The Lies They Tell Read online

  “Pride.”

  In what?

  “My nation.”

  Is America a “nation”? In over three decades in New York, this thought has never crossed my mind.

  Slowly but surely we reach Christ Church Burial Ground, where we stand near Ben Franklin’s grave, which has many pennies on top of it.

  “If you toss a penny on Ben Franklin’s grave,” our guide shares with us an old belief, “you will absorb some of his intelligence.”

  I toss a penny.

  And it brings me good luck: the tour ends.

  A sign nearby reads: “David Salisbury Franks (c. 1740–1793). Distinguished Jewish officer and aide-de-camp to Gen. Benedict Arnold during the Revolutionary War.” Another Jew in Philly.

  I chat with a group of three people standing by. I ask them to tell me what’s special about America.

  The youngest of them, twenty-three-year-old Ann, says: “In this country everybody can go from rags to riches. No matter how low on the social ladder you are, if you apply yourself you can reach the highest rank.”

  Do you believe that you, personally, will reach the highest rank of the ladder?

  “Yes!”

  What’s the highest rank of the ladder?

  “A high school teacher.”

  Wow! That’s high!

  I bid them farewell and we depart.

  • • •

  And now that I’m on my own, I walk over to Independence Hall – the very reason I came to Philly to start with. I enter the building. It is not what I expected.

  I expected Independence Hall to be opulent in style and design, even more grand than the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, but this is not the case. The Assembly Room in the Independence Hall looks more like an old restaurant in an Eastern European village, where lunch costs pennies, rather than a super major American historic building. Perhaps it indicates a humble beginning for this huge country.

  The Liberty Bell in the steeple of this structure is not the original one, I’m told. The actual Liberty Bell is a five-minute walk from here, standing on the floor at the Liberty Bell Center.

  I gotta see the Liberty Bell, an iconic symbol of American independence. I want to touch American history with my bare hands. I walk over to the center.

  There’s an inscription on the bell, which reads: “Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.” Interesting: these words are taken from the Bible (the Book of Leviticus), and they were written about the Holy Land of Israel.

  Were the founders of this country, deeply religious, trying to build a new Israel in the New World? Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of America’s relationship with the Jews. It did not start with Samantha.

  • • •

  I head back to my hotel. In the smoking area, now that I know where it is, I meet a middle-aged white couple. “There are neighborhoods in this city,” the man, James, tells me, “that you wouldn’t want to go in, unless you have a gun. Watch Channel 6, Action News, and you’ll see.”

  Do you carry a gun, James?

  “I have a gun, but not on me at the moment.”

  I go to my room to check James’s Channel 6. Here is what I find: “Police are looking for the gunman who shot a fifty-year-old man in an alley near his home in the Frankford section of Philadelphia.” “Authorities say a male juvenile was shot in the leg in Philadelphia’s Juniata Park section.” “Police in Southwest Philadelphia are hunting for the man who they say raped a woman while she waited for the bus.”

  Dr. Engineer comes in. He turns my chair around, this way and that, but nothing happens. He’s an engineer like I am Ben Franklin.

  Can you fix it?

  “Can’t.”

  But he’ll try to replace it. That’s Philly of today: engineers, rape and murder.

  Somebody out there must take all this to heart and pray for the lost souls of Philly, wouldn’t you say so? I do, and on Sunday morning I check around for the best church one can find in Philly. I pick the Religious Society of Friends, known worldwide as Quakers.

  • • •

  I am about to attend a Quaker service or, as they call it, Meeting for Worship – and I’m excited. I don’t even know why.

  The Quakers played a big part in the establishment of the United States of America. To start with, the founder of Pennsylvania, William Penn, was a Quaker, and he founded this state as a haven for them. In addition, the principles that he set forth, such as equality and religious freedom, would later be adopted as the leading principles of the United States of America.

  How do I know?

  I read this stuff in this Quaker house. But enough history. It’s time for service.

  No cross, crescent or any other symbol is evident anywhere in the prayer room – or whatever one would call this room, where about sixty people have gathered for service. There’s no prayer book either. There are rows of benches here, three on each of the four sides of the room, and people sit on them, facing one another.

  They are quiet. They are silent. Nothing really happens.

  Are they waiting for the Second Coming? Perhaps, but no one says anything or shows any sign.

  Time passes and nothing happens.

  Are they waiting for somebody? Doesn’t look it. They are thinking.

  More time passes. Slowly.

  And then a lady, a white lady in her sixties, stands up and speaks: “I want to confess for feeling numb. When I heard the news, what happened in South Carolina, I felt ache but no pain.”

  She’s talking about Dylann Roof. Nobody says anything.

  Quiet again.

  These are the American roots, if you hadn’t guessed by now. Quakers. Quiet Quakers.

  I’d never have guessed in a million years that America is rooted in silence.

  I learn.

  The clock continues ticking and nothing happens. What patience these people have!

  And then a white man, about the same age as the lady, stands up and speaks: “I saw on TV that some of them say that this was the beginning of a religious war. Which is what the son of Osama Bin Laden said.” Bin Laden was reportedly the founder of Al Qaeda, the organization that took responsibility for blowing up the Twin Towers in New York on September 11, 2001. “We have to pray that this doesn’t succeed.”

  He sits down. Nobody talks. All are silent.

  The clock continues to click and tick, but nothing happens. And then a black lady, a bit younger than the other two speakers, opens her mouth. She sits as she speaks. “I saw on TV,” she says, “the talking heads, and some of them were saying that what happened in South Carolina was an act against Christians. Act against Christians? That was not an act against Christians; that was a racial crime, a murder because of race. Murder because of race!”

  Nobody reacts. Silence.

  More silence. More silence. A white lady gets up and agrees with the black lady. And then a man gets up and says, “We have a lot of cakes, and all are invited.”

  Food time.

  • • •

  Sitting next to me is a lady by the name of Audrey. Everybody goes to have cakes, and I talk with Audrey. “Are you German?” she asks me.

  How did you know?

  “Very easy to know. I see how you are dressed, your bag, your manners.”

  I never knew I was so German!

  Audrey is a Quaker, a devout Quaker. Explain the Quakers to me, I ask her.

  “Quakers is an English word, to quake. George Fox, the founder of the Quakers, quoted the Bible saying that you have to tremble before the Lord, from which the word quake and later Quakers developed. The original name was Religious Society of Friends. As you could see in the service, it’s quiet; you speak only when you have the need, when something quakes inside you, something that makes you open your mouth and speak.”

  Are you a descendent of the original Quakers?

  “No, I was not raised a Quaker.”

  Catholic or something?

  “No, no. My parents were r
eformed.”

  Reformed? Who are the reformed?

  “Reform Jews.”

  Ah! So you grew up Jewish?

  She looks at me as if I’ve just found out her biggest secret and am about to out her.

  Are you Jewish?

  “My parents, they were reformed.”

  Another Jew in Philly. This time in the flesh.

  David, a member of the community, joins in. He is very happy, he says, with President Obama because Obama is favorable to the Palestinians.

  I go to the cakes table and find myself half a Berliner (a doughnut). It’s really good, it has more jam than dough, and I quietly enjoy every bite and every lick. God bless the Quakers!

  I get myself some coffee, which is not really good, and sit down to talk with other Quakers. Almost all of them are white, and they all love blacks and deeply care about them. That’s what they tell me, at least. I tell them I’m a tourist and ask them for tips.

  “Don’t go to Germantown; it’s not safe there,” one of them says, and all agree.

  I write a note to myself, “Go to Germantown!” and continue listening to them. All of them, they share with me, love Obama.

  Why? Because he is “showing more support for the Palestinians, he is tougher with the Israelis, and he is lifting the embargo on Cuba.” Cuba is America’s neighbor, but Cuba is the last on their list of Obama’s good deeds.

  Later, I check out the news to see if anything especially horrible happened in Israel that would make them feel this strongly about that country, but all I can find in today’s top news is Channel 6 reporting that “police are searching for two suspects after a shooting at a West Philadelphia block party injured ten people, including two children and a one-year-old baby.”

  While the Philadelphians around me can’t stop worrying about Palestinians who live thousands of miles away from them, not one Quaker here seems to quake about people being fired upon within walking distance of them.

  Why are these people so interested in Israel? I don’t know. All I know is this: I gotta go to Germantown.

  • • •

  When I arrive in Germantown I go into a side street, where I notice people sitting in groups on the front steps and porches of small houses. Everybody is black. There are no Germans here, not a single German. The only white color around is on the walls.

  I stop by one group of people, perhaps members of the same family, and I start talking with them. How’s life in Germantown? I ask them.

  I don’t have a better question.

  “Life’s good here,” a woman tells me. “Thirty years ago it used to be bad, but now it’s good.”

  I’m happy to hear this, I say to her. I explain that I’m a German reporter and I came here, to Germantown, to see how you live.

  “Our mayor is not good, he’s corrupt, but otherwise it’s okay,” she adds.

  How are you getting along with the white people?

  “Very good.”

  A man, standing near, listens to this short exchange, and interrupts.

  “Where you from?”

  Germany.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Just came.

  “Never been here before?”

  Never. I’m a journalist and I came here to report to the world about you. I just heard that everything is good in Germantown. Is that correct? Is this what I should tell the world? Whatever you say, I’ll tell. Don’t matter to me.

  “You want to hear the truth?”

  Only the truth, my new friend.

  “This place is shit.”

  Why?

  “’Cause they may beat you whenever the fuck they want.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I go on. Give me an example, I say to him.

  “’Cause the police, they only want guns, they only want violent stuff. We, they don’t give a fuck about we. They only give a fuck if we have a gun on us.”

  Another man, Horace, says: “There was shootin’. Four gun shots. Two kids, ten-year-old, twelve-year-old; two adults, one lady, one man.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about but, again, I go on. Today? I ask.

  “Four thirty. A few hours ago.”

  What was the reason?

  “No reason. Could be gang-related. Lookin’ for your enemy. No enemy on your block? You go round there shootin’. Hopefully you get him. If not, whoever else got there gets shot. If you can’t catch the person you’re lookin’ for, you go at his brother, his sister, or his mother. However you get at him.”

  I get it, I think. Somebody was looking to shoot somebody but he didn’t find that somebody, so he shot somebody else, a few somebodies. How often does this happen here? I ask.

  “Every other day.”

  Do you personally know any of those who got killed here?

  The first man answers: “My bro, that I grew up with him all my life, got shot two weeks ago, execution style.”

  What is “execution style”?

  “In the head.”

  Did the police catch the killer?

  “No.”

  Horace: “The killer never get caught. That’s why you don’t know when he’s comin’ again.”

  This is a very hard life –

  “You live life to the fullest, ’cause you never know when it gonna end. You be humble and you just try to survive.”

  The first guy adds: “We live in war every day. A lot of stuff on the street not been reported on the news.”

  Horace: “If a brother [a black person] walks on the block and he get shot a couple of times, it ain’t gonna make it to the news.”

  Both have been detained by police at one time or another, but they claim it’s racially motivated. “They stereotype me ’cause I’m black,” Horace says.

  Horace explains to me how you stay alive in the ’hood [black neighborhood, black ghetto] despite all the dangers you are surrounded by: “If you feel, whenever, when your heart tell you somethin’ ain’t good, run fast. Listen to your heart!”

  We take a photo together. Horace’s friend makes a three-finger sign (denoting gang membership) and Horace pushes his friend’s hand down. “No gangs now!” he tells him.

  • • •

  Rachel, a young lady, approaches me. “My dream,” she says, “is to move away from here.” US authorities, she tells me, “treat minorities very, very bad. It all gotta do with skin color.”

  To the people of Germantown I am something of a UFO. No white man, to their recollection, ever walked on this street. This area, I realize, is de facto segregated. For blacks only. Whites might pass through in their cars, perhaps because their GPS has directed them to drive through Germantown, but they won’t get out of their cars to walk here.

  It is sad to watch this ’hood.

  I have been to poor neighborhoods before. I have spent time, time and again, in Middle Eastern refugee camps, and the difference between them and this ’hood is glaring: here the Angel of Death rules supreme.

  As I stand here I understand why the Quakers advised me not to come here. They love the image they have created of themselves, that of a caring people. But do they care? They won’t lift a finger to help their poor, dying neighbors. But they deeply care, of course, about “Palestinians.”

  English has a word for this: it’s called hypocrisy.

  I leave Germantown and go back to my hotel. Near the hotel is the Independence Seaport Museum, and across the street from it an ATM machine. On it someone has scribbled one word: “Jew.” The meaning is clear: if it’s a cash machine, there’s a Jew attached to it.

  As if I needed another ugly reminder after being to Germantown. I’ve come to Philly to learn how America was born, and I leave it with images of death; I have come to see tolerance and I find prejudice.

  I ready myself to leave Philly. But how? I don’t think a private jet is really doable, which means that I have to rent a car.

  Oh, my God, now I’ll have to start driving!

  I hope I make it. I sc
hlep myself to a car rental company and get a red Chevrolet Cruze. A small car with, I hope, great promise. I love red. In Europe red is associated with communists, in the States red is associated with capitalists, but I like red for no political reason; I just love it.

  • • •

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, is the place where the Second Continental Congress adopted the United States Declaration of Independence and where the United States Constitution was written and signed. And then there is Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, one of the bloodiest battlefields of the American Civil War and the place where, in November 1863, President Abraham Lincoln delivered what would later become known as the Gettysburg Address, a speech that to this day is viewed as one of the most important ever given in America.

  The Civil War of 1861–1865, between the South and the North, between the Confederate States of America and the Union, undoubtedly shaped America into what it is today.

  I drive to Gettysburg to follow in the footsteps of this part of American history.

  Within the first half hour of my driving, I almost get into an accident with a huge semitrailer. Luckily, the driver of the vehicle is an experienced driver and at the last second he flies to another lane. He blares his horn at me, but I’m not upset; I deserve it.

  I keep on going, driving and driving, and with time I feel a bit more comfortable. Tomorrow, I hope, no truck drivers will have to fly on the road because of me.

  At a rest stop along the road I check for a specific starting point in Gettysburg, and I find out that there are guides there who will take people like me along the route of the Battle of Gettysburg.

  Perfect!

  • • •

  I hook up with one of those guides, a man by the name of Paul. Paul gets into my red car and directs me. From time to time we stop and get out of the Cruze, and Paul gives me the exact number of dead and the total number of mortar shells that exploded in each particular location of the battlefield. He also informs me that not all the dead were buried. It is likely, he says, that there are remains, bones and such, right under my feet.

  Thank you.