a peace of swiss cheese

A Peace of Swiss Cheese
by Ellen W. Horowitz
Oct 20, '03 / 24 Tishrei 5764

I knew it. I just knew it. You probably thought that Burg and Beilin accepted defeat and were drowning their sorrows on the Oxford speaking circuit. You should have known by now that “old Leftists never die, nor do they fade away.”

I was sure that neither one of them was doing Teshuva in Safed. They had to be in Europe - in one of the so-called “neutral” countries. I figured that we’ve already taken the peace train through Spain and Sweden, so that left either Finland or Switzerland.

(Note I: The new agreement has been referred to as the Swiss Agreement, Swiss Accords, Geneva Accords, Beilin Plan and Blair Initiative. It’s hard to write a proper article without a proper name. So for now, let’s just refer to it as “A Peace of Swiss Cheese” - because it stinks, is full of holes, and, like the Swiss flag, bears a cross.)

People like Beilin, Burg and Mitzna are attracted to neutral countries because they, too, feign neutrality, open-mindedness and fairness. They, like the countries they are attracted to, appear to be cool, calculating and precise. They exude neither warmth not passion; in fact, they rarely show emotion. When the world is in crisis, some countries and individuals pretend to take the moral and intellectual high ground, but then they use it as a cover to opt out of their commitments and responsibilities. Instead, they become opportunists (for example: check out the money-laundering, theft and treason records of the European nations that opted out of WWII).

It’s not that these countries or people are unfeeling, as they feel plenty. It’s what they’re feeling and why they’re afraid to show their feelings that should be of concern to us.

(Note II: As far as Israel is concerned, “made in Switzerland” is good for Bar Mitzvah gifts like Breitling watches, Caran d’ache writing instruments, and Swiss Army Knives - not for peace agreements.)

It’s no use engaging the neutral among us in a passionate, theological, philosophical or moral debate. Exposing one’s soul to a neutral is an exercise in futility. Simple logic rarely works either. Although these people and countries pretend to play by Western rules, the concept of fair play is too simplistic for their shrewd intellects. They’ll disregard the sound reasoning behind all territorial, political, historical and legal proofs with a cluck of the tongue.

But simplicity is where truth can be found. And before Israel stumbles any further, I feel that it’s my duty to give you a virtual tour of Switzerland, through the eyes of a twelve-year-old girl...

Thirty-three years ago, my family stepped through the entrance of the Dolder Grand Hotel in Zurich and I lost any identity crisis that I may have had. It was a frosty reception for the middle of August. The lobby was terribly quiet, but dozens of greying heads slowly turned in our direction. There was no doubt that we had entered the German zone of Switzerland.

Now I was a rather precocious child and, as the clerk at the desk glanced from the name on the reservation to my mother’s nose, I couldn’t help but whisper to Mom, “You couldn’t have spared us all and undergone a little cosmetic surgery prior to our trip!?” My mother laughs hard and loud, in a very Jewish way. It’s a contagious sort of laugh, but the Swiss of Zurich don’t laugh - I’m not even sure if they yodel.

The following morning, we continued to feel a distinct chill in the air, so we ordered hot chocolate with our breakfast. Here’s a disturbing little aside: the Swiss drink unsweetened hot chocolate. Now that’s a bitter shock for any child’s taste buds and it would set-off alarm bells in the best of us.

A few days later, we had the audacity to order colas with our cheese fondue. An appalled, but very conscientious waitress suggested wine or hot tea as an alterative beverage and then went into a lengthy and graphic dissertation about the horrors that can happen to a stomach when cold cola hits sticky cheese. By this time, we were all tied-up in knots, so my father suggested that we forgo the fondue and stick with hamburgers.

Now, I grew up in a home that took a rather liberal culinary approach to Judaism, and it wasn’t uncommon for me to wake-up to a bacon and eggs breakfast. However, when it came to our hamburgers, Mom always bought the very best in ground beef at Irving’s Kosher Butcher Shop. So, when the ham (as in pork) burgers arrived at the table topped with Swiss cheese, my mother, who by this time was neither laughing nor yodeling, said, “Don’t eat that!” (It was an incredible moment of treif.)

My father assured us that things would be better once we left Zurich and headed towards Lucern. He kept speaking about the incredible view from Mt. Pilatus. Of course, when the cable-car finally made it to the top, we could see nothing. We were enveloped in thick, grey fog. My mother, who just happened to be carrying jackets for us, expressed concern over the drizzle. It was a scene to behold as she attempted to get three kids to zip up their coats and put up their hoods in August.

There was no other view for the tourists - so we were it. I was so self conscious after our previous three days in Zurich, that I was sure that the sightseers were staring at my ‘Jewish hair’ (that’s what the girls at my prep school used to call it) that was frizzing-up as a result of the humidity, drizzle and struggle with my mother.

One woman had the chutzpah to get involved and stroll up to us and say to my mother, “Vee are not shugaar, vee vill not melt.” You guessed it, she was an Israeli. That moment endeared me forever to Israel, even before we landed in Lod the next day.

(Note III: Beilin and Burg can tell you that Swiss Air’s in-flight service is far superior to anything El Al has to offer. But still, it just doesn’t feel like home.)

We hardly received a warm reception by the Israelis. My father had accidentally left an enormous box of chocolates (compliments of the Nestle Corporation) on the plane. An Israeli sapper slowly and carefully descended the steps. My father, who was sporting a dark tan, ran towards the plane to retrieve the box. He was instantly surrounded by several soldiers, pointing automatic weapons. They escorted my father and the package to an area behind an armed vehicle. None of the soldiers laughed or cracked a smile as he offered them a piece of the contents.

You see, the year was 1970 and the times weren’t funny then, either.

Arafat and the growing Arab terrorist enterprise he had founded had been wreaking havoc across Europe with a spate of macabre airline hijackings and terrorist bombings. And, like today, airports across the world were on high alert. Just goes to show you that “there is nothing new under the sun” - The Geneva Accords included.