I’ll be fine.

I really don’t want to go to the hospital. I really don’t want to go in that ambulance. I say so.

So while I’m still hooked up to the EKG, the MDA guy hands me a clipboard with a form to sign saying that I refused the ambulance. I take the pen, put it to paper, then slide off the chair in a dead faint.

To be continued.

Previously, Part I: Varda wakes up, and begins to feel truly ill.

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Buy the EoZ book, PROTOCOLS: Exposing Modern Antisemitism  today at Amazon! Or order from your favorite bookseller, using ISBN 9798985708424.  Read all about it here!

 

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