In memory of Theo Schkolne

by Joel Pollak
Los Angeles, California (delivered by Dr. Anthony Ger in Cape Town)

To my dear friend Theo:

“How about that? You were caught with a flat.”

One of our many inside jokes.

You were my best friend in the years I lived in Cape Town, and we stayed in touch after I moved back to the United States.

I met you in August 2000, when you stood up to anti-Israel radical bully Uri Davis and told him he lacked “equal empathy” for both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

We began writing opinion articles together, pushing back against extreme criticism of Israel and the Jewish community.

You overcame your fear of losing work for expressing your views, and your memories of antisemitism in your childhood hometown of Wellington.

You spoke out, not only because you came from 13 generations of rabbis, but because you wanted to protect people from evil and abuse.

Together with David Hersch, we created a little group to fight against anti-Israel propaganda. We were independent. We had to be, because we had to speak freely, and — your favorite word — authentically.

We helped the Jewish community find its voice in the new, democratic era. We showed there was no contradiction between embracing the new South Africa and loving the State of Israel, even if both deserved criticism, at times.

We led the fight against Ronnie Kasrils — whom you called the “Marxist bagel boy” — when he launched a petition against Israel.

We became close friends.

We confided in each other. We talked about politics, and family, and writing.

You were proud of the meticulous way you wrote your forensic reports, when you worked with people who had survived traumatic accidents.

You knew you could have been more concise, but you cared about your patients and about the truth.

You taught me to look beyond the slogans of political debate and to see the “wounded” human beings behind them.

You urged me to break out of the familiar patterns of my own life, and to take risks with ideas, and with feelings.

We spent several evenings a week together, eating dinner at Mano’s, or Posticino; or having coffee at Carlucci’s.

On Friday night, I would meet you at Sam Rabinowitz’s place for Shabbat, with Roger, and Lauren, and anyone else who happened to be in town.

Over kitke, wine, and chicken soup, we would talk and laugh well into the night.

One night, you and I found ourselves hosting a group of young Ethiopian Israeli dancers who were touring the country.

We landed up at your house, with its sweeping views of Table Bay, entertaining these beautiful, black Jews — a magical evening.

A year later, we joined a tour of Israel that was organized by the South African Zionist Federation for media activists in the community.

You and I insisted we be allowed to break away from the group and to spend a day with the left-wing Israeli human rights group B’Tselem.

Some of the leaders in the Jewish community were shocked that we would do so, but we wanted to see and hear the other side of the argument.

At the end of the day, our Palestinian driver began asking us about South Africa. When we told him about the HIV/Aids pandemic, the driver blurted out: “They need to put all those people in camps!”

You were shocked, and told him that he needed to learn a little more about human rights.

At Ben-Gurion Airport, on the way back, we were questioned by security. A very serious-looking young woman demanded to know: if you were Jewish, what was the last Jewish holiday you celebrated?

This was October, so the answer should have been “Sukkot” or “Simchat Torah,” one of the happiest holidays. You snapped back instead: “Tisha B’Av,” the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. She burst into laughter and waved us through.

One the flight back, we managed to sit next to Johnny Clegg, the late, great South African musician, who brought traditional Zulu music together with rock and roll. He had been in Jerusalem, visiting his sister, who had been very ill.

The three of us spoke for hours, and connected through our love of South Africa and Israel. (He, too, had quietly resisted Ronnie Kasrils.)

A year before, I had started working for Tony Leon in Parliament, where I met my wife, Julia, the daughter of the late Rhoda Kadalie.

You let me go, in a way. And you came to love Julia, even though it meant that I would leave to follow her back to America.

I remember the day you came to my little house in Bo Kaap to take me to the airport. Someone shouted at you to move your car. “Oh, go kak in a bak!” you said.

My last memory of life in South Africa.

But you stayed with me, on the other side of the world.

My wife and I often repeat your favorite insult — “Get a life — get an internal, intellectual life!” It was your phrase of choice when dealing with people who refuse to consider alternative points of view.

I feel blessed that I was able to spend so much time with you last February, having dinners and coffees together. It was almost like old times.

I thanked you for helping me to become a writer, and a husband, and a father. And I told you how, in all the years since I left Cape Town, I have never found a friend like you.

When I visited again, earlier this year, I spent many hours with you in the hospital. You wanted so desperately to be in your own home, to be free.

Well, you are free now. Not in the way any of us would have wanted, but the way all of us must go.

Thank you for everything — for always defending me; for the love you showed to Julia and the children; for being the wonderful, spiky, cool and authentic human being you always were.

I will always miss you.