I took the young people to Israel earlier this summer. I’ve been thinking about writing about the trip here. On the one hand, it’s personal. There’s a lot of noise around this issue, and I don’t want to get into an online discussion with bots who would explain to me why what I feel is wrong. On the other hand, because I’m writing a book about Israel, it’s also part of my work. On the other other hand, I’m an Israeli expat and technically a Jew, which means that, like it or not, I have to have an opinion about this issue because I do get asked. And saying it’s complicated is fine most of the time. But if there’s one place where I can talk about all the complexities of this issue, it’s here, on my blog, my little virtual space.
So, tl;dr: it’s complicated. What follows is me trying to think in writing.
I wrote a little bit on my newsletter (if you haven’t signed up for it yet, please go ahead and click here to sign up). What I wrote before I went was this:
“I was ambivalent from the moment we booked the flights. I have several qualms, not least of which is appearing to support a country that has lost its way. I'm also not keen on going (and bringing the young people under my care) into what is basically a war zone, even if "our side" is the safer side by far. And I worry about being able to let all of this go when I see people I love who have suffered (and still suffer from) trauma and loss that no one deserves.
So, why am I going? Because I need to see my family. I haven't seen them in too long. I need to hug my mum and my siblings. I need to see how big everyone's kids are now with my own eyes, not through a video call. I need to be there with them, even if it's just a short visit. I need to see the young people spend time with their cousins and second cousins.”
The thing about this trip? All of my qualms were confirmed. And still, it was a good trip. Let’s start with the flight. As a matter of course, right now, British Airways flies to Israel with a pitstop in Cyprus. I refused to book with El Al, the Israeli airline, because I generally disagree with their definition of customer service and because the BA line of when they cancel the flights to Israel suited my preferences. No flight during active war is a line I’m happy to stay behind.
Everything about this country is the conflict incarnated. On the shuttle to the plane, I was wedged between a Muslim woman with four children and a woman who chose this moment to put on her necklace with a pendant in the shape of Greater Israel. How do I know it wasn’t Greater Palestine? Because the woman and her companion were speaking (in loud Hebrew) about the antisemitism that is rife in London. While staring at the Muslim woman. At no point during the journey was I happier to be flying business.
When we arrived, because my Israeli passport had expired, we had to wait in line with the foreign passengers, mostly religious Americans but some religious French. True to form, within a few minutes, someone arrived and sent all the Americans on their way without passing through the border cross desk (so there is no record of them arriving on state computers–don’t ask how that makes sense). I had to stay in line because they had to register our entry on our Israeli passports. To my utter surprise, the lady at the desk actually did some crowd control and sent back a few people who tried to cut in line (because when in Rome).
In Ben Gurion Airport, right after the border control, there’s a long passage to the terminal. Usually, as in other countries I’ve been to, tourism adverts or “we have such a great country” adverts (also in line with other countries) line the walls of the passage. But this time, the avenue was lined with pictures of the hostages who are still in Gaza. The pictures have become shrines where people leave notes and flowers. There’s a picture every half a meter or so. It’s a very long walk.
One event we were all looking forward to was my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah. I wrote a bit about this ceremony and how it can be completely secular (think Sweet Sixteen for American girls, but with aunts you haven’t seen in years who insist on kissing you wetly on the cheek). I booked a cab so that I could drink if I wanted to without getting stuck with two teenagers in Tel Aviv on a Friday night. The cab driver was sweet, brought us there and picked us up when we finished. But en route, he tried to enlist Adam into the IDF. “There are a lot of roles in the IDF. You can do anything, really, and you contribute to the country.” He said that as if he really believed that if you’re a musician, you’re guaranteed to end up in the IDF ensemble (it exists) rather than at some checkpoint in Nablus. Plus, this line of reasoning was engaged after I told him we had left Israel twenty years ago. Luckily, Adam already has some experience with armies (and he’s polite). He said he’s not particularly interested, but he’d consider it.
The Bar Mitzvah ended up being not entirely secular. My nephew apparently developed a Jewish identity and insisted on a religious ceremony. My atheist brother nearly keeled over but supported his son. They compromised on a reform rabbi. So, we sat through an entire Bar Mitzvah ceremony, including laying phylacteries and pelting the nervous kid with candy. Almost every member of my family came over to comment on how shocked Adam and Naomi looked as they watched the ceremony. I did not reply that this wasn’t shock but polite attentiveness. I’m not sure I could explain that concept to my family.
On the cultural front, we had a Tel Aviv day. In the morning, Naomi and I went to visit and help out at a Bubble Tea shop run by an acquaintance while Adam had a surfing lesson. We met up with friends at the mall for lunch–it is 38 degrees in Tel Aviv, and not at all pleasant to hang out outside.
In the afternoon, we went to the Tel Aviv Museum to see an exhibit by my very talented brother-in-law. Muhammad showed us around, and we talked about what the exhibit meant. It consists of thousands of chains like the ones soldiers hang dog tags on. Since October, the dog tags have been associated with the hostages. There are special dog tags, sold by the hostages' families forum, that say “Bring them home”, which is a poor translation of the Hebrew inscription: “Our heart is held hostage in Gaza”. Outside the museum is a square where the families hold their vigils every week.
This setup, of course, prompted a discussion later in the week. It started with a translation question. In Israel, they use the word hostages. We discussed whether it can be translated as prisoners of war. Because they aren’t being held by a country per se, they don’t actually get POW considerations, if any. We talked about how there was an exchange at some point. They asked whether it was a prisoner exchange, which led to the question of whether Israel held Palestinians hostage (or as prisoners of war). And again, the answer to that depends on who you ask. I found myself having a discussion with a 14- and a 13-year-old about administrative detention and Gitmo.
My family is generally centre-left, politically speaking, and prefers living in small villages to cities. Some of them are self-medicating to keep functioning through the trauma of October 7th and being displaced since. And they feel abandoned. They live in border villages at the behest of Zionism. But they made a life for themselves in these god-forsaken areas. This is their home. In their most cynical moments, they say that the government abandoned them because they are left-leaning (traditionally, the farming communities in Israel are less religious and less capitalist than the cities). They feel like they are the first line of defence. Their homes and their children included. This isn’t a long-term strategy, but has been for the last 75 years.
To round us off, there was a drone attack that killed a man in Tel Aviv. That was two blocks from where we spent the cultural morning, four days after I’d taken the offsprings there. That’s not the closest I’ve been to this war, but it was too close for comfort with young people under my care. Still, we probably go back in December. My mum is turning 70.
So, yeah. Complicated. I want to have wiser words. I want to have a complete narrative, with a beginning, middle, and end, that would tie all these shards of impressions and thoughts in a neat bow. I don’t have that. What I have is love. Love for these people, who are stubborn and cynical and militant and authentic and caring and loyal. And that love gives me hope. Shy, slight, and barely perceptible, but I can feel it touch my heart with its fingertips. Not because I think we can do better but because we must.
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