Shortly after I got back to my seat, with the voting about to begin, I quickly tried my cellphone again. This time, miraculously, I managed to get through to someone with authority at the Israeli Mission. He didn't know there was going to be a vote, or what the vote was about, but he said he'd find out and get back to me. He then hung up.
It was an astonishing moment of disorganization, but as I would see on a pretty regular basis, the maneuvers and accomplishments of the Israeli government could be as much a function of barely controlled chaos as one of shrewd planning and execution of policy.
After a few more seconds the vote was called, and there was no longer any choice but to go for it. I put my earpiece in and looked down at the three buttons -- green, red and yellow. "Well," I thought, "red it is."
Literally moments after the vote I got a call on my cellphone. Now, of course, the reception was fine. On the other end of the line was one of the senior diplomats from the mission, speaking urgently.
"Greg," he said, "are you still there?"
"Yes."
"We found out what the resolution is about. Vote against it, OK?"
"Sure," I said. "No problem."
Only later did I find out that the resolution was about weapons of mass destruction.
At one point during my last week at the mission in May 2005, when I had stepped out of the office at lunchtime to run an errand, my cellphone rang with a call from the mission's spokesperson.
"Greg," she said, "I got another call from the Prime Minister's Office."
"What could it be now?" I wondered.
"Well," she continued slowly, and I could tell by her voice that she was smiling. "The prime minister liked your speech, and so did his aides, and they want to know if you want to come work for him in Jerusalem."
I couldn't believe what I had just heard. I immediately felt exhilarated and confused. I was, of course, immensely flattered, and started wildly picturing where this unexpected turn could lead me -- writing speeches and working for one of the most storied figures in international politics. Ariel Sharon was both hated and loved, but nobody denied his importance. The idea that I could work on his staff astounded me. And not just that, I thought, I could be doing this at a uniquely pivotal time in the Middle East's history, as he tried to implement the disengagement plan from Gaza and move Israel forward. It was a time when real, positive change could be brought about for both Israel and its neighbors, and my head spun with the possibilities of tangibly helping to make it happen.
I spoke to an aide to the prime minister, with whom I had recently worked on a speech, and he told me that the position they were offering me would soon be open. It included English speechwriting for the prime minister and a lot of work with the foreign media and other foreign organizations. The withdrawal from Gaza was coming, he said, and they needed all the help they could get. I would have to make the decision very soon so that they could begin the procedure of getting me on the prime minister's staff. He suggested that early the next morning I speak to Ra'anan Gissin, Prime Minister Sharon's spokesman and media advisor for English media. If I took the job, he'd be one of my supervisors.
I woke up at 6 the next morning, and still lying in bed, I called the Prime Minister's Office. For several years now, beginning before I had become involved with the government, I had been watching Gissin on television. He was in his late 50s or early 60s, and in fast, clipped and heavily accented but fluent English, he had heatedly given the Israeli position in frequent appearances on all the major cable networks, always seeming hawkish and cantankerous.
"Yes, hello, hello," he snapped into the phone.
"This is Gregory Levey," I said, "calling from New York."
"Yes; hello, Greg," he barked quickly, and I had to move the phone away from my ear a little. He was yelling, and I didn't know why. "You're gonna come work for us? Work with me? We need you. It's a very busy time here, and it's going to get busier. Are you coming? When are you coming?"
He was talking nonstop and in rapid fire, and it was very difficult to get a word in.
"I've been watching you on television for years," I said, rather lamely, "and it would definitely be interesting to work with you."
"Yes, I'm on TV a lot. You know, let me tell you about this position. When I was in the paratroopers, we thought of ourselves as the advance guard, the guys who go in first, who don't wait, who don't take orders, who just go on ahead and look for dangers and opportunities. If you get injured, you deal with it, and you just go on. You know what I'm saying?"
I had absolutely no idea what he was saying, but that didn't matter because he didn't give me any time to respond anyway.
"That will be like you, Greg, in this position. You'll just march on ahead as my sort of front line, looking out for me and the prime minister, for information and news we might need. I don't need people who just want to take orders. I want them to take initiative, like a paratrooper."
I tried to say something, but there was still no room for me in the conversation.
"Greg," he continued at lightning speed. "There's a lot to do. A lot of things to do. News comes in, and we just move. We don't wait at all. If you wait, you get left behind. This is the Middle East. It's not New York. In fact, sometimes we don't even wait for news. We make it ourselves. Greg, I've got to go now, but we're looking forward to seeing you here soon. We need your help. There's a lot to do. OK? Bye."
But even then, I had no idea of how much wilder the ride would get once I landed in Jerusalem a few weeks later.
About the writer
Salon contributor Gregory Levey is the author of the memoir "Shut Up, I'm Talking: And Other Diplomacy Lessons I Learned in the Israeli Government." He is on the faculty at Ryerson University and blogs at Gregory Levey.com.
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