The Valley's Not So Civil War

Long, somewhat California-centric, may wind up in the I/P dungeon, but well worth it, fine writing.

Ever since the twin towers came crashing down and the cloud of jihad fogged the land, the crop dusters swooping low over the San Joaquin Valley had taken on a new menace. Even here, tucked away in the farm fields of middle California, fear had settled into the ground. Harvest to harvest, one year to the next, we watched tens of thousands of illegal migrants stream into our vineyards. Not a single suicide bomber was among them. Still, we could never be certain whether it was our vigilance or just dumb luck that kept us safe.

I am a native of this valley, fine-tuned to its quirks, but it wasn't until the fall of 2004 that I saw the fear take a different turn.

One Friday evening, as the nation debated whether George Bush or John Kerry would better keep the terrorists at bay, I came across a curious piece of theater playing out along the busiest intersection in Fresno. A group of anti-war protesters, no more than 50 by a generous count, huddled on one corner of Blackstone and Shaw, waving "Honk For Peace" signs. On the opposite corner, an equal number of evangelical Christians and right-wing Jews held up U.S. and Israeli flags and shouted "Jew haters" at the peaceniks. It didn't occur to me, at least not that first day, to stop my car and ask how a quiet vigil against the war in Iraq could be seen as an act of anti-Semitism.

I soon learned that the synagogue where my two sons had gone to preschool was exhibiting its own kind of madness. Temple Beth Israel hadn't been the same since 9/11. Not long after the attacks, the more ardent conservatives in the congregation began showing up in military fatigues to guard the front gates. Their suspicions made even the top choice to be the new rabbi look like a traitor. In a meeting with temple leaders, he was asked about peace in the Middle East and ventured the opinion that Ariel Sharon and Yasser Arafat were two peas in a pod. The rabbi returned to South Carolina, never to be heard from again.

LA Times