Passover is here.  For Jews, it is the oldest continuous holiday in their existence.  It marks the end of Jewish slavery in ancient Egypt, when we are reminded of the fact that the ritual Passover seder eternally ended with Jews worldwide saying: "Next year in Jerusalem."  For most of time, that phrase mirrored the  hope and belief that one day Jews, forever vulnerable and without a homeland, would return to their birthplace. 

For the vast majority of Jews alive today, that phrase has lost its meaning.  For them, Israel exists, and Jerusalem is a mere plane ride away.  It is axiomatic that Jews everywhere feel safer and stronger due to Israel's existence.  Yet barely 40% of American Jews have visited Israel and unfettered Jewish support for Israel has dropped since the sixties.

This complex dichotomy is similar to what America faces today between its citizens and the police. 

Without the police and their incredible attempts to instill "law and order," we would not have a country.  Granted, some societal segments have fared worse than others in police interactions, but the friction has been  primarily created by politics, stereotypes, and poor social engineering — all of which are drastically changing today. 

Like Israel as a port in the storm, our police are basically our guardians, who assist in the perpetuation of our society and serve as a safety blanket in troubled times. 

Yesterday, while driving on the suicidal stretch of I-95 between Miami and Palm Beach, at the posted speed limit of 70, I was rear-ended.  Not knowing what had happened, I prayed I hadn't had a tire blow out, fought to keep the zig-zagging car under control, and then looked in my rear-view window.  Right behind was a huge red truck, driving parallel to a huge white one.  I signaled I was exiting;

the red truck slowed, seemingly to follow, but, as I exited, it sped away.  Oh, did I want the driver to be apprehended.   

Shakily, I called 911, and pulled into a strip mall, clueless as to where I was.  Thankfully, the woman on the other end of the phone figured it out and dispatched an officer.  Almost immediately, the officer called to ensure thatI was physically okay.  He called again to apologize for being slowed by traffic — then soon arrived.  Once on the scene, he verified red paint on the back of my car and explained what had happened — sadly, in his experience, my accident was a daily occurrence with typically worse outcomes, where a truck driving too fast is distracted; suddenly looks up; and, seeing an inevitable collision, swerves to avoid but hits anyway. 

After the Florida highway patrol officer had painstakingly written a report, without much help from me other than the color red, he respectfully and calmly explained legal Florida state follow-up.  His entire  affect canceled any hint of his extreme youth. 

As I left, I pondered the fact that the initial call I made had been to the police, not family.  Thankful and feeling blessed that I was not dead or maimed, I also thought of the unfair attacks the police are now facing.  For them, I hope it is akin to "Next year in Jerusalem." 

Image via Pixy.