False Dichotomies

Waltz with Bashir opens with wild dogs peltering down Rothschild Boulevard, on an unseasonably windy Tel Aviv night. It’s instantly unsettling, this dream sequence, and I was more agitated than usual by the latecomers whispering in the aisle. Then we cut to our hero, Ari Folman himself, sipping a twilight pint with his friend in a cosy pub, transported to the port to emphasise the effect of the stormy sea cascading outside. Soon, we learn, Folman wants to try and remember what he did during the First Lebanon War, how he’s connected. Read more

Back in August, I got into a row with a Delhi cinema manager over his security policy. I wasn’t allowed in with a bag, he said, even though they had electronic sensors to check everything. Irritated by this stupidity (and the fact that women were allowed to bring in their handbags), I talked down at the manager with Israeli condescension. “Look, I live in a country where a few years ago suicide-bombers were attacking every other day, and even then you were allowed to bring a bag into the cinema.” The manager was unmoved. I left my bag with a nearby kiosk-owner and went inside to watch The Dark Night. Read more

My politics have changed since I’ve come to Zion, but on at least one issue I haven’t moved an inch. On False Dichotomies 1.0 I regularly spoke out against the IDF practice of targeted assassinations – the sending of helicopter gunships and hit-squads to kill leaders of Hamas and Islamic Jihad et al. Since the dying down of the Intifada, the practice seems to have all but died out, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t remind ourselves why it’s wrong. Read more

Friday night, on my way back from Jaffa with CZ, I decided to walk into the cliche and talk to the taxi-driver about politics. You know what’s meant to happen next: lots of xenophobia and flag-raising, judgements instantly disappearing into the night air like the cigarette smoke from the driver’s mouth. This is how liberals indulge themselves everywhere, isn’t it? Read more

Sitting down to my hummus in Cerem Hatemanim this morning, I caught a glance at a neighbouring diner’s copy of Haaretz (Hebrew edition). The headline read as follows:

עשרים אלפ יהודים צפויים להגיע לחברון בסוף השבוע

(20,000 Jews are expected to arrive in Hebron for the weekend)

Back home, I checked Yediot Ahranot, where the description of the participants in the event was rather different:

בסוף השבוע צפויים לפקוד את חברון 20-25 אלף ישראלים

(At the weekend 20-25 thousand Israelis are expected to visit Hebron)

This is worthy of comment. Read more

“Fifty-seven Arab and Islamic countries will establish diplomat connections and normal relations with Israeli in exchange for a full peace agreement and an end to the occupation.”

With these words, printed in Hebrew, the tenacious story of the Arab Peace Initiative took another intriguing twist. On Thursday, the Palestinian Authority advertised the plan in Israel’s three leading Hebrew-language dailies. This marks an interesting change of strategy. For the first time, an Arab government has gone over the head of the Israeli leadership, reaching out directly to the Israeli people, in their own language.” Read on at CIF.

“Boker tov,” said the bus driver. “Good morning,” I replied, my tone one of surprised warmth. I have been back in Tel Aviv for less than a week, and have been loving every minute of it, but a 6:10AM greeting from a bus-driver was still unexpected. “Ma nishma?” he asked. “I’m great, how about you?” Now he looked irritated; his eyes panned straight past me. “Nu, when do you want to come and pick up the car?” I wasn’t the target of his greetings; I was just a nudnik in the way. I walked up the aisle, chuckling away, unembarassed, thinking of my new home in Cerem Hatemanim (oh what a joy it is to live in a place called the Yemenites’ Vineyard) and these sensational South Tel Aviv streets. Behind me, the man buying the car took his seat, and I do not know what he was thinking.

After seeing Maradona by Kusturica: We walked slowly up the street, Motzei Shabbat coming to an end. The road was lit by the lights from the Dizengoff Center and the downmarket fast-food joints that lead to its entrance, like the market-stalls leading up to the temple, any temple. Across the road, the 73 bus was just pulling in, its metallic lighting lush against the pavement, every rev of the engine indicating that this was the last bus home. “Which bus is yours?” I asked my friend. “The 73,” he replied, but did not rush away. Instead, he said goodbye like a human being, before embarking on an evolutionary leap through the gears, as if he were on the pages of some flicker book. I turned to watch, transfixed by the unlikely prospect of success. The bus pulled away, but he kept moving, banging on the front windows with an insistence that could not be refused. The doors opened; my friend stepped on, homeward bound. I raised my hands in celebration, like Maradona at the Estadio Azteca, revelling in the mango-splendour of this moment.

One of the exciting things about Israel’s electoral system is that every new election sees new parties and alliances. Since the collapse of Livni’s attempts to form a government, we’ve already seen a new green alliance, as well as speculation that a new left-wing bloc will be formed. Perhaps even more significant, though, is the prospect – first mooted in Haaretz a fortnight ago – that Israeli-Arab MKS are considering a new party to represent the entire Israeli-Arab public. According to Haaretz, the group, which is made up of former and currently serving MKs, has suggested that Science, Culture and Sport Minister Ghaleb Majadele (Labour) be the party’s chief. Details are still scanty, but the idea is that the party will work for the “welfare” of Israeli-Arab citizens. Read more

Friday afternoon: A crowd has gathered at the entrance of Shuk HaCarmel. A band is playing (a man and a woman) Hebrew classics from yesteryear, songs from the dawn of the state, songs soaked in nostalgia, songs for a soon-to-die generation. The woman sits on a stool, singing. The man stands, juggling recorders like prosthetic limbs, playing the clown, caught up in the excitement like everyone else. One weighty old womans stands there, jiggling away, transparently happy, her cigarette nearly slipping from her fingers, an afterthought. An old man dances unashamedly, knowing there is no such thing as bad dancing, unconcerned as to whether he is being watched. “Shabbat is nearly here,” the singer announces, “so we’ll sing Hallel.” Around them, the urgent crowd of Friday afternoon shoppers carries on its business, emptying stock like ragged looters.