For the second time in little more than two years, the largest Jewish community in Latin America – as many as 300,000 strong – had become a target. The bomb devastated the seven-floor, Jewish-Argentine Mutual Association – the heart of the community’s social and education network and keeper of its historical archives – and battered buildings around the old Jewish quarter of Buenos Aires. The government blamed radical Islamic fundamentalists, who they believe had struck here before. But unlike the March 1992 car bomb that leveled the Israeli Embassy, this explosion could not be explained away as an act of political terror. This time the attack struck at Jewish civilian and religious life, smashing the community’s sense of security.
Some talked of pulling their children out of the city’s many Jewish schools and clubs, or even of moving to Israel, where more than 76,000 Argentine Jews have already gone. “If I am going to expose my children to this danger, I can do it in a place where it has meaning,” said Roxana Karzovinik, a 33-year-old mother of two. “What am I doing here?”
She was doing what Argentine Jews have done for more than a century: living comfortably in a country that has a kind of schizophrenia about their presence. One of the paradoxes of life in Argentina is the coexistence of a persistent, often open anti-Semitism along with some of the world’s most vibrant Jewish communal life. Most of the time, discrimination is kept in the closet, pulled out for private conversations – like the wealthy suburban housewife who last week lamented the loss of the Gentiles (“the human beings”) in the bombing. “Who accepts a Jew?” she asked. “Very few.”
Even as it welcomed waves of Jewish immigrants as far back as the 1800s, when many other European Jews headed for Ellis Island, Argentine society nurtured a soft spot for anti-Semites. In almost every decade of the century, there have been outbreaks of Jew-hating and -baiting. And Argentina has the unsavory international role as a haven for geriatric German World War II Nazis and the former refuge of Adolf Eichmann and Josef Mengele. “We can’t say that the population is anti-Semitic,” said Leon Rozitchner, a Jewish sociologist. “But anti-Semitism always comes from various sectors of power – the army, politicians and the Catholic Church.”
Aware of his country’s image, President Carlos Menem has made efforts to show friendship to Argentine Jews. The son of Syrian immigrants, he is the first Argentine president to visit Israel and has a number of Jews in prominent government positions. But Menem has been haunted by his government’s inability to solve the embassy bombing – a failure that has fed local Jewish unease. There are other ominous signs as well. Alberto Pierri, the president of the Chamber of Deputies and a “Peronista” like Menem, earlier this year publicly called a reporter “a lousy Jew.” Examples of anti-Semitism abound: Jewish cemeteries vandalized, swastikas frequently painted on walls, the country’s chief rabbi assaulted on the street in January. Israeli investigators, who were invited by Menem to help find last week’s bombers, have not discounted the possibility that local hands were involved. “This could well have been supported by anti-Semitic or neo-Nazi groups here,” an Israeli official said, and some have been discovered to be well armed.
WE ARE ALL JEWS TODAY, a banner strung across a Buenos Aires street reassured those who gathered for a demonstration supporting the stricken community. Menem himself echoed that thought after the bombing. And as Argentina’s Jews mourned their dead, one hopeful symbol appeared: during last Monday’s chaos, in an annex that withstood the blast, two flags – one Israeli, the other Argentine – poked out of a window. Their shared blue and white coloring billowed in the air, in contrast to the blood-soaked rubble below.
title: " What Am I Doing Here " ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-15” author: “Stephen Nattiah”
For the second time in little more than two years, the largest Jewish community in Latin America – as many as 300,000 strong – had become a target. The bomb devastated the seven-floor, Jewish-Argentine Mutual Association – the heart of the community’s social and education network and keeper of its historical archives – and battered buildings around the old Jewish quarter of Buenos Aires. The government blamed radical Islamic fundamentalists, who they believe had struck here before. But unlike the March 1992 car bomb that leveled the Israeli Embassy, this explosion could not be explained away as an act of political terror. This time the attack struck at Jewish civilian and religious life, smashing the community’s sense of security.
Some talked of pulling their children out of the city’s many Jewish schools and clubs, or even of moving to Israel, where more than 76,000 Argentine Jews have already gone. “If I am going to expose my children to this danger, I can do it in a place where it has meaning,” said Roxana Karzovinik, a 33-year-old mother of two. “What am I doing here?”
She was doing what Argentine Jews have done for more than a century: living comfortably in a country that has a kind of schizophrenia about their presence. One of the paradoxes of life in Argentina is the coexistence of a persistent, often open anti-Semitism along with some of the world’s most vibrant Jewish communal life. Most of the time, discrimination is kept in the closet, pulled out for private conversations – like the wealthy suburban housewife who last week lamented the loss of the Gentiles (“the human beings”) in the bombing. “Who accepts a Jew?” she asked. “Very few.”
Even as it welcomed waves of Jewish immigrants as far back as the 1800s, when many other European Jews headed for Ellis Island, Argentine society nurtured a soft spot for anti-Semites. In almost every decade of the century, there have been outbreaks of Jew-hating and -baiting. And Argentina has the unsavory international role as a haven for geriatric German World War II Nazis and the former refuge of Adolf Eichmann and Josef Mengele. “We can’t say that the population is anti-Semitic,” said Leon Rozitchner, a Jewish sociologist. “But anti-Semitism always comes from various sectors of power – the army, politicians and the Catholic Church.”
Aware of his country’s image, President Carlos Menem has made efforts to show friendship to Argentine Jews. The son of Syrian immigrants, he is the first Argentine president to visit Israel and has a number of Jews in prominent government positions. But Menem has been haunted by his government’s inability to solve the embassy bombing – a failure that has fed local Jewish unease. There are other ominous signs as well. Alberto Pierri, the president of the Chamber of Deputies and a “Peronista” like Menem, earlier this year publicly called a reporter “a lousy Jew.” Examples of anti-Semitism abound: Jewish cemeteries vandalized, swastikas frequently painted on walls, the country’s chief rabbi assaulted on the street in January. Israeli investigators, who were invited by Menem to help find last week’s bombers, have not discounted the possibility that local hands were involved. “This could well have been supported by anti-Semitic or neo-Nazi groups here,” an Israeli official said, and some have been discovered to be well armed.
WE ARE ALL JEWS TODAY, a banner strung across a Buenos Aires street reassured those who gathered for a demonstration supporting the stricken community. Menem himself echoed that thought after the bombing. And as Argentina’s Jews mourned their dead, one hopeful symbol appeared: during last Monday’s chaos, in an annex that withstood the blast, two flags – one Israeli, the other Argentine – poked out of a window. Their shared blue and white coloring billowed in the air, in contrast to the blood-soaked rubble below.
title: " What Am I Doing Here " ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-15” author: “Carmelo Workman”
It was a bad week, but not an unusual one for the much-abused U.N. troops of Canada’s Royal 22d Regiment, charged with keeping the peace in a swath of Central Bosnia. The lightly armed, poorly equipped Canadians have seen worse. Last New Year’s, a group of drunken Serb soldiers rounded up 10 of them, beat them with their fists -and then lined them up against a wall for execution. The Serbs opened fire with live ammunition–but deliberately missed their victims, who were later released.
Twice in the past year, Canadians have been taken hostage by the Serbs in retaliation for NATO airstrikes. After last week’s strikes, Harvey knew what was coming. He rushed to join his men on the Serb side, to be with them when they were taken. The regiment’s commanding officer, Lt. Col. Danny Redburn, also knew his troops would be hostages if they stayed on Serb ground. But he decided not to order a withdrawal, worried that the Serbs might shoot at his men as they left. There was also the matter of what would happen to their observation posts, fitted out with TVs and refrigerators. “You leave an OP out here and it’s like leaving a car in the middle of the night in New York,” says Redburn. “You come back, there’s nothing left.”
The 22d calls Camp Visoko a little island of Canada, but they must be thinking of Quonset huts in the Arctic. Up to 840 troops share a huge warehouse filled with tattered tents. A small video hall, jammed night and day, provides entertainment. There’s a complete field hospital, staffed by 53 medics, one for every 16 troops. Often enough, they need it. In two years, the Canadians have suffered 10 dead and 75 wounded.
It isn’t every soldier who can stand this kind of abuse. Like most countries contributing to the U.N. force, Canada sends only its best troops, usually volunteers. Many of the men at Visoko are now on their third tour. At least they are well paid. A Canadian corporal normally gets $30,000 a year; here there is an extra $1,100 a month in hazardous-duty pay. The Canadians are famous for adhering more strictly than most to the U.N. policy of returning fire only in self-defense. (The British and French are quick to return fire, and in Tuzla, Nordic tank gunners–perhaps the most aggressive of the U.N. forces–have blasted away whenever the Serbs fired on them.) The Canadians won’t even cock their weapons unless an enemy weapon is pointing at them. Says Redburn: “We’re not here to bully anyone.”
Take off: In Bosnia, there are bullies on both sides. The colonel saves most of his indignation for the Bosnian army. When the Canadians tried to move some of their troops out of Visoko, to safer Croatian territory last fall, Bosnian army armored personnel carriers blocked their way. Fearing that their flights home for once-in-six-months leave would take off without them, some of the Canadian soldiers rolled out their own APCs and blocked the highway to Bosnian traffic–until the Muslims gave in.
Equally galling is the Bosnians’ refusal to let the peacekeepers help. “Sometimes you wonder, ‘What am I doing here if I can’t do my job?’” says the colonel. The Bosnian army has forbidden him to take his armored vehicles anywhere near the confrontation line, which they’re supposed to monitor. He needs to make written requests to move an APC out of his own gates. Bosnian civilian clinics that the underworked U.N. medics used to visit are now declared off-limits. “They want us to be here, but they don’t want us to do anything,” says Redburn. “We don’t want to just be a target.”
These targets are nonetheless fiercely proud of their mission impossible. Says Capt. Chris Bergeron, “We are the most respected U.N. troops in Bosnia now, because we are the only ones who have troops on all sides.” The belligerents have a funny way of showing respect. “It’s difficult, but only a soldier could do it,” says Bergeron. “It’s a crazy war. I’m sure they all lost their minds a long time ago.” Trying to be a peace-keeper when there’s no peace to keep may be a recipe for that, too.
