Yoni

Update: 

Okay, so it turns out Yoni was never actually "in" the IDF. But he's a huge fan, and when the "peace process" sh*t hits the fan, you can usually find Yoni on the scene, his presence emanating a combination of bravery, bravado, retaliation, and daring. Just TRY to tell him to go home.

When a rally of Arab protesters tried to prevent a Jewish landlord from perusing him property in East Jerusalem, Yoni was right there in the crowd of Israeli supporters, flinging rocks using his trusty home-made sling that you'll read about below. And yes, he did witness the aftermath of the Sbarro Pizza massacre, as a volunteer.

He's not a huge fan of the mishtara. Recently, at a demonstration for legalization of (ahem) marijuana which was held in Jerusalem, he managed to get himself arrested, for the umpteenth time. As a result, his tattooed arm was featured in "High Times," an American publication supporting the use

Yoni

I recently had the unnerving experience of traveling to Psagot for a school district meeting. I needed to get permission for my daughter to attend a "kita k'tana"- a small classroom geared towards helping recent olim who are having a hard time adapting to the language. It was to my immense relief that a neighbor whom I will refer to as Naomi also needed to attend this meeting, so we made plans to go in her car.

I should mention that the unnerving part of the trip wasn't the meeting itself; it was the location. Psagot is a small yishuv located close to Ramallah, home of the PLO. How close, you ask? Well...

If Psagot and Ramalla were neighbors in a 'burb, you would say that they were roughly across the street from each other.

Psagot could go to Ramallah to borrow a cup of milk, if they were friends. Which they're not. At all.

Situated a good shouting distance from each other, the only real separations are a deep valley, a gate and some IDF soldiers. (Not enough; Psagot would later become the scene of a terrorist attack, where Arabs snuck into the peaceful community and attacked children who were playing in their yard.)

Back to the story: Yes, Naomi was grateful to have somebody to accompany her on this trip, but we were both still a bit nervous. We had heard things- terrible things- about friends from our yeshuv who had rocks thrown at them by Arab villagers along the route. So my husband suggested we take a male chaperon along with us- somebody who knows Israel like the back of his weathered hand- somebody big, intimidating...

...somebody like.... Yoni.

How to explain Yoni? He's a bit of a contradiction in terms. Yeah, he's big, dark- He's a 7th generation Jerusalemite who wears his long flowing curls in an Indian top-knot. He taught himself how to launch stones with deadly accuracy, using a homemade sling which he carries around with him 24 hours a day.

He doesn't believe in multiculturalism, he has many bones to pick. Yet he has the entire cast of Sesame Street tattooed on his upper body. (Don't ask. But if you do, he'll calmly reply that Oscar the Grouch is the "dealer.") There's more than just a little medication involved here, but then Yoni has seen things...

Yoni was in the Israeli army during the intifada. He was one of many who dealt with the aftermath of the infamous Sbarro Pizza terrorist attack. Among the victims was a close friend of his who had taken his family out for an ill-fated dinner.

During the course of his army career Yoni assisted with six post-terrorist attack scenarios. Yoni visited the graves of many friends that year of the intifada. Plagued by nightmares, the images relentlessly haunted his days. Yoni was eventually excused from army duty, as per his request, although he remains a friend to the army.

So it was with much trepidation that the three of us set off on this journey, which I can't say got off to a good start. We were short on time, and Yoni strongly suggested taking a shortcut- indeed a risky move, given the neighborhoods we would be driving through. Naomi's last parting words to her husband were, "Honey, do you have the phone number to the police programmed in your cell?"

To which Yoni immediately interjected, "No, no, no, no, no. You travel with me, you don't call the police."

Nervous Silence.

"Say you have problems with your neighbors, you call the police, they come and talk to your neighbors, the Arabs tell them that you stole their goat, and suddenly you find yourself arrested. Trust me, you don't want to call the police."

I piped in, "Um, what he means is, you should call somebody else. Right?"

"Yes. The Army."

Poor Naomi, a former New York resident asked, "O.k. Do you have the number to call the army?"

"Don't worry, if something happens they'll come."

And with that we were off. Yoni assured us many times that the shortcut we were taking was very safe, he himself has personally hitchhiked along this same route many, many times, and he'd never had any problems.
Sitting in the passenger seat, lovingly fingering his trusty sling, Yoni calmly mentions,

"You know, you have one of these, it's much better than carrying a gun. With a sling you sail right through security checkpoints. You cannot do that if you carry a gun or a knife."

"O.k, Yoni, could you please put away the slingshot?" begged Naomi. "You're making me very nervous, and I'm trying to drive."

I tried to keep the mood light with some easy conversation. We got to a fork in the road, and Yoni pointed out a giant sign on our left.

"You see that checkpoint over there? You see the little red "x" over in the corner by that roadblock?"

"Yes, yes." we responded.

"That means it's an entrance for Palestinian officials only. Don't ever try to pass through a roadblock such as that one. You will be in very big trouble if you do."

(Mental note to self: avoid red x's.) We thanked him profusely for the advice.

Thankfully, our drive continued smoothly. As we rounded the corner of the yishuv I glanced over at Ramallah, perched on a hilltop across the valley.  I thought of taking a picture, maybe sending it to some of my friends and family. ("Greetings from Ramallah!") Then I thought, No. This is the reality of living in the shtachim- always being a stone's throw from people who want you dead. No humor in that.


The trip home was fraught with a bit more intensity. Naomi's car stalled off the side of the road. It took a while, but Yoni got the car working again. I admired his easy camaraderie with the many passers-by who offered their assistance. We were soooo glad to have a man around. However, we knew that the rest of the trip would take us by some more uninhabited parts of town, unless you consider Bedouins residents. (Are they?) We weren't sure about our chances of getting such assistance in the middle of a winding mountain road, and our minds were still on the friends who were pelted by rocks. We prayed the rest of the way home and, sure enough, our prayers were answered. We arrived home without any further incidences.

Naomi and I thanked Yoni and said our goodbyes.