For nearly 20 years as The Jerusalem Post’s diplomatic correspondent – a position I gave up six years ago, when the grueling demands of that beat took their toll – I traveled extensively with the prime ministers.
I followed Ehud Barak to Paris, Ariel Sharon to Waco, Ehud Olmert to Annapolis, and Benjamin Netanyahu to Chad, China, and Singapore. Those trips were always fascinating, both professionally and personally.
Professionally, they always produced news. Lots of news. Things happened on those trips, and if they didn’t, you – as a correspondent sent halfway around the world on the office’s dime – made sure that it seemed as if they did.
It was always a thrill to fly on the prime minister’s plane – even before the recently acquired Wings of Zion, Israel’s version of Air Force One. In the Barak and early Sharon years, the refitted Israel Air Force plane couldn’t even make it to the US in one shot. Other times, it was a chartered El Al jet.
Another thrill was the motorcade. There was something undeniably cool about riding through the blocked streets of Washington or Paris in the prime minister’s motorcade, red lights flashing, pedestrians gawking from the sidewalks.
The trips were also personally revealing, as the interactions – or lack thereof – with colleagues gave me a deeper understanding of Israelis, Israeli society, and my place in it.
It had been a long time since I traveled as part of an official delegation, but earlier this month I had the chance again, covering President Isaac Herzog’s four-day visit to Australia. What struck me was how much had changed – in the region, in Israeli journalism, and in me.
The first noticeable difference – and I acknowledge that I was traveling this time with the president, not the prime minister – was that Herzog flew commercial.
Not just any commercial flight, but Etihad Airways – the UAE’s national carrier based in Abu Dhabi. Two seats in first class on an Arab airline for the Israeli president and his wife, a stopover in Abu Dhabi – and nobody thinks twice. That alone tells you how much the region has changed.
The press corps has changed as well.
When I started flying with the diplomatic corps in 2000, the number of kippah-wearing reporters or religious female reporters could be counted on one or two fingers. Gradually, the number increased as Israel Hayom and Makor Rishon emerged and began sending reporters; but overall, this was very much a secular club.
No more. Of the 10 reporters following Herzog – all of them male – six wore kippot. One of those who didn’t, put on a large white kippah and laid tefillin while sitting in the middle seat of a packed airplane about to take off from Canberra to Melbourne in the late afternoon.
Sitting next to him and impressed by this act, I said, “Kol hakvod” (“Good for you”). The context of my comment was the hostile, anti-Israel protests all over the country that dogged Herzog’s visit.
“What,” he said. “I need to be embarrassed?”
Which leads to something else I’ve noticed traveling with Israelis, both then and now: They couldn’t care less about whether their Jewishness or their Israeliness makes anyone uncomfortable – and I say that admiringly. When they are together, there is a certain confidence, a certain I-am-who-I-am-and-will-not-cower air about them that is quietly impressive.
They also know how to make the most of their time. Give them a few hours in Addis Ababa, and they won’t rest in a hotel room; they’ll find their way to the outdoor market. In Washington, even under tight deadlines, they’ll still carve out time – no matter what – to make it to the Pentagon City Mall.
Ceremony with cannon fire echoing off the hills,
That, at least, has not changed. After covering Herzog’s welcome at Government House in Canberra – a regal ceremony with cannon fire echoing off the hills, a splendidly dressed honor guard, and a resplendent lawn – there were a few free hours in the schedule.
An embassy staffer asked the group whether they preferred nature or an outlet mall. Three opted for nature; the rest voted for the outlet. A compromise was struck – the van went in search of kangaroos. When a couple of kangaroos were spotted, the van emptied out, and the cream of Israeli journalism went running after them in pursuit of the perfect photograph. Nature box checked, they then spent a couple of hours at the mall.
One reporter – the one who had laid tefillin on the plane – came back with a watch for his wife. They’re newly married. It cost AU$600.
“Here’s the difference between you and me,” I said to him. “You’ve been married three months and bought your wife a AU$600 watch. I’ve been married for 40 years and bought a AU$20 fruit zester. See what you have to look forward to?”
Another difference this time was my place in the group.
As an English-speaking immigrant – and a religious one at that – I always felt like something of an outsider, never quite one of the chevre. Part of that was personality; I was never much of a chevre-man, even in English. Part of it was cultural – the lack of shared experiences, the different cultural cues, the whole bundle immigrants carry. And when I first started, I was also one of the younger reporters. That, too, made it harder to connect.
The distance remained this time as well, but for an entirely different reason.
Now I was the grandfather of the group – literally; the only one there with grandchildren.
Later, one of my kids asked me how I got along with the other journalists.
“Fine,” I said. “They were all pleasant. But it’s not as if we had that much in common. Some of them were younger than you are. Picture me hanging out with your friends for four days. How comfortable would that be for anybody?”
Once, I stood slightly apart because I was the immigrant with the American accent, the religious one, the younger one. Now I stand slightly apart because I’m the oldest one. The region changed. The journalists changed. And along the way, so did I.