“Jerusalem is Not Israel”
Back from my hugely enlightening, greatly enjoyable and massively confusing second trip to Israel. Eye-opening, a little mind-numbing, heart-warming but most of all, a large dash of the surreal. Found myself one time in a situation that I could never have imagined. Months later I still shake my head in disbelief.
My partner Lisa and her family went niece from Australia was having her bat mitzvah in Jerusalem old town so her sister’s family. Having some special friends in Israel with whom we wished to spend time sufficiently justified it for me, as if I really needed to justify going. It was a special family occasion.
We went to Israel about seven years ago for a wedding, did the main tourist things – Jerusalem, Dead (and still dying) Sea and such, but gained no real insight to ‘Israel’, other than the idea that it was a land full of religious peoples various, all shapes and sizes and, some of them, extremists. As we were to be firmly told several times on this trip, Jerusalem is not Israel. The recent drive for foreign embassies to be established there is clearly very provocative, local opinion on the issue being widely divided.
We also know now that the behaviour in Gaza and the West Bank are also not Israel, just the most prominent bits presented in the world. To most in the outside world the actions there do seem to define Israel. The Government maybe, but not the people at large, as I was to discover.
Our 18-day trip, with offers of digs spread about the place, gave us a more relaxed chance to see more of the tiny country. Lisa’s family had been fostering connections with extended family members they’d never met before – and in some cases, never knew about until recently – due to separations before and during WW2. The gatherings provided some wonderfully heart-warming moments. Lisa and I have been together over 25 years so I’d got over the feeling of being an ‘outsider’ many years ago. But I still feel a little like a fly on the wall in some situations, such as these extended family meetings and discussions full of ancient photos and information. It’s good being a fly sometimes.
The family warm and fuzziness component of the trip was good, however, some of the visit was a bit bizarre, even for us seasoned travellers who, some years back, had been marched away from a train on a desolate border post station by sub-machine gun toting guards and briefly thrown in jail in Eastern Europe for a travel misdemeanour. Then deported to a sticky situation in a country where we had no visas. A long story for another occasion.Some bits really interesting, some annoying, some disturbing, but not surreal.
Israel was another thing. It was discomforting driving through a heavily policed area with high walls either side of the road separating communities due to hostilities. We’d been through a couple of check points by that stage, car searched once. I felt really sad. I knew about it all from the media but was still a tad shocked. As I said to one of our dear hosts, that’s the sort of thing we only see on TV or in movies. But that wasn’t the really surreal bit.
Last Charge of the Light Brigade
Neither was the experience of Be’er Sheva (Beersheba). It was humbling and, I guess, a little weird standing on the ancient hill (with archaeological finds dating back to 4,000 BCE) directly above where, in 1917, the Last Charge of the Light Brigade took place. The Kiwis, having previously secured the hill on which we were standing, would have had a good view of the young Aussie horsemen in action. A commemorative plaque pointed to where the charge took place. I tried to imagine in my mind’s eye these brave and reckless young men and their loyal steeds charging across the fields, but just felt morbid. The stupid loss of life was too obvious. This was, however, a victorious ANZAC moment that played an important part in triggering the Turkish withdrawal from WW1. We later visited the ANZAC Memorial in Be’er Sheva city, a facility that showed the Anzac role with great reverence and in great detail. Couldn’t help feeling a little proud that all those young blokes had secured such a revered place in the hearts and minds of the local folk. That being from a bloke who wheedled his way out of possibly serving in Vietnam…with a little help from bureaucratic and medical incompetence.
Before going to the ancient hill we had stood at a nearby high point just East of Be’er Sheva featuring the raw concrete monuments known locally as the Andarta, in memory of the Negev Brigade, the Israeli defenders during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. It’s an area where young people from nearby villages occasionally hang out, taking in the desert views it affords, lazing about in or on one of the 18 accessible structures. One Arab youth found the acoustics in a dome structure to his liking as he played guitar and sang, very pleasantly, while on top of the dome two ultra- orthodox Jewish youngsters relaxed.
From the hill we could see several villages in the near distance. Separated by uninspiring rocky terrain, spreading out across the desert, everything seemed relatively normal, the camels grazing in one area adding a touch of desert authenticity. Then our dear host pointed to each village, each of them being dominated by particular ethnic/religious groups…”that’s Jewish, that’s a Druze village, that one is the Bedouins…” I was taken aback a little by this. Is this a form of apartheid? Was it the same as having Chinatown in Melbourne or other suburbs dominated by particular ethnic groups? Given the general circumstances of this troubled country, I reckon the answer is no! It was most disturbing; but not surreal. That, we’ll get to now.
When Lisa was in Israel as a rebellious teen she met a bloke about whom I shall say little and avoid describing as these days he has a relatively public profile. We’ll call him Bob. I believe being cautious is appropriate. But I would, fuelled by the annoyance of the extra hour one needs to be at the airport to go to, or leave, Israel because of the special security interrogation session one must endure. It can be a tad challenging if you aren’t expecting it. The first time it was as though we were trying to be tricked into saying something that the interrogator wanted us to say, whatever it might have been. To me, it reeked of paranoia by Israeli security but they may have their reasons. It is certainly not a friendly way to welcome visitors and I know no other country that systematically carries out such pointed interrogation separate from normal security activities, though it’s a while since I’ve been to the USA and who knows what hoops you need to go through now. We’ve mostly never baulked at increased security at airports, feeling a little more secure if the people are doing their jobs. But the Israeli interrogation can be unnecessarily daunting, especially for those not familiar with it. An ‘unwelcome’ to Israel.
The younger Lisa and Bob had travelled about for a while at the time. Through Lisa’s cousin, who knew of Bob’s activities due to being in the same general profession, they were able to reconnect– 35 years later.
Not long after they’d parted company way back then, he got a job and moved to a settlement in the occupied West Bank. He was still there, five kids down the track and with multiple grandchildren. Lisa was a tad surprised as she’d believed, due to the fact that his mother was a Lebanese Druze, and wasn’t Jewish, that he wasn’t a Jew. Was he pretending to be a Jew? He made a point of telling us that he only wore a kippah in the settlement.
After the meet-up we were going to stay with friends who’d not long moved back to Israel. We’d met in Hong Kong 12 years ago and connected whenever we were in HK for work, where they’d lived for 20 years. A massive difference in life-styles from HK to Binyamina, situated roughly half way-ish between Heifa and Tel Aviv, where they now spend their time.
The highway to Binyamina runs parallel to the highway that ran through the West Bank so, assured that the road we’d travel was safe, we offered to do the alternate route and drive Bob home on the way. So he offered for us to stay. So we did, which later raised the dander of one of our friends who suggested we were supporting the occupation of the West Bank. An unfair assessment we thought, but we don’t deal with it all every day. A little example of the emotions that simmer just below the surface. That is certainly shown on the roads in Israel where emotions far too easily emerge with insanely aggressive driving and, I was to find, was surprisingly shown with Bob, in his home.
High Razor Wire Fence Separating the Settlement
The road from Jerusalem through to the West Bank was really interesting and depressing, soldiers at various points and rocky desert offering an unattractive experience. Just opposite the gated entrance to the settlement where Bob lived was a high razor wire fence separating the settlement area from an Arab village just a little way across the paddock. I tried not to be too unsettled by this but it was a tad unnerving lying in bed listening to the call to prayer at 3.30am knowing there might be people there who want me to leave and will assist me, forcibly. By that stage though, the ‘holyshit’ component of my awareness had been taken to an interesting extreme.
After a nice meal, attended by Bob’s nice wife in their nice house, we chattered on, the subject, inevitably I guess, getting around to where they lived and the politics of it all. No mention of religion, which, in Israel, equals politics anyway.
At the café, except for a brief time when his voice raised a little when referring to the political situation, we’d rattled on about all manner of stuff but mostly with he and Lisa catching up on 35 years of things. It was a nice time. But now in his home, the political situation, West Bank occupation, Palestinian uprisings, YasserArafat and how everyone hates Israel due to the biased media, burst to the surface most verbally violently, his wife attempting to shush him and me stoking the fire by talking about perceptions being formed by Israel’s policy of overreaction. I pointed out the bully-boy tactic of destroying the homes of people they claim as terrorists, often forcing women and children into the street. “It’s working” he said triumphantly of the tactic, the ends clearly justifying the means. The same statement was later offered by a friend as we drove for many kilometres along a highway bordered by The Wall, only she said it sadly, clearly hating the fact that The Wall needed to exist but identifying its effectiveness at cutting back on terrorist activities.
Bob got into such a loud, agitated state at one stage that I reached over to him, placed my hand on his shoulder and quietly said “Bob, I’m just here next to you, settle down.” And he instantly snapped out of it. It was as though another, gentler person had emerged from the enraged monster that had been there a moment before.As I suggested, clearly there’s a high level of agitation simmering below the surface.
My Gaze Was Glued to the Weapon He Wore
Settling back into quiet mode and a more gentle, general discussion, he said a friend was on the way over to visit. Knock at the door, a man with curly loops of hair on either side of his head sticking out from his kippah, wearing and holding a sub-machine gun. Lisa and I looked at each other blankly, ‘what the…?!!?’. Bob greeted him, friendly, which settled us a little. He was introduced, I shook his hand and failed miserably in my attempts to maintain eye contact, my gaze glued to the weapon he wore. I usually try to engage people at first meeting but with Bob’s friend, my tongue stopped working.
At Bob’s prompting we soon wandered up the stairs into the roof area where Bob has, for some time it seems, been building a workspace. And attempting to make a little hash by a process of icing marijuana leaves and evaporating the liquid, which he claimed, would leave hash at the bottom of the dish.
Okay, by now I’m edging towards a bit of brain fuzziness. This wasn’t a normal situation. Here I am staying in a hotly contested ‘illegal’ gated settlement, the ‘enemy’ just over a wire fence, a dish of soon-to-be-hash in the corner and there’s a man wearing a sub-machine gun, placing a small bag of marijuana on the table and me remaining remarkably externally calm. Mostly.
I’m not a stranger to guns. My first air rifle at 14, my first shotgun at 16 and later my grandad’s WW2 Enfield 303. I’ve fired a couple of pistols and hunted pigs in difficult terrain. By the time I was five I could efficiently skin and gut a rabbit. I had a normal Aussie, outside-the-city life of the time. But I gave the guns away, inspired by the amnesty following the Port Arthur killings. And I felt very uncomfortable in the presence of this man and his gun.
I asked about the weapon and was given a description of its capabilities. He was proud of the silencer. But I did not ask where he had got the dope. He offered anyway; “it’s medicinal,” he said, clearly reading my mind. Bob told us later that his friend was once showing visitors about the area and was ambushed by rock-throwing Palestinians and spent time in intensive care, his life in doubt. This, it seems, enabled him to qualify for the medicinal herb. And to wear a sub-machine gun with a silencer all the time.
For the next hour and half we sat there talking about all manner of things not related to the weird situation in which I found myself, he sitting there still wearing the gun – I swear he was cuddling it sometimes – and rolling and sharing joints. Of course, I only joined in to be hospitable. I’m like that. Or maybe I was just wasn’t going to refuse the hospitality of a man wearing a gun.
It was weird when Bob asked him the whereabouts of the cigarette lighter he had just used. His friend stood up, adjusted his gun, and searched through his pockets, bringing out a lighter from one pocket, two or three from another and even more from another pocket. He was a walking (well, sitting,at the time) cigarette lighter storage unit. The whereabouts of lighters emerged periodically through the evening, his pockets being searched several times. It was pretty funny. I didn’t explore the weirdness of it all. I just needed to laugh. Looking back, I hope I wasn’t giggling.
Later I queried myself over my inability to get stoned while he and Bob were clearly off their trees. When our gun-toting new friend staggered to his feet to leave and wobbled his way down the stairs and out the door, still clutching his security blanket, I was sure I got wildly clear-headed in anticipation of a disaster of some sort. But all was well and we survived the encounter relatively unscathed. Mostly.
After, unsurprisingly, a frequently disturbed sleep, next day, making our way from the village, all our concentration was on ensuring we turned the right way at a specific point. Not doing so could lead to problems. But despite a little anxiety over ensuring our direction and a car search as we left the occupied territories, all was well and we arrived safely in Binyamina…and another world.
Ice-cream Being Slurped, Beer Being Sloshed
That evening our friends took us to a nearby village festival with jazz orchestra playing in the street, ice-cream being slurped and beer being sloshed. Kids with faces painted, dancers bopping away and general merriment being experienced by kids and adults. Hardly a kippah to be seen, as I pointed out to our friend. “This is not Jerusalem” he said firmly.
Our dear Binyamina friends also took us to the beach in Haifa, just up the road a bit. hundreds of people splashing about in the water, doing the promenade, flying kites, skates, hang gliders, beers and snacks…all wonderfully normal stuff being done by normal people. A tiled area next to the beach that was large enough to easily accommodate, um, I guess about 200 people of all types, shapes and sizes, dancing in unison to modern music, was doing just that. It was wonderful to see. It seems these dance routines are a national past time. Sort of like line dancing, only not.
While not surreal, as such, it was difficult to ignore a little uneasiness being amongst people doing normal stuff while just a few km away other people are doing all they can to cause serious harm to each other, as a full time occupation. Enjoying a cooler evening, glass of wine in the garden of a friend’s house, we heard a ‘thump’ way in the distance, followed soon after by several more. The discussion quickly moved to Patriot missiles intercepting rockets or drones at the border. Or maybe it was just the army base 20 kilometres away carrying out exercises. I concentrated on my glass of wine. A worthwhile pursuit anyway, Israeli wines being a most pleasant surprise.
Analysing the situation later, I was taken back to an earlier time when a 24 year-old me and my wife of the time, managed a hotel on the border with Mozambique in the Eastern Highlands of (what was then) Rhodesia (now, Zimbabwe). It was when the guerrilla war was starting in the region, late ‘60s, early ‘70s. We knew all this ugliness was happening around us yet we just accepted the situation and catered for it by modifying normal activities. It seemed normal. Or maybe we were just in denial. Or perhaps in my case, ignorant. It would be most difficult for Israelis to be in denial or ignorant of their situation.
In Israel, during discussions with people various, I got a feeling of near hopelessness from a few. A deep breath, a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders. They just wish all the stuff happening on the edge of their country would go away. That’s clearly not going to happen in a hurry. The Israeli right wing and the religious radicals with too much influence, and the Palestinian radicals, also with too much influence, coming to a lasting peace agreement? Now, that would be surreal.
ends
