Greenberg's View
Kristallnacht Then and Now
Kristallnacht Then and Now
Last year, the Israeli human rights group B’Tselem released a video showing an Israeli soldier shooting a rubber bullet into the left foot of a bound and blindfolded.
Palestinian demonstrator at close range while a lieutenant colonel and other soldiers watched. After an army investigation of the incident, a military court charged the battalion commander with conduct unbecoming an officer.
I arrived in Israel in 1984. I didn’t speak or understand Hebrew, didn’t have a job and didn’t have a friend. In my pocket I had the name of the one person I knew in the entire country: a middle-aged Israeli American woman I had heard lecture on contemporary Hebrew literature at an Orthodox synagogue in Berkeley. After her talk, I mentioned to her that I would soon be moving to Jerusalem. She scribbled down her address and told me to come by for Shabbat.
Every day, more like every hour of every day, I get e-mails, letters and phone calls crying out that Israel faces dire threat, if not certain doom.
Everybody with a cause, everybody angry at a country eventually ends up in front of the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard at Veteran Avenue, waving a poster at passing cars, hoping for a honk. It may not be the most effective form of activism, but at least it tries to reach Angelenos where we live: in our cars.
Rob Eshman interviews David Sax, author of the book, "Save the Deli."
The way I see it, after a sheriff rides into town, cleans the place up, then rides off into the sunset — those townspeople better be out in the center of Main Street, waving goodbye and choking back tears.
My friend Norma came up to me at the celebration following my daughter’s bat mitzvah and said, “Do you know how special this is?”
This past summer, the last two Westside gas stations offering 99 percent pure biodiesel closed down their pumps. You can still buy regular gasoline at those stations, but the Great Green Hope of the Millenium, a powerful fuel made from sustainable organic matter, is nowhere to be found. Well, not quite.
I have tried to hate Frank Luntz, but I can’t. Luntz is the Republican-aligned pollster and wordsmith who devised the Contract with America that thrust Newt Gingrich into power. He renamed the estate tax the “death tax” and sealed its doom in public opinion.
The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles has named as its next president Jay Sanderson, CEO and executive producer of Jewish Television Network (JTN), a nonprofit producer and distributor of Jewish-themed television programming.
A few weeks after Sept. 11, I visited the site of the wreckage with a group of Jewish journalists. The makeshift museum that had sprung up along the perimeter fence — photos, snapshots, handmade “Have You Seen Her?” posters, flowers and toys — was as tragic as anything I’ve ever seen.
I watched two Holocaust revenge movies this weekend, the first of which left me wondering: How did Quentin Tarantino get inside the mind of every 12-year-old Jewish boy born since 1939? His “Inglourious Basterds” is about a secret team of American Jews sent behind enemy lines during World War II to kill and terrorize Nazis — in other words, it’s what all of us growing up wished “The Dirty Dozen” and “The Great Escape” and “Guns of Navarone” were about. We wanted to be Steve McQueen on his motorcycle, or Anthony Quinn with his plastique explosives. As Nazis blew up around us, we imagined ourselves taking extra delight in knowing we weren’t just winning the war, we were getting even.
The deaths of certain strangers stay with you. A once unknown face becomes first recognizable, then familiar, then unforgettable.
Fern Wallach is my mother-in-law’s sister’s daughter. You’ll want to keep that in mind for this column to make sense.
I’m no different than most Jews — I enjoy a good Kiddush.
Not long before he became Israel’s Ambassador to the United States, historian Michael Oren wrote an essay in Commentary magazine on the “seven existential threats” his country faces.
Fifteen years ago this week, a bomb ripped into the Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina (AMIA) building, a Jewish community center in Buenos Aires, killing 85 people and wounding more than 250.
You know how every deli has its table of regulars, the same aging Jewish men who tell the same jokes, kvetch over the same aches and pains, order the same turkey sandwiches (dry) and complain about how the world is going to pot?
I have seen the Jewish future — it’s loud, and hypnotic, and it reeks of pot.
Some of the most moving and fearless reporting out of Iran this past week has flowed from the pen of New York Times columnist Roger Cohen. Cohen was with anti-Ahmadinejad protesters as riot police chased them with electric batons and tear gas into a small hiding place.
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Just as the first heavy rain of the season began to beat against the large red awning of the Marilyn Monroe Café in Ramat Aviv, an area in north Tel Aviv, Amos Oz stepped under the protected terrace, looked around and smiled as I stood to shake his hand. Punctual to the minute
Pioneering performance and interdisciplinary artist Rachel Rosenthal, who was honored by the city in 2000 as a “living cultural treasure of Los Angeles,” is the guest of honor at Rachel Rosenthal’s Birthday Bash 83. The evening will commemorate her new book, “The DbD