“Why? Because of the Holocaust?” Yuval argued.
“Not just because of the Holocaust,” Michael answered, thinking of Yuzek, Yuval’s grandfather, a Holocaust survivor who had been preaching against gentiles, and the anti-Semitism he believed to be globally pervasive, ever since Yuval was a small child. “A long time before that, in fact. Since the Bible.”
“The Bible!” Yuval screeched, then looked around. “Now you’re talking like that, too? About that fairy tale? It’s just a myth, isn’t it?”
“What’s so disagreeable about myths?” Michael asked, turning his head away from the sunbeam that was threatening to blur his vision.
Suddenly his son’s agitated excitement and doubts flooded him with unexpected joy. “It’s a serious claim, certainly no less serious than the Muslim claim to the Temple Mount, and just as fair. If not more so.”
“Tell me,” Yuval said, pushing away the plate holding his roll. “Is Judaism a religion or a nation?! I mean, after all, it’s a religion!”
“No, that’s not true,” Michael said, breathing in deeply. “In Judaism, the religion is the nation. Which means that being Israeli is also being Jewish.”
“But what do I need the Temple Mount for? I don’t want it at all!”
Yuval cried.
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Michael said. “I don’t think we need the Temple Mount for the time being, at least not until the time of redemption; there’s no reason to get mixed up with the Holy Temple: at the End of Days when the redemption comes then the Holy One, Blessed be He—as they call him—will take care of that himself. So for the time being the question of the Temple Mount is only theoretical.”
“Listen,” his son said as he took a sip from his coffee, grimaced, glanced into his mug and then at his father. “That’s the reason I don’t want to take part in guarding their outposts or dismantling them, either. I think it’s completely insane that in this country—Zion!—all the guys my age walk around with rifles and have to defend these thickheaded Jews who have settled on Arab land.”
“What are you talking about? The entire land of Israel, or only the territories?”
“Well, even during the War of Independence Arabs were driven away and their lands confiscated,” Yuval claimed.
“Now it’s clear that we settled land that had been previously occupied, but there’s nothing we can do about that today. And anyway, do you know of any people in the world that has attained its place without conquering someone else? The Arabs who came here did it too, that’s the human condition,” Michael said, eyeing the waitress as she approached with a large tray. “The problem is that as Jews we had expectations of ourselves, that we would be more moral, more understanding of others. Turns out we’re just like everyone else, and nothing more.”
“But it’s like dogs, dogs establishing their territory,” Yuval muttered, then fell silent watching the clumsy maneuvers of the waitress as Michael lifted the salad and one of the plates, bearing an omelet, from her hands.
“Eat up while it’s hot,” Michael said, glancing at the omelet in front of him. It smelled great, but for some reason did not awaken any desire in him to touch it.
“Like dogs,” Yuval repeated with disgust after the waitress had left them.
“Maybe that’s true,” Michael conceded, “but that’s the way it is: a person is obliged to maintain a territory in order to protect his home and children. There’s nothing shameful in that. On the contrary. But I completely agree with you that the manner in which we conduct these territorial matters of ours here in Israel since the Six Day War is ugly, and very bad. Disgraceful, in fact.”
“It was ugly from the very beginning,” Yuval protested as he cut a piece of omelet and pierced it with his fork, “because there were Arabs here from the start, and the land was theirs.”
“But there’s nothing we can do about that now,” Michael reiterated.
“We simply have to acknowledge the fact that we took their land and expelled them; there’s no way of giving it back. What would you have us do, put Jews out of their homes? When there’s a Palestinian state and peace reigns, we can discuss it—or at least acknowledge it …”
“But there’s no chance of living here in peace,” Yuval claimed with a mouth full of omelet as he piled finely minced salad onto his plate.
“Or what do you think about that?”
“There was a chance,” Michael said, stabbing a small piece of omelet, “and I think there still will be a chance. But the hatred around here, on the part of the Arabs—some of them, at least—it’s so strong, you can’t ignore it.”
“I don’t want to live in such an insane place,” Yuval said. “Do you know what the guys from the Nahal Brigade are doing in their regular army service while they guard settlers in the area around southern Mount Hebron?”
“What?” Michael asked, finally shoving a piece of omelet into his mouth, amazed to discover that he could actually taste it. “What? What are they doing?”
“They’re knitting! Believe me, you’ve never seen anything like it: twenty, thirty guys guarding the Hebron area, combat soldiers from the Nahal Brigade! They sit around a stove heater knitting hats, scarves, socks. It’s unbelievable! Guys who studied in my high school! I’ve seen pictures with my own eyes, I swear!”
Michael smiled.
“Don’t laugh,” Yuval said. “Think about it: it’s serious, a rebellion against Israeli machismo, don’t you think? It’s a rebellion that’s very, very …”
“Constructive,” Michael offered.
“That’s just it,” Yuval said as he shoved the last bite of his omelet into his mouth and prepared to attack the salad and cheeses. “But I don’t want to live in a place like this. It would be better … maybe I’ll take off, I want to go abroad.”
“To where?” Michael asked, holding his breath for a moment. Then he reminded himself that these were, for the time being, nothing but words, and he focused on his roll and cream cheese.
“Maybe Canada?” Yuval pondered aloud.
Michael stifled a horrified chuckle before asking why.
“Because,” Yuval answered with a full mouth, “we’re living in a crazy place where the price of life is higher than life itself. You get it?”
Michael nodded.
“That means,” Yuval continued, “that the price this country collects from its citizens is higher than the value of life itself here. That’s what I think, for the time being. Anyway, it’s true for the way things look right now,” he concluded, dunking a new roll into the olive oil from the minced vegetables, which were referred to as “Arab salad” on the menu.
“Maybe you’re right,” Michael said. “And I’d like to tell you something, too, but promise me you’ll—”
“Is everything okay?” the waitress asked with exuberant diligence.
“Everything’s just fine,” Michael assured her.
a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
The impetus for this book was the screenplay of a miniseries I wrote in collaboration with director Ram Loevy, which was screened on Israel’s Channel Two. Assaf Tzipor participated in the writing and editing of the screenplay.
I wish to express my deepest gratitude to Ram Loevy, who came up with the idea of writing a screenplay about Israeli television and whose perse-verance enabled me to complete the job. Collaborating with him and with Assaf Tzipor over a period of nearly four years was both instructive and pleasurable.
Batya Gur
About the Author
BATYA GUR (1947–2005) lived in Jerusalem, where she was a literary critic for Haaretz, Israel’s most prestigious paper. She earned her master’s in Hebrew literature at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and she also taught literature for nearly twenty years.
