Disproportionate responses are a suspicious affair.
It does not take sharp senses and decades in interrogation rooms to get over it.
An ancient proverb says "on the head of the thief burns the hat," which is a rather strange image.
But whenever a functionary is faced with a difficult question and chooses to respond in an exaggerated and hysterical victim-style demonstration in the "forced" style, or rather goes for naive aggression, it is as embarrassing as bad theater.
Aside from the embarrassment it mostly gives the impression that it might really be better sometimes to just accept responsibility.
And maybe even shut up.
We all understand why people whose hat smells like BBQ choose to attack rather than apologize.
The best defense is the attack, and if no one in the country ever accepts responsibility, then why me ?!
But as the public becomes less innocent, the aggressive response reflex becomes more of a silly and not very respectable move.
Over time, it seems, we have all learned that once someone responds to harsh accusations against him with words like "scribbled nonsense," "juice nonsense," "no bears and no flies," and so on, it's almost conclusive proof that there are things in the body.
And for "there will be nothing" it is a pity to add a word.
At the beginning of the week we got to know Prof. Idit Matot, not an anonymous doctor, but also not one of the main characters in the drama series "The Plague" that we have all been following since 2019. Prof. Matot came out with harsh criticism of the health system and what she called "public relations" of Various diseases.
Staff does not deny Corona, God forbid, and does not even oppose vaccines.
She is a senior physician, head of the anesthesia, pain and intensive care unit at Ichilov, and was a member of the corona team established by Prof. Roni Gamzo.
She knows a thing or two, and she has reservations.
For example, about the fact that none of us ask how many flu patients are currently hospitalized in critical condition.
And that media reports of severe corona patients are inaccurate, because if a cancer patient, or injured in an accident, were also found to be positive for corona patients - it is not of interest to include them in the alarming list of "corona patients in critical condition".
The Ministry of Health's response was instructive in its aggression.
It started with an attempt to attack the staffs in person, and on the way to minimize her judgment and claim that there is only a lust for communication here.
Reactions of this kind mostly indicate the respondent.
But on Monday another small record was broken here.
An astonishing response from the Ministry of Health said that contrary to Prof. Matot's statement as if most of the alarming numbers published were not related to corona, then "11 out of 26 defined as severe corona patients" are patients with severe corona, and not patients in severe condition who also have corona.
My breath caught.
And not in the section of symptoms.
The tiny self I may not have learned a single lesson in medicine, but three math units should be enough to determine that 15 inaccurate reports out of 26, is still a majority.
Most problematic.
The Ministry of Health could honestly say that Prof. Matot is accurate.
But Oya, the ministry has chosen to act like we are all stupid, which has led to the familiar dizziness of removing comments, and deleting all sorts, and it is not clear which is worse: the Ministry of Health's trending updates or the way it deals with criticism.
• • •
Every year on Tu B'Shvat I go back to being the gardener I once was. I proudly examine the old shears, oil them a little and make sure they are still sharpened and agile. I examine myself on the way to work identifying the names of spine and fruit trees, and just shrubs. The young man, who was able to beat the tiger eagle that gnawed at the depths of his trunk, but I mostly remember amusing events from that period.
In those days my kibbutz suffered from a severe population problem.
For every family that asked to join, there were two who left.
The future looked bleak, and absorption committee meetings were the saddest thing in the world.
Every departure was a painful blow to the community, so whoever decided to leave did so in secret.
The departures took place at night.
In theft.
Families went on vacation and just did not return.
And for each and every one leaving, besides the grief, there was also a professional slot that was emptied.
More than once we found ourselves at dawn without the only company that knew how to operate the laundromat, or direct the ventilation in the coops, or without the mustachioed guy who knew how to fix anything that had wheels.
There was some pressure, and we all improvised as if there was no tomorrow.
One day, for example, I was called to the office of the Tough Economy Center.
"As you know," he told me, "from three hours ago we were stuck without a plumber. What can be done, they left too. Didn't you hear at breakfast? Walla? Doesn't matter.
"In short, there is no plumber in the locality. That's a blessed piece. That is - there is no more natural candidate. And shortened, successfully in your temporary position. As they say in Givat Halfon: Sergio, you were ordained.
The guy was without a doubt the world champion in quotes, and I left his office confused and at a loss.
I had no interest in being a plumber.
I knew there was no such thing as a permanent appointment.
Two things were clear: a) No one is going to teach me the secrets of the profession.
B) There is no connection between a sprinkler and a sewer blockage.
• • •
In the months that followed I developed a deep hatred for improvisation.
And for plumbing.
I found myself crawling inside the booths to replace the screwed boilers installed there at a bargain price and leaked everywhere.
I replaced worn out rubber bands.
I stopped dripping.
I opened shocking blockages.
And I was exposed to information I would rather live without.
I cursed the geniuses who managed to tuck a towel, a bottle of cola or a tennis ball into the sewer (well, well, there were no wipes yet then!), And then I dined with them in the dining room and smiled as if it had never happened.
For several months I was without a doubt the worst plumber in the world, listening intently to dissatisfied kibbutzniks who passed criticism as if I had chosen a profession.
When I had two free hours, I came back like a boy in love pruning the roses, digging a few more pits for planting and straightening a tree that the wind had bent.
From then until today I dare not say a word about the prices that plumbers charge for work.
This week, as every year, Jerusalem celebrated the Feast of Roofs.
That wintry night, when the water freezes in the solar panels, ends with a morning of free fountains and flowing streets.
Half of the Jerusalemites run wet on the roofs, trying to identify who the splash collectors are, and are willing to pay any price.
It turned out that this time, the plumbers' feast day fell exactly on Tu B'Shvat. My heart goes out to the hallucinatory appointment that once made me the worst plumber in the country.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
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