—
A week later, the official letter arrives. From her official e-mail address.
To Mr. Eli Goren,
We would like to thank you for applying to our company.
Unfortunately, after a careful evaluation of your CV and the information provided during your personal interview, we believe your profile does not suit our needs.
We wish you success in your future undertakings.
Sincerely,
Rotem Ashkenazi
Human Resources Manager Do you dream about your characters?
There was a time when I did.
Today I dream that the members of BDS rise up as a single entity during my reading, climb onto the stage one by one, and murder me with a fountain pen while I desperately try to convince them that I have always been against the occupation and that the essence of my writing is an attempt to give a voice to the other. Are you in favor of two countries for two peoples?
I don’t want to answer that question. I wrote books, I want to talk about my books. But I’m not naïve, I know how things work. It’s clear to me that the title of this interview will most likely be taken from my response to this question and not from my responses to other questions related to my books. I don’t understand why writers always have to be asked their opinion on political issues. Even after they’ve had a sleepless night because the wife came home late, very late, disturbingly late, from a night out with a friend, and also because recently, they have more question marks than exclamation points about everything related to current events, and most other things as well. But not all of us are Amos Oz. Not all of us are always fully prepared with a perfectly formulated reply to every question. Which doesn’t mean I won’t answer that question in the end, my way. Of course I’ll answer. Because more than I don’t feel like answering it, I don’t want people to think I’m avoiding the question. Do you find yourself dealing with criticism when you’re abroad because you’re Israeli?
My father warned me. I can’t say he didn’t. I wrote to him from Singapore that the festival had sent a guy to escort me everywhere, and he replied: From my experience, he might be an agent with their secret police.
I wrote back: Don’t be silly. He’s a mild kind of guy. Nerdy. He writes poetry for his own pleasure.
And he replied: Maybe everything he says about himself is true. And maybe it isn’t.
—
My father worked in Singapore in the eighties. He advised the only university there on how to improve their screening processes, and was expelled from the country in disgrace after, in a private conversation, he expressed support for Singapore’s only opposition politician.
“In any case, I advise you to weigh your words carefully,” he wrote in the last text he sent me. But I—
I was intoxicated with the compliments I received there as an Israeli.
Usually, I shrivel when confronted with accusations. Admit to injustices. Watch sadly as BDS members leave the hall in open protest as I begin my talk. And suddenly—
Start-up nation. Jewish innovation. Nobel Prize sensation.
And the food. So many new tastes on my tongue! They have small open markets with food stands that sell only one dish each, but what a dish! And the liquor. They pour you something called a Singapore Sling, and after a few glasses you just—
—
Maybe it was because of the Singapore Sling that I spoke to my escort about democracy. Until then, I’d been careful about what I said, even when he himself complained about the regime (the price of cars, he kept saying, the price of cars), but after my fourth glass, I said: There’s no start-up nation without democracy. Every teacher who wants to encourage creativity and originality in his students knows that the first rule is to create an atmosphere of openness, tolerance, attentiveness in class, and, most important of all, zero awe.
You understand, I pontificated—
(Oh, the hubris.)
You can send a delegation to Israel and bring Israeli experts to advise you, that’s all well and good, but as long as you have only one party here, and one newspaper, you’ll never be able to be truly original. Do you understand? For creativity to exist, you need liberty.
—
That night, more specifically, at four thirty in the morning—
The door of my hotel room was flung open and two guys burst in with a large gun.
They were polite in the scariest way possible. According to them, they were there only to take me to my flight.
But gentlemen, I protested, my flight is in another two days! (How serious can the protest of a man in pajamas be?)
Your flight has been moved forward, said the taller one, who was still a head shorter than me, but he was the one with the gun, and I had six-year-old Shira and two-year-old Noam waiting for me at home.
So I did what they said.
Pack, they said. I packed.
(I remember throwing all my clothes haphazardly into my suitcase, and I felt they were contemptuous of me for it.)
Check to see that you haven’t left anything behind, they told me. I checked.
(I remember that my toothbrush was in the bathroom, in the soap holder. I took it.)
Please give us your passport, they said. I gave it to them.
(I remember sweat rolling down the back of my neck and being absorbed by my shirt.)
We walked through the hotel lobby—I carrying my suitcase and one of them on either
