A European friend sent us a video of Gideon Levi talking about how Israelis think themselves superior to Arabs, and I sputtered to myself something about how all the pharmacists and at least a quarter of the doctors are Arabs, but I didn’t write her.  I didn’t write her about the physiotherapist who got me walking the day after my surgeries and encouraged me to the point that within months I was back to normal.  I didn’t write her about the tiny experience I had yesterday in the heart clinic with the turbaned secretary who seemed like a very typical haredit, but who laughed at my jokes.  Then a hijabed woman in a long dress with long sleeves entered the room and began talking to the secretary through the reception window. 

I waited for a scene. 

But after a few humorous pleasantries the Arab woman went into the secretary’s room and began using the phone.  “I’m calling from the heart clinic – you missed your appointment with me this afternoon, Mrs. Cohen, and I want to make sure all is okay with you.”