Sylvie's Poison Arrows

The lady's matter-of-fact self-assessment: "I am a bitch." Many in Israel agree. The late Levi Eshkol called her a shrew. Yitzhak Raphael, a National Religious Party leader, labeled her a liar. She has been threatened with murder and having acid thrown in her eyes. She is sometimes tailed by thugs, and she gets more hate mail than an Arab sympathizer. Says former Education Minister Zalman Aranne: "She leaves scorched people and scorched earth behind her."

The object of all this enmity is an attractive, green-eyed woman named Sylvie Keshet, the most influential and widely read columnist in Israel. Her twice weekly column in Tel Aviv's daily Ha'aretz (circ. 50,000) is called "An Arrow from Sylvie's Bow," the title being a play on her last name, which is Hebrew for bow. More often than not, Sylvie's arrows are dipped in venom. Her columns have twice prevented prominent politicians from being appointed to the Cabinet. Now, she says with a twinkle in her eye, most of Israel's political leaders "politely refuse to see me."

Sophie Portnoy. No wonder. Of Israel's icy but adroit Foreign Minister Abba Eban, Sylvie wrote: "He is old, rare wine in a plastic bottle. He dances the minuet in an age of rock. He knows all the steps, but his partners step on his toes and kick his shins." Of Finance Minister Pinhas Sapir: "If a creature from outer space met him, it would run in fear." But her sharpest arrows are saved for the Premier herself. In a column called "Madame Kingdom," she compared Mrs. Golda Meir to the reincarnation of the three furies rolled into one, "a dragon who pretends to be St. George." Golda was also Lady Macbeth, Medusa, a witch and Sophie Portnoy. When Moshe Dayan and Deputy Premier Yigal Allon lost in their bids for the Premiership Sylvie wrote: "These two generals are only good to fight and frighten Arabs. But they are afraid to say 'boo' to one old Jewish lady."

Sylvie's epigrammatic style epitomizes what Europeans call the feuilleton --writing characterized by witticisms, plays on words, learned references and clever insults. Some of her targets feel that she is not all that clever. When Yitzhak Raphael was being considered for Golda Meir's coalition Cabinet, Sylvie charged--in the words of the libel suit that Raphael later brought against her--"that he pretended, and still pretends to hold an academic title to which he is not entitled." She also said that he had "strange associations with very dubious people--a man who has underground connections, a card gambler and a smuggler," and that he "visited dubious places of entertainment, where he received special treatment, and neglected his family." Golda Meir's strong moral views are well known; Raphael did not get the post.

Raphael did get furious, but when he sued, Sylvie promptly countersued him for calling her a liar. For twelve weeks Sylvie's trial was the talk of Tel Aviv. As her witnesses gave evidence against Raphael, Sylvie sat demurely hatless in maxiskirts. The trial ended last week when Raphael and Sylvie both agreed to drop their charges, and each signed a statement that neither had meant the other any harm. "Most of my friends," said Sylvie later, "were sorry I did not continue with the case. I wanted to, goodness knows. I still had enough new maxis to wear for weeks to come."

Like Childbirth. Born in 1930 in France, Sylvie was brought to Palestine at the age of five. After compulsory army service, she wrote movie reviews for a local weekly newspaper, then began her Ha'aretz column seven years ago. She rarely interviews, choosing her topic three days before deadline and then digging madly into archives, her memory and notebooks. Sitting at a baroque table cluttered with books and papers, she dashes off her piece with a pen. She never rereads or edits it. "When I begin my research, I hope for a miniholocaust or a broken leg or something so I won't have to do the column. When it's over, I feel like I'd been through childbirth. But then I hate every other kind of work, too." Divorced, she lives with her 14-year-old daughter in a Tel Aviv flat, and for relaxation likes to go to bed with a book, bonbons and apples. "I'm at my best in a reclining position," she explains.

As salty in person as she is in print, Sylvie was visited by Moshe Dayan last year while she was in a hospital recovering from an ulcer. Dayan told her that he planned to visit the dying Levi Eshkol. Was there anything she wanted him to pass on to the Premier? "Yes," said Sylvie, "tell him to get well so you won't become Premier."

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