I recently read in the paper that public-relations and media-image
consultants offered MKs a course in how to be interviewed by the
media. I thought hey, that's interesting; I'd love to know more
about it. Then I remembered: Me! I'm a journalist! (Sometimes I
forget.) I could learn what they learned about being interviewed,
by interviewing them.
I raced over to the Knesset. The guard, Itzik, asked my name,
I told him Orbaum, and he asked, Orbaum the muckraking subversive?,
and I said yup. He wouldn't let me in. I promised Itzik to write
about him so he snuck me in.
It's important you get a picture of what it's like
inside the Knesset. Why do we need such a huge building for only
120 MKs? (At any given time on an average Friday, there's at least
120 people in my neighborhood makolet, which is a lot smaller than
the Knesset, with a lot more politics going on.) The reason is,
there's something like 10 interviewers for every MK, and we media
people need space.
From what I could tell, this was the bulk of their work:
being interviewed. That's why it's so important they learn how to
talk to reporters.
I got my chance at an exclusive when I spotted the Arab MK,
Mohammad Whatsisname, all alone. He was on a ladder, his head up
in the ceiling. Not that I'm going to judge another man's culture;
if this is how Muslims pray, what do I care? I asked him how he
did in the course.
"Great!" he answered from up there.
I wanted more. I helped him along. "So you learned how
to give interviews?"
"I don't give interviews," he shouted down.
"Then what the heck did you learn?"
"How to fix the ceiling," he answered. He said
his name was Mohammad Something-or-other, so my mistake was
understandable.
I ignored a couple of MKs who I thought were workers, and
then, bingo! David Levy!
"You're out to get me," he answered, before I even
asked the question. He carried right on. "Well, I'll tell you
this: Someday David Levy will be prime minister, and then you'll
all be sorry." I wondered if he understood what he'd said.
"I take it you didn't do very well in the course,"
I said.
He curled his lips. "There's nothing David Levy can
learn. You don't become a David Levy unless you know what
not to say to reporters. Then they always write that I say the opposite
of what I mean. What, it's my fault?"
There was an important-looking confab going on near the Coke
machine, so I hurried over and stuck my head in.
"Who're you?" one of them asked.
Smartly, I flashed 'em my plastic card.
"You work for the supermarket?"
Wrong card. "I'm a journalist," I said. I popped
the question.
"Well, for one thing, we learned not to assume media
people know everything. The teacher said it's polite and helpful
to identify ourselves, avoid any misunderstanding, and spare the
interviewer the embarrassment of asking who we are."
"I see. So who are you?"
"We're Yitzhak Levy, Yitzhak Cohen, Eliezer Cohen, Yossi
Katz, Yisrael Katz and Haim Katz. That's the best I can do: you
see, it's a long-standing argument. We're not sure who's who."
"Gee, that's a problem."
"The newspapers don't help, because they always get
our names wrong. But the course instructor came up with a solution:
we should all agree on everything, so it doesn't really matter who's
quoted."
"So the course was helpful?"
They debated for a while, until they finally agreed. "Yes,
very."
Silvan Shalom was hurrying to the minyan, I guess, because
he ran into a room marked "Men." What our country's finance
minister has to pray for I have no idea. I cornered him as he hurried
out. I asked: "Would you say you improved your relations with
the media?" Well, it seemed like a good question to me.
"None of your business," he snapped. Turns out,
he thought I was inquiring about his love life. Well, how was I
to know his wife's family owns Yediot?
A bearded MK came running. "Ask me! Ask me!" So
I asked about his love life. Silly of me. He was from Shas, they
don't do that sort of thing. I swiftly understood why he was so
anxious to be interviewed. His name was Ofer Hugi, #16 on the Shas
list. No one ever heard of him because he was never interviewed
because no one ever heard of him, so he wanted to get into the paper,
desperately. He said he had an opinion. I advised him to be interviewed
by Student Post first, and work his way up, because he needed
experience. Besides, who cares what Ofer Hugi thinks?
On the other hand, the chance to talk to #16 on the Labor
list was an Ofer I couldn't refuse.
"Ofer Paz," he introduced himself.
I asked him what's the big deal with the course, did it help
him?
"Certainly. The instructor advised me to change my name
for English speakers, so they shouldn't laugh at me anymore. I used
to be known as Pines."
How rude! I laughed and laughed, and who could blame me.
Another MK came by and shook my hand. "Bronfman, Roman."
Well, I happen to know the Bronfmans are Canadian. I told him so.
He admitted he's not from Italy. "I'm Russian."
I asked him about the course.
"I learned a lot. I learned that in Israel, there is
something called 'freedom of the press.'" His eyes were beady
with amazement. "Did you know this?!" Yes, I'd heard.
"They taught me that a journalist can ask any question, make
up any answer, and anyone reading the newspaper is free to think
whatever they want. Is this true?"
Yes, I said. I wondered what he understood about this country's
freedom of religion.
I had hauled in enough small fry; I went looking for the
big fish, the headliners.
I found one. "Mr. Peres, how did you do in the course?"
"It was so cool! They told me stuff that, like, I didn't
know, y'know? The instructor sez I should get rid of the phony Polish
accent, cuz people watchin' on TV get the wrong idea, that I'm the
foreign minister of Poland or something. So I hadda learn how to
talk, like, American, cuz they can relate to that."
Okay, so now the English-speaking world can finally understand
him, but what about when he's interviewed on Polish TV? It
seemed like a poor trade-off.
Someone suddenly appeared, and the entire press corps stampeded
towards him. For someone who was about to give hundreds of interviews
at the same time, I could only hope this fellow did well in the
course. I was lucky to get in my question. "Did you learn anything
about media image, like, how to be interviewed?"
"Do you have any idea who I am?" Bibi said, with
that tone of someone with a serious attitude problem. He leaned
in on me with a glare. "I am the god of media image.
I am the epitome of interview perfection. Where were you during
the Gulf War, stuck in your sealed room without a radio?!"
"I was on the front lines," I said hastily. (It
was a lie, but he'd never know.)
Obviously, he didn't learn anything at all. I asked about
his love life. He refused to answer (probably he didn't have enough
time).
He suggested I go bother the prime minister with my questions.
Hey, good idea!
"Get lost," the prime minister snarled with a smile.
"But Bibi sent me to speak to you."
"You tell that so-and-so he's a low-down dirty scoundrel,"
Sharon roared with a smile.
Whoa there. I'm a journalist, the last thing I want to get
involved in is political confrontations. "Tell him yourself,"
I said.
Smiling, he threatened to have my credentials revoked, and
took a few steps toward me menacingly, with a smile.
Yes, I have noticed the recent transformation of our pee-em
since the last election campaign. I made an educated guess that
his penchant for smiling at every possible provocation was suggested
by the public relations consultants. I asked him, and he only smiled
as the guards took me away.
I didn't mind, though. Ticking him off my list, I noticed
that everyone I wanted to speak to had already been ticked off.
As I was carried out, I waved to Itzik, and asked if I could
come back the next day. I had another story idea, actually the flip-side
of this one: "Should reporters take a course on how to interview
MKs?"
