Archive | November, 2014

To Chase Down a Turkey in Galilee

27 Nov

Israelis are in love with all-things American.  Most things.  They speak of Black Friday as if it’s an Israeli event.  Television, radio and print are full with Black Friday sales.  But ask Israelis about Thanksgiving Holiday and most will tell you that it involves a turkey.  Here in Israel, the turkey is called an “Indian chicken” – referring to the first immigrants to the New Land and mistaking the American continent for India.

So, to better educate our Israeli friends in our village, we’re about to host the third annual Thanksgiving Dinner at our house.  Twenty people are invited.  But before we can carve the bird, and serve the pumpkin, corn bread, and apple cobbler, we must first find a turkey.

Israelis are mad about chicken.  Go into any home and you can hear the oil splatter in the pan. Everyone’s frying chicken breast, the breaded Schnitzel.  And here’s the paradox: Israel is a major producer and exporter of turkey; Israelis consume twice as much turkey as Americans, three times as Europeans, and yet, there isn’t one turkey on display at the supermarket.

Where did the turkeys fly to?turkey bird

They end up being cut-up into small pieces, grilled as Shawarma meat in countless restaurants and roadside eateries throughout Israel.

But what if you want a whole turkey for Thanksgiving?

That requires work and patience.  And planning ahead.  My wife Pnina has been calling around butchers for the last two weeks.  The phone call goes something like this:

Ring.  Ring.  Ring.


“Hello, my name’s Pnina and I’d like to order a turkey (Indian Chicken).”


“A turkey.”

“We don’t have any.  You have to order one.”

“That’s why I called.  I want to order one.”





“The turkeys are sick.”


“There’s a disease with turkeys.  We will not get one until next week.”

“But I want a healthy one.”

“Call next week, shalom.”shawarma

And so began a round of phone calls to supermarkets and butchers.  They promised a bird, and 20 drumsticks (Israelis like dark meat) by this week.

Finally, I got the call.  I was happier than getting a call from a Hollywood agent.  We got in the car and raced to the market.  The butcher in the meat department knew nothing of the order.

Pnina said, ” I spoke to Yakov.  He kept one for me.”

“Turkey?  I don’t know how to ring it up.  Do you know the code?”

Pnina says, “No, but Yakov said it’s 30 shekels per kilo.”

“Come with me,” the butcher says.turkey 1

And together they go into a giant walk-in refrigerator in the back of the store.  Cardboard boxes with meats are piled high.  At last, Pnina identifies her name marked on a box.  in it, sits a turkey.

Pnina wheels the turkey in the shopping cart to the cash register, careful not stab people with the bird’s long neck that’s hanging out.  Being a kosher bird, it’s not fully plucked; there’s a plume of feathers that Pnina will have to pull out with tweezers.

The bird’s in our house, safe and sound, and will soon turn brown.  Guests will be arriving; they’ll dive into mixed drinks, nibble on corn bread, tear into drumsticks.  We’ll tell them about pilgrims and Indians.

Next year we’re serving shawarma and diet Coke.


Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at

or at



The (young) Old Man and the Sea

8 Nov

Israel.  1978.  Winter.  Tel Aviv municipal airport.  I’m sitting inside a 4-seater Cessna airplane on a wet runway.  The propeller spins.  My boss, Shimon Wilner, owner of Mediterranean Tours, is next to me.  In the front, the “business man” takes the passenger seat.  The pilot puts away the maps and eases the plane for a take off.

Cessna airplane

Cessna airplane

Minutes later I’m in the clouds.  We’re off to the Island of Rhodes, Greece.  The “business man” is from Kibbutz Ga’ash near Tel Aviv.  The kibbutz manufacturers outdoor lighting fixtures.  He wants to sell them to the beach hotels on the island.  Shimon, the money man, arranged for the airplane, the pilot, and for me.  My role?  To translate the three mens’ Hebrew into English, in the hope the Greek men in Rhodes will understand.

A storm hits.  Lighting.  Thunder.  Water hits the windows.  Visibility: Zero.  The plane sinks and rises in air pockets, as does my stomach.  My toes are frozen.  We all want to pee.  The pilot unzips his pants and pisses into a plastic tube.  He then passes it to the back like an Indian peace pipe.  My boss refuses.  I refuse.

Synangogue in Rhodes, Greece

synagogue in Rhodes, Greece

What is normally a 70 minute flight for a jet plane takes 4 hours on this noisy bumblebee.  Finally, we see land in the distance.  The pilot lowers the Cessna, approaches the runway.  A sudden gust of wind smacks the wing and tilts it sideways.  My face hits the glass.  Shimon, a 250 pound mass-of-a-man, leans into me.  The engine screams.  So do we.  The pilot barely is able to right the plane and we come in for a hard landing.  The doors fly open.  We take in the air.  We exhale steam.  We survived.

To celebrate our good fortune we stand on the wings of the Cessna and piss on the runway in a beautiful arc.

Police.  Sirens.

The Greek border patrol surrounds us with Jeeps.  They yell in Greek, visibly disturbed on how we, primitive Israelis, had desecrated their land with our urine.  We jump off the wings and apologize.  Ten times.

We’re escorted to the terminal, our passports are stamped with a loud thud and we’re shown to the door.  Outside, it rains.  In the hotel lobby later that night I help the “businessman” with his outdoor lights presentation.

Two days later we’re on the runway again.  It’s sunny.  The pilot starts the engine.  The propeller spins.  Shimon hears something suspicious.  “Stop,” he tells the pilot.  The pilot steps out, then waves to us to do the same.  It turns out, the blade of the propeller had hit the purple emergency light on the runway.  The propeller is bent like a banana.  The pilot says: “We’re lucky as hell.  Had we taken off, we would have crashed into the ground.”

Young Jews in Rhodes before World War II

Young Jews in Rhodes before World War II

Back to the terminal we go…

Those were the heydays of the seventies.  In the summer I escorted a number of groups to tour the Greek island; I tanned in the sun, frolicked in the clear blue water, feasted my stomach on Moussaka and Feta cheese, and feasted my eyes on topless Swedish girls.

Roll tape, please.  To October, 2014.

I’m on board EL-AL Airlines to Rhodes with my wife Pnina for a 4 day vacation. Once we settle at our hotel, we venture to the Old City, the Medieval City of Rhodes, the city walls dating back to the Crusaders.  This time, I’m in search of history.  Down the cobbled-stone alleys we walk until we reach the one remaining synagogue on the island.  It’s now a museum.  The Jews had come to Rhodes by way of Spain, then to North Africa, then Italy.  They lived on the island for generations, spoke Ladino, a Judaeo-Spanish language.  Whenever they sensed trouble was brewing, they reverted from Greek to Ladino, “Lashon de tu padre” – the language of your father.  They dealt in commerce; many of them worked at the fish market.

Surviving Rhodes Jews in Seattle, Washington

Surviving Rhodes Jews in Seattle, Washington

Then the Germans came.  During World War II they rounded up almost 1500 Jews and sent them to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, the same camp my father was sent to.  Few survived.  After the war, their property was confiscated.  Inside the synagogue we meet one of the survivor’s children.  “Do you live here?” I ask.  “No,” he says.  “My family immigrated to the Belgian Congo.  Years later we moved to South Africa.”

An old(er) me in Rhodes, Greece

An old(er) me in Rhodes, Greece

Other survivors made to America.  Five years ago, I travelled to Seattle, Washington.  In the famous Pike Market I came across Jewish fish mongers.  The “Lost Greeks” stand over the beds of ice and arrange the crabs, the shrimp, the fish.

They’re a long way from Rhodes.

I leave the synagogue, remembering my days as a young man in Rhodes.  My wife and I go near the water and see the fishing boats.

The waves come and go, come and go.


Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at

or at