As part of the People of the Book Week events, Information Minister Galit Distal Atabrian, a woman of letters in her own right, was astonished to slam her friend with the government, Gila Gamliel, the literary line "Jump for me, you retarded." There are those among the listeners who are willing to swear that the exact words were "jump for me, you will be retarded," but even if we ignore this evil remark, and the language mishap that became embedded in the words of the information minister ("jump for me," it should be said, if at all it should be said. a matter of Hebrew), there is no doubt that some questions arise here.
So here's the thing: I don't believe this is Distal Atabrian's daily level of discourse. I don't know her personally, but I have reason to believe that this is not how she usually speaks. Moreover, friends who attended her writing workshops swore to me that they had met another woman there. A woman you can understand, theoretically, how she got to our legislature. After all, the Knesset is a place once populated by clusters who could say "jump for me" in at least ten languages, and there is no real reason to lower the bar.
No, it isn't really. She doesn't talk that way to neighbors who ask her to turn it down, and I'd like to believe that even through the window of the family car she doesn't exchange such words with drivers who cross her path.
Well, some suspicion arises that this is selective behavior. Maybe that's how she speaks only when there's an audience.
The audience is us, and when she knows we're listening, she assumes we're the base. Like my uncle Amsalem, a clever guy like a demon who knows, according to foreign sources, how to be pleasant, and like other friends, our information minister also keeps the dark side, the sewage baton and the Jura Park - for us. To the people of Israel and the electorate.
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For years now, they have been convinced that with Derech Eretz they do not go to the grocery store or to the polls, and that pleasantness is the surest way to evaporate from the political game and make up for themselves in the infinite expanses of oblivion. Not only in the Likud, but especially in the Likud. And that's why we deserve all this goodness. You know that worn-out scene about that petty-bourgeois family, immersed in a loud and disgusting quarrel, when suddenly there is a ringing at the door, and immediately everyone straightens up, puts on a fake smile and drips Victorian at the guests? So just like that, just the opposite.
A kind of crazy parody of that cliché, a parody of an upside-down world in which we ourselves are the guests, and only in our honor do they all stand up and move to the bottom of the discourse culture, to "Come on, shut up" and "Jump for me, you'll be retarded" and further down, as it is said in the eternal rhyme of the songs of all the neighborhoods of yesteryear: "She went backwards, and fell into Jura."
Therefore, the one who is really supposed to rise up and demand his insult is not only Minister Gila Gamliel, and not only the good people who have been struggling for years so that the word "retarded" will no longer be considered a derogatory word and a curse. The one who is supposed to wipe the splashes of this verbal spit from his cheeks is just us.
This thing, in the face of insults, is called "the electorate," and that Galit D.A. is not the only one who believes that it is goofy, clogged with pressure and even defiled. Therefore, he deserves to be tacitly treated this way. Soak up the outpouring of ugliness, which manages to break records from time to time. To understand that this is probably our House of Lords, and this is the verbal allowance we deserve. And rightly so. Because, in light of the fact that these are the elected officials we vote for again, there is no escape from the understanding that this is exactly what we are worth.
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Years ago, as I was about to finish elementary school, a mother was horrified to learn that her eldest son was about to go to boarding school. Those were the days when anyone who wanted to pursue a reasonable level of secondary religious education had to choose a yeshiva high school. And high school yeshivas were only in boarding school conditions.
Nothing prepared Mom for this. And I'm not just talking about the prolonged separation from home, the longing or the fear that I'll walk around in an unironed shirt. With her superhuman senses, Mom realized that part of the boarding school thing had something to do with the dining room. A place where everyone can see how you eat. And her son, Mon Dieu, despite all attempts to impart to him—that is, to me—aristocratic Parisian table manners, food like a barber. Like Klochard. Like a gypsy street pushtak.
My late mother immigrated to Israel at a time when North African Jews believed that Tunisia was a neighborhood of Paris. In the nearby city of Gabes, the truth was believed to be the center and beating heart of French culture, while the Louvre, Arc de Triomphe, Luxembourg Gardens and Montmartre were gradually built around their couscous bowl.
Mom came from Gabes. Memories of Africa often opened with the words "Shenu a Pari" ("Here in Paris") and were always accompanied by a kind of accordion and jukebox sound. Even Grandma's kitchen was served at the table laden with French terms. Only the wonderful salata remains its equal, because there is no way, apparently, to France this perfect salad, and that there is a limit.
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Mother, in short, was terrified. The fact that she has accumulated children, real wild animals, who don't know how to tie a tie or comb, is a pain she bravely carries with her. After all, there is also a Jerusalem side to the family that can be blamed. But what are we going to do now, when everyone's children sit in the fancy dining room (she occasionally insisted on calling it a restaurant) of the privileged yeshiva, clutching motionlessly at the gleaming silver forks and watching monster-paralyzed at her private educational failure? Look at Jacqueline's son, the grandson of Emil the banker, who thinks bread is cutlery, chewing with his mouth open and leaning on his elbow.
From that moment on, our home became a school of table manners. Mother made it clear that anyone who did not learn to hold the fork with the fingers of his left hand, and not like a germ but like a victor's wand, would not receive food. Etiquette courses for Swiss diplomats were child's play compared to what went on in our house. Next to every plate of rice-beans suddenly appeared, the demon knows where, white cloth handkerchiefs. Our elbows were thrown off the table, our forks learned to dance, and our mouths were trained to close softly on the schnitzel. At the end of six months of iron discipline, we were ready for the task. No one will shame Mom.
Needless to say, at the very first lunch at the meeting, I suddenly noticed that too many stares were staring at me. As I tucked a handkerchief into my collar and invited the crooked fork I found next to the orange plastic plate to pardon, a jubilant flock of whispers sat across from me, pointed at me, exchanged elbows, and made fun of me. And all this, without any of them stopping for a moment the Sisyphean chewing of the lump of charred flakes that rested among us like the wreckage of a shipwreck.
It was a moment of disillusionment. I was embarrassed for a while, but only as time went by did I learn to appreciate my mother's persistence, to laugh at her naïve assumptions, and to be grateful for the gift I received. Because it is very little wisdom to align with the base, and our information minister will understand this when the time comes.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
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