The Times of Israel reports that Gill Rosenberg, a 31-year-old Canadian-born Israeli citizen, has joined Kurdish fighters in northern Syria in the battle against the Islamic State. Bizarre, right? But it gets weirder: turns out Rosenberg was arrested in Canada in 2009 for “posing as a lottery official” and scamming elderly victims into paying for “fictive services,” to the tune of $25 million. (She was a member of a ring of twelve Israeli criminals.)

She was sentenced to jail in the U.S. for four years, released early, deported to Israel, and then on Sunday—according to her Facebook page, at least—rocked up in Nusaybin, Turkey, to begin training with Kurdish fighters. As you do! Turns out it’s as easy as traveling from Tel Aviv to Amman, then hopping on a plane to Erbil, the capital of the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. “In the IDF, we say ‘Aharai’ – After Me,” Rosenberg peacocked on her Facebook page. “Let’s show ISIS what that means.” Her lawyer says it is “exactly the sort of thing” she’d expect of her client.

The full story is here. Leonardo DiCaprio has already optioned the film rights.*

* Joking, obvi.

** But here’s hoping.

(Image: Kurdish Peshmerga fighters rest during fighting against Islamic State (IS) group on November 8, 2014 in the Syrian besieged border town of Ain al-Arab. Credit: Ahmed Deeb/Getty.)

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New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft has penned a heartfelt letter of condolence to the family of Max Steinberg, the American-Israeli soldier killed in Gaza on July 20. Steinberg, who was from Los Angeles, made aliyah after visiting Israel on a Birthright trip in 2012, the New York Times reports. He was serving in the IDF’s elite Golani Brigade in Gaza and died when his unit’s armored vehicle was attacked by a roadside bomb. Kraft sent the letter after he spotted a photo of Steinberg wearing a New England Patriots cap in a news broadcast about the tragic events in Gaza.

Here’s the full text of the letter, which was photographed and tweeted by the Jewish Journal‘s Jared Sichel, and appears to have been framed by the family:

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you after having learned about your dear son and distinguished member of the Israel Defense Forces, Max. Although I didn’t have the privilege of knowing your son Max personally, I have taken the liberty of reaching out to you since I noticed him wearing a New England Patriots cap in one of the broadcasted photos. He represents the consummate patriot and I am forever grateful for the sacrifices he made to keep our beloved Israel safe. His dedication and loyalty to Israel have not gone unnoticed and I am sure he has left behind a legacy of which you and your family can be proud.

On behalf of the entire New England Patriots team, please accept our most sincere condolences as we are all profoundly saddened by his untimely passing.

Sincerely,

Robert Kraft

Beneath the printed text, there was a handwritten note: In Hebrew lettering, the words “b’ahava raba”—with great love—followed by the lines “‘We are all Patriots’ / With love of our tradition and the people of Eretz Israel.”

Stuart Steinberg told the Associated Press that his son Max “was completely dedicated and committed to serving the country of Israel. He was focused, he was clear in what the mission was, and he was dedicated to the work he needed to be doing.”

The funeral—attended by 30,000 people—took place on July 23 on Jerusalem’s Mount Herzl, the burial place of Israel’s fallen soldiers and several prime ministers. A memorial service is scheduled to take place in Los Angeles on August 6.

(Image: Jared Sichel / Twitter)

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I made aliyah just in time for a war. I left my home in Australia full of excitement, determination, and a belief in the wonderful future that was waiting for me in Israel. I had every hope that I would live a fulfilling and happy life in the land that I love. On June 12, as I left my family, friends, and boyfriend behind, everything felt possible.

On June 12, three Israeli teenagers went missing.

As I sit here at my favorite cafe in Kerem Hateimanim, the little Yemenite neighborhood of Tel Aviv I have fallen in love with, I think about the sheer magnitude of the escalation of violence. I think about how my own personal beginning is unfolding against a backdrop of suffering in a beautiful country that for so long I have been wanting to call home.

The news of the murder of the Israeli teens, followed all too swiftly by the revenge killing of a Palestinian teen, was met with a collective gasp from a horrified nation. We were using each other’s children as weapons. In those early days, I walked the streets watching the people around me, their heads bowed low with regret, fear, and the knowledge of what was to come. Those long summer days have somehow trickled into weeks, and each week brings with it a deeper descent into a grave reality.

It has been difficult to set up a life in these unsettling times. I am still looking for a home, a job, a way to set in motion the life I have always dreamed of. But I am preoccupied, as is everyone in this country. Beyond our own immediate worries are greater, more pressing fears. Barely a day has gone by without hearing the sound of sirens bellowing throughout the city. Everywhere I go I am within earshot of the resounding ‘booms’ of war. Each day we wake up with a sense of dread about what might have happened while we were sleeping—or not sleeping—the night before. How many more innocent lives have been lost? How many more children have been taken from their mothers? How much more of this can we stand?

Amid the plethora of posts about the of Israeli-Palestinian conflict you will read or have already read today, you have found your way to me—or I have found my way to you. You have come across the words of an Australian girl feeling her way through a war zone, trying to make a life in conditions most other nations would consider unlivable. I take my seat at the table of an overwrought conversation, but I hope to make a contribution by describing to you the Israel I have chosen.

On my first day as an Israeli, I was greeted warmly by a group of friends, many of whom had made their aliyah journeys before me. I saw that they had morphed into new, Israeli version of themselves. Some were soldiers; others had spent time in Yeshiva. Some had worked the land; others had walked the land. They were living lives vastly different to those of our peers in our home countries. I am inspired by the realization that in this place, there is no telling where I could go, what I could do, or who I could one day become.

As for the Israelis—this huge, dysfunctional family continues to move me. Since my arrival I have heard of countless rallies organized in the name of solidarity, I have sat in a circle of bereaved Israeli parents (who unfortunately could not meet with their Arab counterparts) who gather nightly to tell their stories together in the name of peace, I have seen a memorial built on the Tel Aviv promenade for a 21-year-old soldier killed in Gaza only a week ago. I have traveled the country and seen that some of the most beautiful lookouts, springs, and forests are dedicated in the names of those who have died fighting for our freedom to enjoy them. I have been to a gig in the city where candles were passed out to the audience, the lead singer reminding us all to keep hope in our hearts for a bright tomorrow. It feels impossible, but we do.

This is Israel. These are Israelis. In this place the call of war is answered not only by soldiers, but by an entire country asking “What can I do?” Volunteers work tirelessly looking after other people’s children in bomb shelters as parents go out to work; supplies are collected all over the country and driven to hospitals, bases, and cities in need. Struggling businesses in the south are assisted by special markets set up for people in the north and center of Israel to purchase their goods. The whole country mobilizes into action, and everyone becomes everyone’s responsibility.

The other day I traveled with a dear friend, Rotem, to visit wounded soldiers at Soroka Medical Center in Beersheva. As we made our way through the ward, the news of my recent aliyah was met by the soldiers and their families with wide smiles and a series of congratulations. These incredible young men had been on the front in Gaza only days before, and here they were telling me what a great job I had done in coming to Israel. Later, after Rotem and I left the ward to sit outside and gather our thoughts, we watched two small Arab children approach an Israeli child with balloons. Within minutes, all three kids were frolicking and laughing on the grass. The grandmother of the Israeli child turned to us and said, “This is what it could be like.” Despite the chaos of the crumbling world around us, I know that this was true.

I made aliyah from Australia just in time for a war. But my new beginning in Israel is in good company; I draw strength from the people around me. I think of friends who were married to the soundtrack of sirens; I think of my newly pregnant friend, who despite her husband being called to reserve duty three weeks ago, maintains strength, calm and hope for the new beginning growing inside her. My Israeli friends are people who don’t believe in talk, just action. A dear friend tells me, “Tachlis, get on with it, start doing!” and that’s the way they live. I take my lead from them.

I think often about the choice I made to come to Israel, the implications that it has had on my life, and the reverberations my choice will have one day on my children. Yet, every day I feel affirmed in the life that I have chosen for myself, and I feel strengthened by the support of my extraordinary Israeli family around me.

Everything still feels possible.

Melanie Koss is a lawyer and writer from Melbourne, Australia currently living in Tel Aviv. Follow her on Twitter at @mellehkoss.

(Image: Benjamin / Flickr)

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Like most other young academics, I’m always agonizing about tenure and job security. “Peace? Who wants peace?” I often jokingly respond when people ask me for my opinion about the Arab-Israeli conflict. “As a professor of Israel Studies, instability is good for my career!” Unfortunately, thanks to recent weeks of war and crisis, it seems like my employment prospects are bright. The line between the personal and professional is liminal in this so-called Holy Land.

I’m writing from Jerusalem, where I’ve left the library for the classroom of lived experience this summer. I arrived for a few months of research on my book only days into the national drama of the kidnapping of three teenagers in the West Bank (at a hitchhiking post I myself have stood at, no less), later found murdered by rogue terrorists from Hebron. Later that week, while running errands in the center of town, I was quite shaken when I unintentionally found myself in the midst of a mob protest by radical right-wing Israelis screaming “Kahane was right,” and “Arabs are sons of bitches,” as they ran past me toward a fast-food restaurant looking for a Palestinian employee to lynch.

A few days later, a splinter group seemingly inspired by these riots brutally tortured and immolated Muhammed al-Kheidr, an innocent teenager from East Jerusalem. As Israelis and Palestinians began to reckon with these dual tragedies, the Hamas rocket campaign and corresponding Israeli retaliatory bombings of Gaza started in earnest, with the conversation soon shifting from searching our souls to searching for the nearest bomb shelter. There has been no refuge for the tumult in our collective consciousness over the past month. (On the bright side, I did get to meet all my new neighbors without proper underwear, as the first rocket siren caught me in the shower with less than a minute to throw on a sundress and seek shelter.)

Last week, Israel initiated a ground invasion to uncertain ends. So much for that relaxing summer sabbatical on the beach and sipping cappuccinos in the Old City, I thought to myself. Here we go again.

Every day I turn on my laptop to more bad news. How have we not hit bottom, I wonder, how can it possibly be getting worse? I’ve probably read every major book written on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the past few decades—I skimmed them all for my doctoral exams so you don’t have to!—and feel that scholarship has failed us completely. How can I feel so ill-equipped respond to the current crisis, when understanding the Israel-Palestinian conflict is my day job?

Perhaps because years of reading, researching, writing, and thinking about the conflict have deprived me of simple, easy dichotomies: good vs. evil, Israel vs. Palestine, winners vs. losers, peace vs. war, past vs. future. How I long to luxuriate in the realm of intellectual, emotional, and moral certitude! I sometimes wish for a world of black and white, when all I see is complexity in shades of grey.

Despite this—or perhaps because of it—I feel an obligation to explain, to dialogue, to argue, to share my expertise, for whatever it’s worth. With campuses empty on summer vacation, I’ve traded lecture halls for social media, which has become my classroom, my battlefield (since I am privileged not to have to experience the real one), and even my (Jewish) cross to bear. Whether it’s fighting open-heartedly with a Gazan friend on Facebook, trading quips on Twitter, or writing blog posts, I feel compelled to contribute my knowledge and continue the conversation.  I sometimes feel like I should receive danger pay in this business: moderating between right-wingers and left-wingers, challenging conventional dogma, trying (sometimes unsuccessfully) to bring new voices and keep old faces involved in a discussion can be emotionally taxing and ego-bruising. But I see my job as much as a calling as a career, so tuning out isn’t really a choice.

Engaging in a “war” online, however,  prompts big questions. How can academics best contribute to public debate in times of crisis?  Switching my scholar’s tweed cap for my pundit hat blurs the boundary between the personal and the professional, the private and the political. Online discourse is a challenge to “that noble dream” of academic objectivity, but it’s also some of the most important work a historian can do these days. I do not hide my proud affiliation as a liberal Zionist, but my primary agenda is to bring my knowledge and historical perspective to contemporary issues, helping to put them in context.  Mostly, I try to mediate between multiple narratives. I doubt I’ll be winning a Nobel Peace Prize anytime soon. Truth be told, it can sometimes feel futile—when earnest efforts at engagement, analysis, and dialogue devolve into name-calling and uncritical ranting; when you just can’t get people to see eye-to-eye late at night on Facebook. It’s intellectually and emotionally exhausting work — I don’t blame many of my colleagues for giving up, taking a break, or avoiding this work entirely, since not every academic feels it is part of their job description.  Sometimes, I feel like tuning out and going back to writing that obscure book or journal article that only four people in the universe will read, including my Mom.

But in those few moments when people—especially those who are perhaps not involved or ideologically committed—plead with you to proceed, to continue the authentic multi-dimensional discussion, or even to begin to redefine what Israel and Zionism mean to our generation, how can I give up? Online engagement is one important component of that precious opportunity to be a Jewish and Zionist leader—it’s a mission I won’t pass up.

Mostly, being a historian in a time of crisis is a heart-breaking business, especially when one becomes a historical witness to the profound lack of empathy on both sides of the conflict. Dehumanization is our worst enemy. How we can ever have peace without acknowledging the “other” as a person; without acknowledging the basic truth that they are human beings with human rights? How can we co-exist without compassion in the present? Perhaps it would be useful to reinvent the role of historian as a kind of ‘empatharian,’ one who teaches others how to empathize with the lived past, so that we can be encouraged to contemplate our future together.

Unfortunately, professors don’t have all the answers about how to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict. But the most important thing is to ask the right questions. Since I began teaching in England, I am often reminded of Shylock’s speech in The Merchant of Venice: “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.”

If we can continue to remind ourselves that both Israelis and Palestinians are people deserving of human rights—and also capable of acts of vengeance—historical empathy may lead us one step closer to an enduring peace.

Dr. Sara Yael Hirschhorn is the University Research Lecturer/Sidney Brichto fellow in Israel Studies at the University of Oxford (UK), where she’s working on a forthcoming book (from Harvard University Press) entitled “City on a Hilltop: American Jews and the Israeli Settler Movement Since 1967.” Her twitter handle is @SaraHirschhorn1. 

Image: Sukharevskyy Dmytro (nevodka) / Shutterstock.com

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