For a moment I experienced what public figures experience all the time. And it wasn't fun.

October 11, 2018   

1. Hello first grade. Hello second grade. Hello third grade. And believe me, I would happily go on and on, grade after grade. This week it really happened. The school year has begun. Not for two weeks, not even for a month. More than six months of blessed routine. I counted to make sure I wasn't imagining it: We are in a leap year, from the beginning of Cheshvan to the beginning of Nisan, with the arrival of the Passover vacation - six months. Six, who knows? Six months of routine. And now, after the school year has begun, let me return to a small trauma that I experienced as part of the Alek - the opening of the school year before the holidays. The thing is this: public figures usually come for well-publicized tours of our children's school at the beginning of each year. That is, public figures tour many schools, of all types and sectors, throughout the country, but somehow they come to our school in Jerusalem more often. Honestly, it seems to me that they enjoy it and there is no shortage of it. Politicians love to take pictures with cute kids (and, thank God, there are many of them at our school), and the school administration hopes that perhaps thanks to the visit, the repeated promises of elected officials to finally provide the minimum, most elementary thing - permanent buildings for the classrooms, will come true one day. It has really become a tradition. The president of the state was at the school (it happened right when one of our children started first grade. A year later, on the first day of second grade, he was quite disappointed that the prime minister didn't show up), and the mayor, and government ministers and CEOs and treasury officials. Almost all of them promised that this would be the last year that school would open like this, in a trailer park. This disgrace must stop. And listen, I don't know why they say about politicians that they just make promises and disappear. They really don't disappear. They come back exactly a year later, and promise that this would be the last year that school would open like this. This disgrace must stop. 2. So this year two came: Education Minister Naftali Bennett and Interior Minister Aryeh Deri. It was fascinating. They came together. Bennett entered a few classrooms and actually taught a lesson. He is no less good at this than at giving press interviews to foreign media. Deri sat on a green school chair and listened to teacher Bennett like a good boy. Then they switched: Deri told the students about his childhood at school and Bennett moved to the green chair. It was exciting. In general, I think that meeting with children actually brings out something authentic in politicians. Then the ministers went into a closed meeting in one of the rooms (i.e. the trailers) of the school. Basically, this part was closed, not everyone who was present on the tour was invited in, but I went in for a moment because I saw the fruit tray through the open door, and I have a weakness for sliced ​​mango. I'll go in for a moment, I told myself, I'll get something and leave. And so I did, except that the school principal was inside, and when he saw me, without any prior planning, he asked me to say a few words in honor of the important guests as the parents' representative. Wow. A great honor, but what, for God's sake, do I say, as the official representative of hundreds of parents, to the Minister of Education and the Minister of the Interior? Looking back, I can think of many beautiful things to say. I could talk about the truly wonderful school. The staff. The principal's smile. The family atmosphere. How happy the children are to go to school. I could also quote some saying about the importance of education from Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, or from the Rebbe of Piassen. Now I have many beautiful directions, but in real time, between the principal's announcement and the beginning of my inaugural speech to the government ministers and members of the political-security cabinet, no significant idea about education flashed through my mind. Maybe because my mind was busy trying to remember, from now to now, what grades our children were studying in at school. Basically, it's supposed to be an easy exercise: you remember what grade the child was in last year, and add one more school year to the calculation, because they just started a new grade. Simple, right? An equation with one missing. Well, go figure all that out now while you're looking for a napkin to wipe the mango residue off your hand. Well, there's no time, the principal has already introduced me as the parents' elected representative. In the meantime, the Deputy Minister of Education, the Deputy Minister of the Interior, the chairman of the Knesset Education Committee, and several city council members also entered the room. Everyone fell silent politely, and here my speech begins: "The truth is... you saw for yourself... uh... I don't have much to add," I heard myself say. Then, by God's grace upon me, I improvised a nice joke: "As parents, we are very satisfied, but only one thing bothers us at this school, that we are not the biggest celebrities here. Because Eviatar Banai's children study here, and also Yishai Ribo's and Aharon Razel's. So we're on tour with you because they just brought the parents who are free..." The ministers and their assistants smiled and moved on with the agenda, to the joint professional meeting. And I returned home with a desire for more mangoes. 3. Two hours later, without any warning, my WhatsApp suddenly started going wild. Full of comments. Some from people whose numbers I don't even recognize. "Does it really bother you that you're not a celebrity?" Or: "Why do you think this is what Deri is interested in?" Or: "Why do you think this is what Bennett is interested in?" Or: "Why do you think you're not a celebrity?" Or: "Enough!! Yishai's kids really fought at school with your kids?!?! Can you arrange a selfie with him for me?" Or "What is a celebrity?" At first I didn't understand what they were talking about. I didn't remember what exactly I said to the ministers there. At the second moment, I didn't understand how everyone knew what I said. After all, there were only Deri, Bennett, two deputy ministers, an assistant or two, the school principal, and maybe the head of the house who arranged the chairs. So how did the whole world and his wife hear about what I said (sorry, I rambled)? Then I got a link that explained everything. It turns out that someone in the room simply filmed the situation on a cell phone and sent it to a Haredi website that quickly published it in a prominent place with a large headline: "Friends and Siyon Rahav Meir: We are not the biggest celebrities." Oh my. Is this how Deri and Bennett feel when half of their sentences from closed meetings are leaked? Don't get me wrong. It's not that I have a problem with that sentence. I'm not denying that I said it either. I definitely said it. I stand behind it. My words were not taken out of context. But my words were taken out, and that's serious enough. You tell a half-baked joke in a closed room, try to adapt it to the very specific audience in front of you, and within two or three hours it goes out to tens of thousands as a news headline, as a political statement. Oh, I forgot the main thing: next to the news item there was a minute and 14-second video with the documentation of my "speech", of course accompanied by the recommendation-command "Watch!". And that was really scary. I didn't dare press play. Again, it's not that I thought they'd see me there stealing gum (mango flavor?) from a grocery store without paying. Everything's fine. But in those scary moments, I didn't remember exactly what I said there, or how I said it, and as a person who cares very, very much about what is published under his name (ask the designer of this magazine, how many rewritten versions of this column she has to endure every week. Thank you very much, Seguli), there's something terrifying about knowing that you said something, that you don't remember what it was, in a closed forum, and it gets out. 4. Finally, I gathered my courage, took a breath, and watched. Honestly, it wasn't that bad. Except for the fact that my shirt was carelessly coming out of my pants. And besides, the segment was cut off at the beginning and end, meaning the context wasn't entirely clear. Well, there probably wasn't room in the memory of the leaker's or the leaked one's cellphone. Or he didn't have time to send everything. This is part of the media age. To snatch and upload. To photograph and share. It doesn't really matter what's inside, because we've long since moved on to the next item. "Watch: What did the minister whisper?" Chasing "Watch: The exciting documentation." It's funny, I'm a media person. I work in the field. Not some person hiding behind tools who doesn't know the rules of the game. And yet, I've never received such a lesson about an eye seeing and an ear hearing and all your actions on WhatsApp being linked. Well, I've learned my lesson. At the start of the next school year, when Trump visits our school, I'll come with a well-prepared speech and a shirt inside. And you know what? I have a feeling that Trump is also capable of doing what no one before him has been able to do: get us out of the trailers. • The column is published in the newspaper 'Besheva'"