If all the world's experts on peace had raised turkeys on a kibbutz, there might be peace in the Middle East.
Tzvi Ben GedalyahuThe author is a former reporter and senior copy editor for American and Canadian newspapers and currently is a leading journalist with Arutz Sheva as well as contriibuting to the Jerusalem Post and various American Jewish newspapers.
But they chose International Relations 101, where they learned all about prophets, kings, oil and sheikhs. They missed out on the basics, like selling non-kosher turkeys to the Arabs.
Turkeys really are cute when they are babies, but after a few weeks, their feet are scratchy and they begin to stink. When they get to be three months old, some of them pick up a cold, a little bronchitis, or start to hobble on weak knees, probably from too many carbohydrates.
The stronger turkeys pick on the weaker ones, just like fifth-graders playing king of the hill. They peck at the skin until the poor gobbler cannot stand on his feet.
When I was in charge of the birds on a kibbutz farm, the sick and injured had their own quarters, a fenced-off intensive care ward where the bullies couldn't bother them. But sometimes it was too late. Their broken legs and their bronchitis often are more than modern medicine can cure on a cost-efficient basis.
What can you do with a sick and lame turkey? You sell it cheaply. After all, the reason to raise turkeys is turn them into fat candidates for the slaughterhouse and convert them into cold cash. The Humane Society really does not have much demand for them.
That's where a revised international relations course could have taught President George W. Bush, James Wolfensohn and Condoleezza Rice something besides making roadmaps to nowhere. Even Professor Yossi Beilin, the darling of the Israeli Left, doesn't know a kibbutz from Damascus.
Peace is a business, like anything else these days. But you have to know the rules of the game. As a good Western businessman, Wolfensohn knows that a handshake is a handshake, a word is a word, and a deal is a deal.
For instance, Tom wants to sell his two-year-old Chevy for $5,000. Clyde wants to buy it for $4,000. One of them budges or there's no deal. Jim tries to cut a deal at $4,400. If Tom and Clyde compromise at $4,500, Tom gets his money and Clyde gets his wheels. As for Jim, that's his problem.
But that's not the way it works in the Middle East. Here, Abe writes out a check and Ahmed gives him the key. The next day, Abe discovers the key doesn't fit. "Of course it does not fit," Ahmed retorts. "The price of the car was according to the real value of the dollar. The inflation rate went up 0.2 percent yesterday. You owe me $10!"
Abe protests, "Where's the cell-phone antenna that was on the roof? I am stopping payment on the check. You owe me $25 for the bank charge."
"I'm not finished stripping the car," retaliates Ahmed. The DVD is mine, but I'll put back the original radio. It works most of the time."
"Look, here," snarls Abe. "I paid you $4,500, but that was based on the price of gold. It went up two cents yesterday. The real price is $4,498.09."
"You can add another $120 for the deluxe hub caps, or I'll take them with me," Ahmed shouts.
See the difference? It doesn't matter that Abe still has to thumb a ride to work and that Ahmed does the same because he doesn't have enough money for gas. The point is the other guy didn't get what he wanted.
In Western societies, negotiations are a means to an end. The objective is to make a deal so both sides get what they want. In the Middle East, negotiating is an end unto itself. The objective is to negotiate forever. So long as Arabs and Israelis negotiate, there is no peace, but there also is no war. Once they strike a deal, nobody gets what they want, so they go into combat.
Remember the sick birds? Not even the most God-fearing fundamentalist would have had a prayer for them, but the Arab neighbors near the kibbutz love sick turkeys because they can get them cheap. I loved to sell sick turkeys because a bird in the hand is worth more than two in the incinerator.
So, Mohammed and Yusef came by once every couple of weeks to buy sick turkeys, or what vaguely resembled turkey. But they had no idea they were dealing with a Yankee who learned International Relations 101 and was totally ignorant of Middle East culture.
"Look," I told them honestly. "Six have broken legs, five suffer from bronchitis, three others have some stomach tumor and two more are in an advanced stage of Parkinson's Disease."
"How much?" asked Mohammed, after the usual two-hour ritual of sipping tea together and our lying to each other how much we are peace-loving friends.
"You can take them for 10 cents a pound," I generously responded, not knowing the unwritten Middle East law that a seller must ask for three times the price he is willing to take. Mohammed offered eight cents. I replied, "No way. Ten cents is 10 cents. Take it or leave it."
I was smart to know he would try to cut the price after seeing the merchandise, so I showed him ahead of time a couple of diseased turkeys that still were living. Figuring I was a dumb American who needed to learn the facts of Middle East life, Mohammed shook hands with me and we offered each other a false smile to disguise our mutual distrust.
I brought them all out, except for a couple that died on the way, and Mohammed declared, "I'll give you eight cents a pound."
"What are you talking about?" I asked. "We shook hands on 10 cents a pound. A deal is a deal."
Mohammed, not having heard of International Relations 101, thought I was nuts: "What do you mean, 'a deal'? Where do you come from?"
"I'm from the United States of America," I responded.
Mohammed compassionately explained, "Look, when in the Middle East, do as the Semites do. You're supposed to offer me nine cents a pound. Then, I come back with eight cents a pound. Then, we sit down for tea again and tell each other how we really are cousins. After that, we decide to continue bargaining tomorrow."
I took the opportunity to educate Mohammed and Yusef. "We shook hands on 10 cents, and 10 cents is what it is going to be. Not a penny more and not a penny less. It's time you guys started catching up with the 21st century."
Yusef looked at Mohammed. Mohammed looked at Yusef. Both realized they were dealing with a turkey who can't tell the difference between a dinar and a shekel. They returned home, bewildered by this disgusting Western attempt to enlighten 3,500 years of Middle East civilization.
Mohammed and Yusef's families didn't get meat for dinner, and I spent a fortune on kerosene to burn dead turkeys. Mohammed and his neighbors in the village stole some healthy turkeys in the middle of the night. The next evening, I retaliated and severely damaged their TV antenna and injured several shirts hanging on a clothesline.
Three months later, Mohammed and Yusef were going nuts without TV and I was losing money because I had to pay for a security fence around the turkey barns.
The three of us met on the road one day. Each of us caught the other off guard, so we sat down and drank tea, convincing each other how there would be peace if it were only up to us.
We agreed to resume bargaining the next day over a new batch of sick turkeys. After two years, relations never have been better. We bargain every day. Mohammed and Yusef survive on their usual Middle East diet of pita and olives, without sick turkey meat, and I use the charcoal from the burnt birds to keep me a lot warmer than the beat-up space heater.
President Bush, Clinton, Rice, Wolfensohn and Yossi Beilin got it all wrong.
If they want to make peace in the Middle East, they have to understand that an agreement is not the goal. A handshake and a signed document are only a basis for a future argument.
The Russians have vodka. The Americans have apple pie. Israel has non-kosher turkeys. The biggest ones are the visiting politicians.