The taxi driver. Ask any seasoned business traveler for the latest and best information anywhere—what to do, where to go, where to get it (anything), how to get there—and he’ll tell you, hail a cab. And then there are Israeli taxi drivers—in my experience, a breed apart from the rest. Their unique Jewish, blue collar and Middle Eastern backgrounds can make for fascinating interaction with those not familiar with the culture, where the passenger is regarded not as a fare, but as a charge to be carefully served, attended—and questioned.
It can be shocking. I recall watching a Swiss sherut passenger visibly recoil from a cabbie’s inquisition, which covered the traveler’s children (how many and what they did for a living), his political views, and his yearly salary! He almost jumped out of the taxi on the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway.
I’ve gotten to know a few Israeli cabbies quite well over the years and have developed some easygoing friendships. So on a recent ride from Petach Tikva to Jerusalem, I wasn’t shocked when, after an opening salvo of about twenty questions, I learned about my driver Aryeh’s sister in Hackensack, his views on Trump and why apartments in Beersheva were a good investment. As we approached Jerusalem on Route One, I told him a little about what I do—what AMIT stands for, our mission in Israel and the kind of people who support us. I told him how we intend to bring a large contingent for the upcoming Yom Yerushalayim 50th anniversary of the liberation of the capital in what we view as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Aryeh grew quiet. He stopped the car at the entrance to Jerusalem by the bus station and asked me if I had a few minutes; there was something he wanted to show me. I tried to beg off—a few minutes in the Middle East means an hour—but I eventually caved, so after a perilous U-turn he headed fast toward French Hill, all the while silent. We pulled up at Ammunition Hill, where Aryeh parked on the sidewalk and bade me follow him.
He began to talk, quickly and in almost staccato bursts. In 1967, he said, during the Six-Day War, the post was manned by some 150 Jordanian soldiers who had taken shelter in an elaborate bunker system, but Tzahal mistakenly thought the hill was defended by a single platoon. The fighting began on June 6 at 2:30 AM, and the task of capturing the hill was given to the Israeli 3rd Company of the 66th Battalion of the 55th Paratroopers Brigade. The battle ended at 6:30 AM—thirty-six Israeli soldiers fell. Ten were decorated for bravery, several of whom did not survive.
Aryeh walked me into the memorial where the names are listed. He opened the book, pointed to a name and said, “That’s my Abba.” Taking my stunned look for disbelief, he pulled out his driver’s license and pointed to the matching last name.
On the drive back, he told me how he was almost a year old when his father, a paratrooper, fell liberating Jerusalem. Now turning fifty and following a health scare, Aryeh feels compelled to tell his Father’s story to as many people as he can. I can only liken it to a survivor giving witness—a compulsion to give burning testimony —with every telling of the tale lessening the hurt just a tiny bit more.
This coming May, AMIT will join with thousands of supporters of Israel to celebrate a reunification thousands of years in the making. My experience with my taxi driver has taught me that there’s still commemoration to be done, heroes to be recognized and appreciation to be given to those who paid a great price for our benefit.
Aryeh and I hope to see you there.
