HONK IF YOU SUPPORT ISRAEL

And thank you for your encouragement.


That, at least, was the main result of today's pro-Israel counter-demo.


We occupied the Southeast corner of the intersection of Montgomery and Market Streets, opposite the bart-station and the point where Post splices into Monty before hitting Market.

Which was where they were.

The motley.

Because colonies of motley sprouted on the two other corners where we were not, it was easier to see how outnumbered we were. At our height there were around thirty of us.
I estimate their number as being two hundred and fifty to three hundred.

But, praise the master of the universe, their sound-barrage was not nearly as good as it normally is.

Their usual eloquent ringleader was not there this time - maybe he lost his voice after shouting and yelling for two solid hours this past Sunday.
[I hope nothing is wrong with him, he really should take some throat tablets and take better care of himself. He's already wasted any chance of an opera career... ]

Several of their other regulars were also missing in action - notably the young Arab gentleman with the phenomenal proboscis (a veritable beak, a savage promontory, a steam-locomotive's cattle-catcher, a proud bow, a sharp aquiline... anyway, it's beautiful, and adds distinction to his face).
Nor was the saucy Edomite temptress with the splendid voorgevel there either. Pity.
But instead, what may have been her cousin was - a short, plump virago, of a pleasing warm and glowing appearance, with sparkly eyes and good teeth, who yelled all manner of creative venom across a busy intersection during rush hour.

A Bas Yishmael in full fury (feathers all ruffled, raggy kefiyeh aflutter).


At a break in the noise I yelled back at her.
I'm not sure if she heard me.

So let me say it again here:

SWEETHEART, YOU'RE CUTE WHEN YOU'RE ANGRY!



;-D

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The other thing I yelled at some point was:

"your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of.... elderberries!"


Yeah, I know these two slogans are not part of the programme. But really, does anyone listen to what either side yells? Mostly they smile as they go past, or give the finger to one side, or a black power salute to the other side. But mostly they honk. Loud. Long. Honk. Honk.


We did get a good hollering section going chanting 'am Yisroel chai', and a group of Russians regularly broke into Hatikva. At some point we all sang haveinu sholom aleichem (while I'm sure many of us privately thought "your mother was a hamster and your father...").

The net result of this, like every counter demo, was not that Israel is strengthened or infused with renewed courage, nor given peace, or her suffering lessened.
No, the real effect of these events is that people who drive or walk by see that someone actively opposes the sonei-yisroel, that there are people who have not surrendered to the soft-in-the-head idea that Israel is a criminal-state and deserves censure, and they are not alone surrounded by those who hate them and would deny them and Israel their place.

And we hope that many take heart from seeing that even though outnumbered, am Yisroel chai.

--- . --- . --- . --- . --- . --- . ---

Now, because I always remember it when outnumbered in a good cause, and think it good and altogether the right thing to chazak our emunah, let me give you an appropriate speech from Shakespeare (Henry V, before the battle of Agincourt):

But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive!
No, faith, my cuz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. Oh, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian'.
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day'.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered -
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
Make him a member of the gentry, even if he is a commoner.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.


Oh yeah, baby. You're cute when you're angry.
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