Here are links to some of my articles:
WHEN WORDS DO NOT SUFFICE By DIANA BLETTER
Published: October 12, 2012
Montauk, New York
MY best friend never made it to his favorite beach this past summer — but his 20-year-old daughter, Jessica, did. She’s an orphan now, having lost her mother to multiple sclerosis when she was 11 and her father, Dave, to non-Hodgkins lymphoma this past June.
Dave’s mother was taking care of Sam, Jessica’s autistic brother, in their apartment in New York City so that Jessica, at college in Wisconsin, could go with me to Montauk. It was the beach she went to every summer with her family when her parents were still alive.
It was a glittering day. The beach was already dotted with sunbathers and as we spread out our towels, I thought how I’d known Jessica since she was born and I’d met Dave years before that. He was the brother I wished I had: smart, athletic and outrageous. One time, in our 20s, we rode the crowded, hushed elevator in Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue — Dave and I were both exchanging gifts — and I blurted out, “Dave, how could you even think I’d marry you when the ring you gave me was so small?”
I could feel the other passengers hanging onto every word. Without missing a beat, he said, “If I hadn’t spent all that money on your bail I could have bought you a bigger ring.”
“Tell me everything you remember about my Dad,” Jessica said now as I smeared sunscreen on her back.
I told Jessica some of the stories that I was sure she already knew. I’d grown up on Long Island and met Dave, who grew up in New York City, at a college preparatory program the summer we were 16.
We both returned to the same college the following year and though he majored in engineering and I was a literature major, we sometimes studied together, drinking bad coffee and pulling all-nighters, watching the sun rise in the morning. Our friendship lasted through my tall arrogant first boyfriend and his short sweet first girlfriend. It lasted through my marriage, his marriage, my kids, his kids, and the death of his wife, Laura.
And then I remembered the morning two years ago when Dave sat with me on this Montauk beach, saying he had non-Hodgkins lymphoma. He told me he was scared to die. That, I didn’t tell Jessica. Instead, I told her about the time Dave caught her singing in the bathtub when she was about four. He was happy to hear her until he realized she was singing, “My mother can’t walk and my brother can’t talk.”
Jessica was quiet, face down into the sand.
“You can cry,” I whispered.
“I can’t,” she said, her head buried in the crook of her arm.
After a time, we got up, walked along the shore, then jumped into the Atlantic.
“The worst thing will be when I’m back at college and I meet new people and they’ll ask me what my parents do,” Jessica said as we walked back to our towels. “I hate having to explain.”
“Maybe you can say, ‘I don’t even know,’ and laugh it off,” I said. “You’re from New York City. People in the Midwest probably think you’re weird, anyway.” She tried that a few times but she sounded like an actress awkwardly rehearsing strange lines.
We lay in the sand until late afternoon. I remembered my last conversation with Dave, when he told me he was ready to die. “Think of me,” he had said and I thought of him now as Jessica told me she wanted to scatter his ashes, alone. She had promised Dave she’d do that: it was the same thing he had done with her mother’s ashes, right there.
I left Jessica and called Dave’s mother, back home with Sam, who asked, “Did you take care of Dave?”
“Jessica’s taking care of him now,” I said. But what did that mean? How can the living ever take care of the dead? And how can we ever repay them for everything they gave us? I imagined Dave’s ashes falling on the sand, scattering like stars, poked here and there with stubborn pieces of bone.
Then I remembered how, when I’d lost my father when I was 27, an aunt hugged me and whispered, “You poor, poor child.” More than 30 years later, I could still hear the discomforting thud of those words. I’d been searching for the right thing to say to Jessica and it occurred to me now that words were useless: they were never wide enough or consoling enough to wrap around an orphan’s grief.
So when Jessica joined me, I said nothing. All I could offer her was this heartbreakingly perfect day at the beach, with the white ribbon of waves arriving on shore and then departing. Coming and going. It was everything Dave loved and he was not here with us now to see it. But he was here now forever.
This story appeared in The New York Times on what happens when two mothers send their sons to the same battle, with two very different outcomes:
Meanwhile: Two mothers, one battle
SHAVEI ZION, Israel — The other day, two mothers who had never met before stood on the Israeli side of the border that separates Israel from Lebanon.
Harriet and I were looking at a Lebanese village where our two sons fought during last summer’s war between Israel and Hezbollah.
My son, Shlomie, and Harriet’s son, Michael, were in the same paratrooper unit of the Israeli Army. During combat, Michael was hit by sniper fire. Shlomie, a medic, also received shrapnel wounds. He did everything he could to save Michael – but Harriet’s son died in my son’s arms.
I had never met Harriet until that day. After the war ended on August 14, I wrote a letter of condolence to her in Pennsylvania from my village in Israel’s Western Galilee. We began to correspond with each other and then, during a recent trip to Israel, she came to meet me.
We knew it was important for us to drive to the northern border, about a half-hour from my house. There we would be as close as we could get to the village where our sons – American-born Jews who had enlisted in the Israeli Army – had fought their fateful battle.
It was a bright, clear day. Except for an occasional house with shattered windows, you could not tell that a war had taken place just months before. Thousands of Hezbollah-fired Katyusha rockets had fallen around the region, yet everything was tranquil now. The sun was shining; birds sang and the air was filled with the aroma of blossoming orange trees.
Along the border, the road dipped through the green hills. We turned around a sharp bend and there, in the distance, was Aita al-Shaab, the Lebanese village where the battle had taken place. It sat on a hilltop, beyond a rolling valley. It looked so beautiful and so, well, peaceful.
Harriet got out of the car and took some photographs. Then she began to cry.
I thought of the night that my son had called to say he was about to leave for the war. After he said goodbye, I fell down on my knees by his bed and prayed. At the very same time, Harriet must have also been praying for her son.
When two mothers pray for their soldier sons during a war, does one mother’s prayer cancel out the other’s? And why does one son return and one son never comes back?
An Israeli Army jeep approached and a soldier told us we had to move on. He explained that if we stopped for too long, we could be targets for Hezbollah soldiers who might have returned to their positions just beyond the border. I said we needed a few more moments and we’d be on our way.
I then remembered Shlomie recounting that right before going into battle, he asked to borrow Michael’s knitted green kipah, his skullcap, to say the holiest Jewish prayer, “Shma Israel.” When Shlomie finished, Michael asked, “Are you ready now?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”
I looked at Harriet standing next to me. I wanted to ask, “Are you ready now?” but I knew that she would never be ready. No mother can ready herself for the loss of her child.
We gazed at the village one last time and then turned to the car. As we continued along the road, I wondered how many mothers on how many roads around the world have to take a journey like ours.
By DIANA BLETTER
Published: June 4, 2010
- SHAVEI ZION, ISRAEL — A few days before the Israeli flotilla disaster, I started studying Arabic. I’ve lived in the Galilee for the past 19 years and this was something I’ve always meant to do. Now, it seemed even more urgent to learn the language if I was ever to help bridge the gap between Arabs and Jews.
My teacher’s name is Samia but she’s actually my very good friend. Samia’s daughters are the same age as my daughters and they used to play together until, as Muslim and Jewish teenagers, they drifted apart. But Samia and I have remained close. We even started a local women’s peace group. Our friendship has survived the Intifadas, suicide bombings and growing religious extremism. During the Israel-Hezbollah 2006 War, when my oldest son, a paratrooper, was wounded in battle, she called me immediately to make sure he was all right.
Which was why, this past Tuesday morning, I didn’t think twice about riding my moped from my Jewish village to her Muslim village just across the highway for my Arabic lesson.
Samia’s family compound is on a narrow street in the heart of the village. The television flared when I walked into her apartment and she didn’t move to turn it off.
“Did you hear the news?” she asked me in Hebrew. “They attacked those ships trying to get into Gaza! They’re saying that tomorrow Israeli Arabs will start a civil war.” Then she raised her chin and made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. A sound of sorrow. Anger, too.
“It is terrible,” I said. Then I sat down at her kitchen table, my back to the TV. I couldn’t bear to watch the news. I wanted to work on the conjugation of Arabic verbs. To do. To go. To have. I wanted to repeat ordinary, everyday words. Pencil, desk, evening: guttural, enchanting words I’d never really be able to pronounce. I wanted Samia to joke the way she did the day before, “After our lesson, you’ll need to go to an ear, nose and throat doctor.”
But she was in no mood to joke. Her youngest daughter, Dareen, came out of her bedroom. She was on her way to study criminology at a nearby college. Samia had already made a finjan of Arabic coffee and poured some for Dareen in a disposable cup to go.
“I told Dareen that if there were any fights at the college between Arab and Jewish students she should stay quiet and not get involved,” Samia said.
I nodded. I thought of my youngest daughter, Libby, Dareen’s age, who’s volunteering this year in a distressed neighborhood in Jerusalem. My oldest daughter, Amalia, is a fitness instructor in the Israeli Army. Who knew what would happen next?
“Now it is morning,” Samia told me, pointing to a picture in my textbook of a house, some trees, the sun rising. “What time do you get up?”
“At six o’clock,” I replied in faltering Arabic. “What time do you wake up?”
“At ten o’clock,” she said. “I can’t sleep at night.”
I knew the reason. A few years before, her husband had left her. We rarely talked about it. Like politics, the subject was painful. We moved on, talking about the sun, the moon, the stars.
“What time can I come tomorrow?” I asked after an hour.
“Tomorrow isn’t good,” she said. “They’ll cancel school. There will be demonstrations.”
My heart sunk. I pictured making a mistake and riding my moped through the village. How would I ever explain that I’m just a nice Jewish girl trying to learn Arabic for peaceful reasons to people shouting and throwing stones? “Tomorrow will be dangerous for me to come?” I asked in Arabic.
“La,” she said. “Maybe not dangerous.” She pointed to a missing tooth in her mouth. “But tomorrow I have to go to the dentist.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Sometimes in the middle of strife, anything normal and routine, even going to the dentist, seems like a very good thing.
This piece appeared in The Escapes Section of The New York Times. I researched it after arriving in Anchorage on my motorcycle about the Matanuska Glacier in Alaska and one of President Franklin D. Roosevelt‘s New Deal Matanuska Colony Project in Palmer, Alaska:
American Journeys | Matanuska-Susitna Valley, Alaska
A Place in Time, Not All Frozen
The Matanuska Glacier is part of an accessible wilderness area about 100 miles from Anchorage, Alaska.
By DIANA BLETTER
Matanuska Glacier, Alaska — THE temperature was soaring to 75 degrees, and I was walking on ice. Around me the Matanuska Glacier, about 100 miles from Anchorage, sparkled and shimmered in the afternoon sun. The only sound was an occasional rush of cool wind sweeping down from the towering Chugach Mountains and the crunch of my crampons as I made my way up a crevasse with a group of six other trekkers.
“Stop,” Matt Windsor, our guide, suddenly said. A moulin, or shaft, had formed in the crevasse, making it too dangerous to continue. Mr. Windsor then got out his ice pick and hacked out a platform from where we could view the peril: a swirl of water plunging deep into a hole in the pastel-blue ice.
That this dense ice is so fluid and flexible is surprising, yet the Matanuska Glacier, thousands of years old, is still active, shifting and creeping along its 27-mile length each day. We made a U-turn to another path, where we reached a glacial stream and, cupping our hands, drank icy pure water that had never met a plastic bottle.
It was the first day of my three-day trip with my husband, Jonny, in and around the Matanuska Glacier. Matanuska is Alaska’s largest, most accessible glacier, which meant we wouldn’t need to fly an airplane or hike a mountain to trek across it. A rental car would get us there in less than three hours from the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport in Anchorage.
Like most other glaciers the Matanuska has begun to shrink, because of warming of the region. “When I look at the glacier from the air, it’s clearly retreating and thinning,” said Bruce F. Molnia, a research geologist with the United States Geological Survey, speaking by telephone. Dr. Molnia said that analysis of aerial photographs and satellite images had found that parts of the terminus of the glacier, the farthest point of ice from its start, have lost about six-tenths of a mile in the last four decades. As we began our trek, I could see the glacier’s humble retreat: where there had once been a top layer of white ice there was now an uneven field of pitch-black stones, rocks and debris.
Access to this part of the glacier is privately owned, but the rest of the glacier is managed by the state. The Matanuska-Susitna Valley — called the Mat-Su by local residents — encompasses about 24,000 square miles of mostly untapped wilderness. It is home to bears, wild sheep and goats, wolves, caribou and moose, as well as good restaurants and a variety of lodging, from campgrounds and rustic cabins to more elegant bed-and-breakfasts.
The Ahtna Athabascan people, a migratory tribe, first populated the valley thousands of years ago, following the paths of caribou and salmon, eating wild berries, squirrels and sheep. They fashioned copper tools and remained undisturbed until Russian explorers began arriving in Alaska in 1741. Russia sold Alaska to the United States in 1867; by 1910 some 500 American settlers had moved in, laying railroad lines, establishing homesteads and trading in fur, coal, minerals and gold.
In 1935, in the midst of the Depression, President Franklin D. Roosevelt established the Matanuska Colony Project in Palmer, 41 miles northeast of Anchorage. Farm families living on welfare in Michigan, Minnesota and Wisconsin — 203 in all — were picked in a lottery to start anew in the Mat-Su. Each family was given 40 acres, a house and a barn for a 30-year low-interest loan of $3,000.
David Reichard Williams, architect for the Federal Emergency Relief Administration, planned the colony in a Colonial Revival style. “He felt that this kind of architecture would give the settlers faith in their government, their town and the farming project,” said DeLena Johnson, executive director of the Palmer Museum of History and Art.
But the valley’s short growing season and the lack of a market made the project less viable in reality. Within three years 60 percent of the original colonists had abandoned their properties. Today one dairy farm remains from the project, but there are approximately 150 farms operating in the valley.
Wayne Bouwens, 79, whose parents moved to Palmer from Wisconsin as colony settlers, grew up on their farm with his 10 siblings. “My family was one of the few who stuck it out,” he said in the Vagabond Blues Café, a homey spot and nightspot on South Alaska Street across from Palmer’s original wooden train depot. “When we got here,” Mr. Bouwens said, “we were all on welfare, and we were all equal, which made us a closer-knit community.”
Until he retired Mr. Bouwens ran a dairy farm of his own; he is active in local civic groups, trying to retain the small-town feel of Palmer as it experiences rapid growth — its population has jumped to 8,201 in 2007 from 4,533 in 2000 — and the opening of new shops, boutiques and galleries.
The Palmer Visitor Center, in the center of town, is the perfect starting point for a stroll around the colony’s historic district. From there I walked to the Colony House Museum, a restored and refurbished 1935 farmhouse originally owned by two Colony settlers, Irene and Oscar Beylund, and now restored and refurbished with some of the family’s furniture and possessions. Gerry Keeling, 73, the museum’s director and a colony descendant, led me through small rooms that seemed frozen in time, pointing out an improvised cranberry picker made from an antifreeze can, washboards, green Depression glass plates and cans of Matanuska Maid corn from the colony’s canning factory.
“It wasn’t that hard to collect these things since people in the Great Depression never threw anything out,” Ms. Keeling said.
In the living room two other guides joined us: Wilhelmina Pedersen, who came in 1948 to teach the settlers’ children, and Arlene Benson, a colony descendant who had grown up next door to the house. “I played Monopoly many evenings right here on this living room floor,” Ms. Benson reminisced.
From the museum I continued to the Colony Inn, the former teachers’ dormitory, where Ms. Pedersen had once lived. I then walked to the defunct chicken hatchery on South Denali Street that now houses Alaskana Books, specializing in Alaskan literature, past the original trading post and across the town square, ending up at Fireside Books, an independent bookstore on South Alaska Street that has “good books and free bad coffee,” its owner, David Cheezem, said. He warned that the coffee was so thick that it had to be chewed. (Not really, but it was strong and good.)
On our last day in the valley we drove 19 miles north from Palmer along Hatcher Pass Road, following the Little Susitna River, to the Independence Mine State Historical Park. The narrow winding road was lined with lush green foliage and trees. Along the banks of the river, where milky blue water tumbled over round, gray stones were flashes of purplish pink fireweed. Our unofficial guide was an old college roommate, Mary Eldred, who came to Alaska on a whim 35 years ago and never left.
The park is the restored site of the Alaska-Pacific Consolidated Mining Company’s gold-mining camp, which operated from about 1937 until 1943. We walked among the ghostly gray wooden buildings, touring the mine manager’s residence (now the visitors’ center) and the bunkhouses that once housed 200 miners, and then took a hike into the Talkeetna Mountains.
The trail led us a half-mile across high tundra; once above the tree line, we looked down at wispy clouds wrapping the craggy mountains in white ribbons. At 4,050 feet we reached Gold Cord Lake, its waters a deep, mineral-rich blue and hidden from below.
“This is what I love,” Ms. Eldred said, pointing to the far side of the lake, where Dall sheep paused on a steep precipice. “Within an hour’s drive of Anchorage and with a little bit of effort, you can get a taste of what true wilderness really is.”
IF YOU GO
WHAT TO DO
The Matanuska Glacier (Mile 102, Glenn Highway; 907-745-2534, matanuskaglacier.com) The glacier can be reached from the parking lot in regular walking shoes but a guided tour is recommended for the steeper parts.
Companies that offer guided tours of the glacier include Mica Guides (800-956-6422; micaguides.com) and Nova Guides (800-746-5753; novalaska.com). Our glacier trek with Mica guides was for three hours; the cost was $70 per person and the park admission.
Independence Mine State Historical Park (Hatcher Pass Road, 907-745-2827) is open from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. mid June to mid Sept., with guided tours. There is a $5 parking fee and a separate tour fee of $5 per person.
The Colony House Museum (316 East Elmwood Street, 907-745-1935) has free admission.
WHERE TO STAY
Sheep Mountain Lodge (Mile 113.5 Glenn Highway, Sutton, 907-745-5121;sheepmountain.com ) is 10 miles from the glacier, and has 11 cabins with mountain views. Rates are $159 to $189 with use of a hot tub and wood-fired sauna.
The Colony Inn, (325 East Elmwood Street, Palmer; 907-745-3330), is a restored New Deal-era teachers’ dormitory. Rates are $80 to $100.
The Hatcher Pass Lodge (Box 763, Palmer; 907-745-5897; hatcherpasslodge.com) has cabins with river and mountain views that start at $95. The cabins contain chemical toilets; there is a sauna and a natural rock pool and showers in the main lodge.
WHERE TO EAT
Vagabond Blues (642 South Alaska Street, Palmer, 907-745-2233) serves a soup and salad lunch for $8.24, quiche for $5.25 and homemade desserts.
Long Rifle Lodge, (Mile 102.2 Glenn Highway, Glacier View, 907-745-5151; longriflelodge.com) is ideal for a casual meal before or after a visit to the glacier. The dining room features a beautiful view of the glacier and an extensive exhibit of mounted wildlife, including a nine-foot grizzly bear. Open from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. in the summer and 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. in the winter.
At Turkey Red (550 South Alaska Street, Palmer, 907-746-5544; turkeyredak.com) the orange sesame chicken salad served with bread baked in a stone-hearth oven is $12.
Coffee is free at Fireside Books (720 South Alaska Street, Palmer, 907-745-2665; goodbooksbadcoffee.com).
This article was written about the novel, Beaufort, and the soldiers in the last days before the Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon:
Fortress of Solitude
How an antiwar novel became a best-selling solace for Israeli soldiers and their families
When his novel, If Heaven Exists, came out in 2005, Ron Leshem visited bookstores all over Israel to see how potential buyers reacted to it. “They’d pick up the book and then turn it over to read the back cover,” Leshem says. “When they realized that it was a book about Israeli soldiers stationed at Beaufort Castle during the last year of Israel’s occupation of Southern Lebanon, they’d make a face and put it down.” But Leshem didn’t take it personally. “How much war trauma can you take? They hear so much about war on the news that they didn’t want to read a novel about it.”
Few Israelis seemed willing even to talk about the eighteen-year occupation, in which the ancient Beaufort fortress, eight miles north of the Israeli border, was strategically vital. Yet the book took off. “It first became popular among Israeli soldiers,” Leshem says. “Whenever I gave lectures, the people in the audience were predominantly soldiers who were just out of the army and young guys before their induction because the book was relevant to them.”
“Relevant” is understating the case. If Heaven Exists speaks directly to soldiers’ experience, using the blunt and gritty language of the front lines. Not only has the book garnered positive reviews from critics and respected Israeli writers like David Grossman and Meir Shalev, but it has also sold more than 130,000 copies, making it a hit of titanic proportions in Israel. During its eighteen-month stint on the best seller lists of the newspapers Haaretz and Yediot Ahronot, it held the number-one slot for nine months. You couldn’t sit on a train crowded with IDF soldiers traveling home and not find one or two of them reading it. Slowly, mothers of soldiers began reading the book to understand their sons’ army experiences. (I was one of those mothers.) In 2006, it won the Sapir Prize for Literature, the Israeli equivalent of the Booker Prize. “The reason that caused Leshem’s book to have such an impact is not the literary value of the novel,” says Maya Feldman, a book critic for Yediot Ahronot’s web site. “Its realistic content presents a chain of events that is expressed through soldiers’ words, people who were there, and not through the words of an author. Meaning, almost unprocessed. This authenticity, in my eyes, is strongly appealing.”
In March, a movie adaptation co-written by Leshem, titled Beaufort, opened in Israel to outstanding reviews. It broke box-office records in its first month of release (despite criticism from families of slain soldiers and war veterans that three of the leading actors had never served in the army), and became the nation’s submission to the Academy Awards for Best Foreign Language Film. Its director, Joseph Cedar, won the Best Director award at the Berlin International Film Festival. The novel will be published in the United States this month, also under the title Beaufort, and the film will open in New York City in January.
“The book provided soldiers with an outlet, a way to legitimize what they were feeling,” says Leshem over coffee at a café near his apartment in Givatayim, a Tel Aviv suburb. Slender and pale, with pensive dark eyes and a self-effacing demeanor, Leshem is thirty-one and works as Deputy Director of Programming at Israel’s Channel Two, lining up what he calls “escapist” shows like A Star Is Born. He says he did his own military service as a “pencil-pusher” in the Israeli Defense Ministry, working on behind-the-scenes preparations for the 1998 Wye peace negotiations. When he was released, he got a job reporting for Yediot Ahronot. He was sent to cover the Palestinians’ Second Intifada in the Gaza Strip in the fall of 2000, where he met the IDF soldier Rotem Yair, a commander in the Givati Brigade. “Rotem told me right out that he hated me,” says Leshem. “He said that when he was hiding in the bushes of Lebanon, I was, in his words, ‘drinking lemonade in a Tel Aviv café.’ He said I wouldn’t have even turned on the radio to see if he was okay and ‘you wouldn’t have even known if I was killed.’ Rotem hated me for not knowing.”
Leshem’s “guilt of not knowing” propelled him to persuade Rotem, who had always refused to speak to journalists, to recount his experiences. In If Heaven Exists Leshem has fictionalized him, turning him into Liraz Liberti, a dark-skinned Sephardic high school dropout, now the dispassionate but determined young commander of a team of thirteen Israel Defense Forces soldiers. The novel is written as his diary, detailing a condensed version of the actual events of the last winter of the occupation. “It’s really a book about withdrawal, not combat,” Leshem says.
At the start of the 1982 Lebanese War, a small Golani reconnaissance unit stormed and captured Beaufort Castle.
The Southern Lebanon security zone, controlled by the Israeli Army allied with the predominantly Christian South Lebanese Army, was established to prevent further rocket attacks on Israel by Hezbollah fighters who had moved into Lebanon. Soldiers at Beaufort knew the castle could become another Masada; they were sitting ducks for Hezbollah raids and mortar attacks. Alone in a medieval fortress on a lonely, vulnerable peak, cut off from their superiors at Army headquarters, they created their own culture, language, and rules. A wounded soldier is a flower; a dead soldier is a poppy. Eaten is afraid, and it is the worst thing for the unit, because it is contagious. The novel’s title comes from a saying that was written by a soldier over the doorway leading into Beaufort’s bunkers: “If heaven exists, this is what it looks like. If there’s a hell, this is what it feels like.”
Since Hezbollah soldiers often tried to storm the castle and there were constant rocket attacks, the soldiers always had to be ready for battle in less than thirty seconds—which meant sleeping in their uniforms and their boots. They couldn’t take showers or change their underwear; they took anti-diarrhea pills to avoid being caught by mortar attack while their pants were down. And every soldier knew how it felt to hold a dead man in his arms. The book captures both the intense devotion that develops among them and the propaganda that Hezbollah uses to try to break them. In one wrenching moment, the soldiers watch a Hezbollah broadcast on television that shows real footage from Israeli military cemeteries and pictures of Israeli soldiers weeping at a soldier’s funeral. “They love life, those Jews,” an announcer says in Hebrew with a Shiite accent. “We, on the other hand, love death.”
“I wanted to write an anti-war story,” Leshem says, “but it became a way for families of soldiers killed in the Second Lebanese War to cope with their grief.” The novel describes a game, What He Can’t Do Anymore, that Israeli soldiers played, a game of stories about their fallen comrades. In the first pages, the game is played about a soldier named Yonatan. “Yonatan can’t take his little brother to a movie any more. . . . He won’t be at his grandfather’s funeral, he won’t know if his sister gets married, he won’t take a piss with us from the highest peak in South America.”
Six soldiers named Yonatan were killed in the Second Lebanese War. At the war’s start, when Yonatan Hadasi, the first soldier named Yonatan, was killed, Israeli Army radio reported that the text of the What He Can’t Do Anymore passage of the book was read at Hadasi’s funeral. “Several parents of other fallen soldiers called me during the war,” Leshem says. “They told me that their son was in the middle of reading If Heaven Exists or had just finished reading it when he was killed and invited me to come to their house to meet their family.” Leshem went to pay shiva calls to these families. It was almost as if, because these soldiers were reading If Heaven Exists, they knew Leshem. And somehow, the families felt that Leshem knew their fallen sons and could bring some consolation. “Some of the families did a ‘take-off’ of my text,” Leshem says. “They rewrote a personalized version for the fallen soldier that was read during the eulogies.”
Dozens of American novels have been written by and about soldiers who served in Vietnam, but until If Heaven Exists no Israeli novel had ever been published about what happened to Israeli soldiers in Lebanon. “The Israeli Army pulled out on May 24, 2000, a Wednesday,” Leshem says. “By Friday, the word Lebanon was erased. Nobody talked about it.” His book, according to Maya Feldman, was the “first to break the silence surrounding that period.”
The book also serves as a painful reminder of how Israel has come full circle. “I thought that the withdrawal from Southern Lebanon was the right thing to do,” Leshem says. “It was an amazing chapter in Israeli history that what began as a movement of civilians, primarily mothers of soldiers, pushed the government to decide to pull out.” Yet the novel’s chillingly accurate prophecies, voiced by Liberti, about what would happen after Israel’s withdrawal seem to provide a way of understanding the growing consensus in Israel that the country is doomed to endless wars, even though it withdrew from Southern Lebanon and the Gaza Strip—and will most likely withdraw from the Palestinian Territories. “You don’t think Kiryat Shmona will be bombarded again?” Liberti asks on the last page of the book. “They’ll take a soldier hostage . . . bombard some northern settlement with mortar shells. . . . And when it comes, anyone who thinks a flock of IAF fighter jets is capable of taking care of the job from the air is going to learn there’s no replacing foot soldiers. We’ll march in there.”
In July 2006, ten months after If Heaven Exists was published, Hezbollah captured two Israeli soldiers along the Israeli-Lebanese border. Then the Second Lebanese War broke out. Hezbollah shelled Kiryat Shmona and the entire north of Israel (including the village where my family and I live). Israel’s Air Force bombed Hezbollah targets, and soon foot soldiers returned to South Lebanon to engage in house-to-house fighting. Israelis have a reputation for being resilient—hard, even—and rightly so. Sometimes it feels as if the country chokes its sorrow in a numbing silence. But as Liberti says in the book, “I’m sane, don’t worry. I’m not shell-shocked. In our country I’m certainly not the only twenty-one-year-old who’s held a body of a friend missing a head. You could almost say it’s normal around here.”
Diana Bletter is a writer based in the Western Galilee and author of the forthcoming memoir, The Mom Who Took Off On Her Motorcycle. She blogs at The Best Chapter.
Death — and life — is the topic of this article:
Only the weather doesn’t care about criticism – here’s a group of former Israeli soldiers trying to connect with people around the world.
And this is everything you always wanted to know about nose jobs:
A Bridge Too Far
How one woman lived to regret her nose job
When I was growing up in the early 1970s, there was my nose—and then there was me hidden behind it. Similar to Wilhelm Fliess—Sigmund Freud’s one-time friend who specialized in “nosology,” the idea that one’s nose was intimately tied to one’s sexuality—I believed that my prominent nose reflected the unshapeliness of my soul. Even though I lived in a New York suburb, home to thousands of Jews, I felt lonely, shy, and troubled. I thought that if I’d fix my nose, I’d fix my self.
So, at 16, I had a nose job. Apparently, it helped; right after, I found friends as well as my first serious boyfriend. Yet in the three decades since my operation, my previous nose has haunted me like the ghost limb of an amputee. I miss my old nose and I regret my decision to alter it. My new nose might be perky and far less noticeable—yet to me, it still stands out. Before, I felt like a stereotypical Jewish girl with a Jewish nose. Now, I feel like a stereotypical Jewish woman with a Jewish nose . . . job.
The connection between Jews, our noses, and our identity is very much on my mind these days because my youngest daughter, Libby Yael, 16, is the same age I was when I had my nose fixed. And—Mother Nature’s revenge—she has my old nose.
I had expected her attitude about her nose to be more positive than mine had been. After all, we live in Israel, where nose jobs are relatively uncommon, while I grew up in Great Neck—aka Rhinoplasty Central. My mother often told me that I’d look much prettier with a smaller nose; I constantly tell my daughter that she is gorgeous just as she is. But Libby doesn’t believe me. And even though I’ve shared my regrets about fixing my own nose, she tells me she’d like to fix hers.
“A man is physically and psychologically what his nose is . . . and a race can be judged and recognized by its nose,” plastic surgeon Dr. Henry J. Schireson wrote in The Jewish Transcript, a Seattle newspaper, in 1924. Even here, in Israel, a place where both Jews and Arabs are genetically prone to hefty noses, the perfect profile is petite. Famous models such as Pnina Rosenblum and Galit Gutman have noses that appear trimmed and tapered, as does the popular television newscaster Miki Haimovich. I sometimes wonder if Ehud Barak and Benyamin Netanyahu traded in their noses for right-angle, camera-friendly profiles. Their noses, oddly enough, resemble mine. While we finally have a Jewish country, we still contend with the unwieldy Jewish proboscis. To my astonishment, the nose job remains a Jewish issue.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, it seemed that nose jobs were, like sleep-away camp, just part of American Jewish adolescence. I favored unshaven legs and overalls, and might not have even thought twice about plastic surgery had it not been for my mother. After losing her father when she was five and growing up poor during the Depression, my mother saw beauty as her ticket to marrying well, a guarantee of economic security.
Unable to afford college, she worked as a dental assistant after high school, saving enough for her own rhinoplasty. She felt prettier instantly and landed a more lucrative job selling industrial aluminum to manufacturers like General Electric. (She boasts that in the early 1950s, she was the only aluminum saleswoman in the entire country.) Soon after, she married and promptly quit her job. Why wouldn’t her daughter want to follow a similar path?
Then, when I was in high school, the feminist movement exploded. Inspired by Betty Friedan, my mother went back to work—this time, selling antique jewelry. When it came to choosing a feminist look, however, she followed Gloria Steinem’s example. “We’re living in a world where beauty is very important,” my mother says now (and must have said then), “and if you can do something to make yourself more beautiful, then you should do it.”
My mother never wanted to pass herself off as a gentile. She scoffed at Jews who de-Judaized their names or converted to Christianity. Her wish for me to downsize my profile was, she claimed, purely aesthetic.
Yet rhinoplasty and Jews are linked on a deeper level. The founder of the modern nose job was a late 19th-century German Jewish plastic surgeon, Jacques Joseph. In his book, Making the Body Beautiful, Sander Gilman writes that Dr. Joseph (who was born as Jakob and wed a Christian) assumed that Jews would be better able to assimilate if their noses didn’t make them look “too Jewish.”
Since the medieval era, a big nose has always been the stereotypical feature that has symbolized Jews. A popular children’s book by Julius Streicher (publisher of Der Sturmer), published during the Nazi regime recounts how a boy named Little Karl recognizes Jews. “One can most easily tell a Jew by his nose,” the boy says. “The Jewish nose is bent at its point. It looks like the number six. We call it the Jewish six.” Later in the story, a girl looks at a Jewish man and exclaims that in the middle of his “devil’s face” is “a huge crooked nose.” Even today, caricatures of bloodthirsty Jews with immense noses appear in anti-Israel political cartoons.
Western scientific literature buttressed stereotypes and prejudices and classified the “Jewish nose” as a medical deformity, a pathological condition called “nostrility,” according to a 2001 article by Beth Preminger in the Journal of the American Medical Association entitled “The ‘Jewish Nose’ and Plastic Surgery.” Robert Knox, an anthropologist, stated in his 1850 book, The Races of Men, that the “Jewish nose” is “large, massive, club-shaped [and] hooked . . . three or four times larger than suits the face.” For this reason, he stated, a Jew can never be “perfectly beautiful.” Three decades later, plastic surgeon John Orlando Roe wrote in the journal The Medical Record, that, according to physiognomy, the Jewish nose symbolized the Jews’ “commercialism or desire of gain.”
Meanwhile, according to the account given by Sander Gilman, in Berlin in 1898, a patient presented himself to Dr. Joseph, complaining that his nose was “the source of considerable annoyance. Wherever he went, everybody stared at him.” Although we don’t know if the man was Jewish, Gilman presumes he was: his sense of nose-related social isolation mirrors the Jews’ position in fin-de-siecle Germany. Harry Schireson, a student of Jacques Joseph’s before immigrating to the United States wrote, “Many a Jew, especially if he belongs to the class of social climbers, anxious not to be recognized as a Jew, deplores his racial nose.”
Dr. Joseph performed his first rhinoplasty that year, cutting through the skin of the patient’s nose to whittle down the bone. The operation left a scar, however, but by 1904 he had refined his technique. Using surgical tools similar to those still in use today, Dr. Joseph performed the first intranasal nose job. After this successful operation, Dr. Joseph went on to bestow “gentile contours” to hundreds of Jewish noses. Right before his death in 1934, he performed free nasal surgeries on Jews to help them try to bypass Nazi Germany’s ever-tightening racial laws. Aesthetic rhinoplasty, then, began as a medical procedure to remedy Jewish patients’ noses. Ironically, it parallels the way psychoanalysis—born roughly at the same time and place—first arose as a cure for Jewish patients’ souls.
When I brought torn pages from Vogue with photos of noses I liked to a plastic surgeon in Manhattan in 1973, I had no idea that rhinoplasty was designed to make Jews less conspicuous. All I knew was that I tried not to turn to the side in my high school classes so that boys would not whip out my nickname, “Big Nose Bletter.” At home, I spent hours in front of the mirror, lamenting this thing in the middle of my face.
The surgeon’s office was on Park Avenue. My mother chose him because, as she put it, he “did” the nose of a friend of a friend, a top Jewish model at the time, as well as the nose of her very favorite actor, Paul Newman. After examining me for a few minutes, the doctor asserted that my nose had a bump and a fat tip and that he could reduce them both to suit my face. I was petrified to consider that I would be putting my nose in his hands, yet he seemed so self-assured that I agreed to schedule my operation in a few months’ time.
Despite my mother’s prodding, I remained ambivalent. “My feelings about my nose go back and forth,” I noted in a June 1973 diary entry. “When I look in the mirror, I see how big my nose looks and I can’t imagine living with it all my life, but I can’t imagine such a drastic change.” Then, as I jotted in my diary a few weeks later, after reading an article in Seventeen, which advised emphatically, “If anyone is considering [rhinoplasty], I say, yes, yes, yes!” I was convinced.
I had my nose fixed right before my senior year of high school. Numbed from anesthesia, half-awake and still aware, I could hear the doctor break the bone. The pounding sounded like a pile driver banging steel piles into the earth. But it did not emanate from the outside world: it came from deep within me.
Afterwards, a mummy-like bandage covered most of my face; only my swollen, black-and-blue eyes peered out. When the nurse removed the dressing, I didn’t want to look in the mirror. Instead, I closed one eye and gazed at my profile, thrilled that the bumpy ridge had been leveled.
“For the first time in my life, I feel pretty! I feel free!” I wrote in my diary, transformed. Then I ran into an old friend who hadn’t fixed her nose which was just as large as mine had been. Looking at her, I felt like a coward—and a fake. Society’s buzz had conned me into believing my nose was too big to be beautiful, and my parents had bought me a more attractive look.
I graduated high school, went to college, and then worked in New York City. For a while, I moved to Paris, where I dated a medical student from Senegal. As people stared at us—interracial couples were unusual in those days—I became painfully aware that my boyfriend could never peel off his skin. Obviously, he’d always be black. And although I felt irrevocably Jewish inside, to the outside world, I was white. I had become an invisible Jew.
But I didn’t want to be invisible, especially not among the French who, time and again, revealed their true feelings. One woman told me that Jews caused anti-Semitism because we choose to be different. On another occasion, I mistakenly assumed a man I met a man at Goldenberg’s Restaurant in the Marais was a fellow Jew. When I outed myself to him, he replied, “Aren’t you ashamed?”
Suddenly, I didn’t want to pass any more—I wanted to be in your face. I began to feel that if I couldn’t look Jewish, then at least I could act it. I returned to New York and gradually became more observant, which is another story. Ten years later, I moved to Israel.
This spring, Libby was voted “Tenth Grader of the Year” and “Best Smile” in her high school. She surfs, plays piano and soccer, and is far happier than I ever was at her age. I’ve tried to do all the right things to boost her confidence—but she is still miserable. She tells me that she feels she’s ugly because she has—in her words—a “big, crooked” nose. When I counter that her nose is special, she says that she could be a lot prettier without it.
She was chosen to join a delegation of teenagers who visited Germany this summer—yet was unsure if she wanted to go. When I asked her why, she said she was afraid that Germans would make fun of her Jewish nose. After studying the Holocaust and hearing stories from relatives and friends, she feared that Germans, despite their good intentions, might have internalized anti-Semitism—and might react negatively to Jews. Wary of being conspicuous, she suffers the very same anxiety that preoccupied Jews in Germany 100 years ago.
Nose jobs are not a rite of passage in Israel as they are in certain places in America; however, plastic surgeries (including breast and lip enlargement) are on the rise. Halachic authorities deem a nose job kosher if it can improve a person’s mental health. Still, I’m trying to talk Libby out of it. One reason is financial: With six children to put through college, my husband and I don’t have an extra few thousand to throw at elective surgery.
I’ve shared my regrets; she says she appreciates the way I’m trying to save her from the same mistake. I’ve also recounted how, a few years ago, I made an appointment with another Park Avenue plastic surgeon to see if I could get my old nose back. Unfortunately, he said he wouldn’t be able to re-enlarge my tip or replant the bump. I’m stuck with my before-and-after schnoz, but I don’t want Libby to be. Dorothy Parker quipped, after Fanny Brice’s rhinoplasty, that she’d “cut off her nose to spite her race”; I’d like to convey to my daughter that her unique features trump standardized versions of McBeauty.
Yet I understand all too well how awkward adolescence is and how shaky Libby’s self-esteem might be. As I’ve grown up, though, I realize that beauty—as well as happiness—really is an inside job. And maybe in my rush to fix my self via my nose, I missed out on learning how to stand up for what I believe in, and how to love my whole self despite what others around me say. Those are vital lessons in life—not only of bearing a Jewish nose but, simply put, of being a Jew—and that’s what I’m hoping to teach her. Illustration
This piece is about how I’ve come to learn that a shoebox isn’t always just a shoebox. It’s about living with terrorism. I wrote it before 9/11 when Americans were not yet introduced to terrorism. ”I Refuse to Live in Fear”
Latest article in tabletmag.com: Being a Female Freedom Bus Rider
It was morning rush hour in Jerusalem and I boarded a crowded bus, Egged No. 56, and claimed one of the last empty seats in the front. The man in the seat next to mine turned the brim of his black hat against me and nervously tapped his fingers on the window. Two stops later, he got up and the man sitting across from me got up, too.
The bus rattled on. Women boarded the bus—but mostly through the rear door. Pregnant women, elderly women, schoolgirls cradling books, middle-aged women holding packages, fashionably dressed twentysomethings with Gucci pocketbooks, designer sunglasses, stylish wigs. They hurried through the front section toward the back of the bus, deliberately passing the empty seats near me. The men also avoided sitting there. This was once a mehadrin, or sex-segregated, bus line—struck down as illegal by the Israeli Supreme Court on Jan. 5, 2011—but for these riders, sex-segregation is not a thing of the past. Men still ride in the front and women in the back.
Segregated buses made a splash in the Israeli media in December 2011 when Tanya Rosenblit, 28, sat in the front of a public bus going from Ashdod to Jerusalem and refused an ultra-Orthodox man’s demand that she go to the back. The man prevented the bus from moving, enlisting his friends to join his protest. When the bus driver called a police officer, he tried to persuade Rosenblit to comply. She did not back down, and eventually the bus took off without the male passenger. “I cannot humiliate myself in order to respect someone else,” Rosenblit wrote. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, President Shimon Peres, and other politicians roundly condemned bus segregation.
But, though there are no more de jure segregated bus lines, many former mehadrin bus lines resolutely maintain de facto segregation. I’d volunteered to take this bus as a Freedom Rider, a volunteer group of men and women who, under the auspices of the Jerusalem-based Israel Religious Action Center, monitor the everyday implementation of bus desegregation. Since the Supreme Court ruling, hundreds of Freedom Riders have traveled on buses to demonstrate to the public that women are legally entitled to sit wherever they want. And as I rode this bus—and several others for an entire morning this month—I thought about how the segregation of women on public buses symbolizes something far greater than just a seating arrangement. It is part of the agenda set by a very small minority of extremists within Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community (which is itself a minority) to push women not only to the back of the bus—but to the back of Israeli public space. The country I love and have lived in for the past 21 years is threatened by extremists who believe that a woman’s modesty is defined by her invisibility.
“Buses are democracy at its finest—you pay your fare, you take your seat,” said Steven Beck, the IRAC director of Israel-Diaspora Relations, who was riding the bus with me, along with two other women visiting from America. Beck stood in the middle of the bus to watch passengers’ reactions; in response to a Haredi man who said that our presence in the front of the bus was a provocation, Beck said, “We’re not trying to change Haredi society; we just want to make sure that public services are accessible to everyone.”
The Egged Bus Company, the largest in Israel, began its segregated mehadrin bus lines in 1998 to lure passengers away from another bus company. After several law suits were filed by women who were harassed and beaten for refusing to go to the back of a mehadrin bus (including writer Naomi Ragen), the Israeli Supreme Court outlawed these buses. Orly Erez Likhovski, an IRAC lawyer specializing in sex discrimination cases, told me that now, “If someone tells you that the bus is mehadrin and you have to move because of your sex then it is ground for civil damages.’’
As part of the Supreme Court decision, Likhovski said, the Egged Company is required to place stickers on buses stating, “All passengers are permitted to sit wherever they choose … harassing a passenger about this matter could be considered a criminal offense.” Still, the stickers (which are sometimes removed) and the Supreme Court ruling have done little to change the facts on the ground.
They have, however, bolstered women who refuse to budge. After my first bus ride of the morning, I decided, somewhat nervously, to continue riding former mehadrin buses—alone. I waited for another bus in the heart of downtown Jerusalem and got on. When I asked the driver where I should sit, he said “in the back.” But after telling him I wanted to sit in the front, he told me to do whatever I want, just to know that “people who ride this bus want it to be half-half: men in the front and women in the back. And I don’t want to deal with any problems. I just want to focus on driving the bus.”
The Supreme Court ruling demands that drivers take proactive action to defend a woman’s decision to sit where she wants. The driver is held personally liable, which is probably why this driver would have preferred I sat in the back. Likhovski said that since the Rosenblit case, more women have come forward to sue bus drivers; she recently won a case in which a judge awarded a woman 4,000 shekels against a driver who told her to move to the back.
I took my seat in front. The next woman who boarded the bus said to me, “This is a mehadrin bus. You should go to the back.”
“There’s really no such thing as mehadrin buses anymore,” I told her. “And did you know that in the United States, American blacks used to have to sit in the back of buses?”
“That was for discrimination,” she said. “This is for modesty. It gives men more respect.”
Neta Ravid, a neuroscience doctoral student at Hebrew University who helped found the Freedom Riders Campaign after men yelled at her to go to the back of a bus traveling from Arad to Jerusalem, disagreed. “It’s not a question of modesty but of equality,” Ravid said. “Pushing women to the back leads to the idea that women should be hidden. This will have dangerous results for Israeli society.”
On my second bus loop around the city, the next bus driver told me that he’s seen husbands and wives talk to each other on cellphones from separate sections of the same bus. He told me I could sit anywhere moments before a group of Haredi teenagers boarded. “Go to the back of the bus!” One of them said to me and then added, “Ichsa,” which means disgusting.
“All passengers can sit wherever they want,” the bus driver said loudly.
I said nothing but refused to move from my seat in the front. A short while later, an older woman with two shopping bags got on.
“Go to the back,” the boys repeated.
“You can go sit in the back,” the woman said, her voice shaky. “If it’s your private car, you can tell me what to do, but this bus is for everyone.” The woman plopped herself down next to me. “I keep kosher at home, I follow the laws,” she said, telling me only her first name, Rivka, and her age, 64. “I should listen to them? They should tell me what to do?”
At the time of its ruling, the Supreme Court granted the Ministry of Transportation a one-year trial period in which women would be allowed to board former mehadrin buses through the rear door—something they are not allowed to do on regular lines. Some Haredi leaders have put up announcements urging women to insist on boarding all buses through the rear door—contradicting the court ruling—and reminding them to “obtain a monthly pass in order to board through the second door without having to pass among the men.” In fact, I’d seen several women send their sons or daughters up to the front to pay the bus fare. Likhovski, the attorney, said that the Ministry of Transportation is expected to issue its decision on whether to completely ban rear-door boarding in a matter of days.
Voluntary sex-segregation also means that husbands and wives do not—cannot—sit together. Reached by telephone, a Hasidic Orthodox woman I know, who requested anonymity for fear of communal repercussions against her children, said that when she and her husband have traveled together on buses, other passengers have screamed at them to separate. “They yelled and even spit at me, but we stayed right where we were,” she said.
“They don’t want us to do what we want,” she added. “If I’m pregnant and I don’t feel well or I want to sit with my husband wherever there’s an empty seat, then I’ll sit. I don’t care.”
“So, do you want to ride the buses again with me?” I asked.
“I have six little kids, thank God,” she said. “Maybe in a few years. Who has time to ride the buses now?”
Talking to the Other
By Diana Bletter
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
SHAVEI ZION, Israel: It was a few days after the recent riots in Acre, Israel – a 10-minute drive from my house – and my youngest son and I were walking through the winding alleys of the souk in this ancient city.
There were several reasons why this was not such a smart idea. The riots pitched Arabs against Jews, the souk is predominantly Arab, and neither Ari nor I look the part.
But I wanted to go to eat humus at Said’s Restaurant, the souk’s most famous eatery. More crucially, I wanted to step over the invisible divide that has cleaved the city in two.
The riots began on Oct. 8 after Yom Kippur services had just ended. People and children were milling about on streets in Acre that had become pedestrian zones for the night. An Arab man drove through a Jewish neighborhood – witnesses say he was driving recklessly – and Jews surrounded his car and threw rocks.
Perhaps the Jews overreacted, but people were wary: Last year on Yom Kippur an Arab driver deliberately drove his vehicle through a similar crowd in a nearby town and killed a nine-year-old girl.
The latest incident left the driver unhurt but a rumor spread that he had been killed and Arab-instigated riots began. The first night, Arabs shouted “Death to the Jews,” and smashed cars and store windows. The following two nights, Jews shouted “Death to the Arabs,” and threw Molotov cocktails into several Arab homes.
As a well-seasoned peace protestor who grew up listening to John Lennon’s “Imagine,” I felt heartsick. I moved to Israel in 1991 thinking we can overcome, and yet I’m confronted daily with how much hatred and hurt there still is to overcome.
Jewish friends in Acre complain that their daughters cannot walk alone down the streets because Arab teenagers harass them (I’ve seen it happen). Arabs friends say that religious Jewish families are moving into Acre not so much for the real estate or for reconciliation but as a political move with no sensitivity toward their neighbors (I’ve seen that happen, too).
What could I do? I attended an emergency meeting of my Acre peace group consisting of Jewish, Muslim, Christian and Druze women and we talked about rising religious extremism and fanaticism. We made plans to organize more meetings and workshops to bring both sides together. And the only other thing I could think of doing was…to eat humus.
There had been calls during the riots for Jews to boycott Arab businesses. Going to the souk, therefore, was not only a culinary outing but also an act of good will, an attempt to start the reconciliation process all over again.
As we walked through the passageway, normally crowded with noise and sounds and jostling but now eerily empty, I felt that my son Ari and I were goodwill ambassadors.
He’s also aware that people’s lives in this country are intertwined. I’ve tried to teach him and his siblings tolerance and the importance of communicating with “the other,” which is why Ari began studying Arabic. Not for use in the military (he just finished his three-year service in the Israel Defense Forces), but because he wanted to speak the language of his fellow countrymen.
So there we were, eating humus at Said’s. On an ordinary day, we’d have to wait a long while for a table but now we sat right down among Said’s diverse crowd of Arabs and Jews. Ari talked and joked in Arabic to the waiters and to Sultan, the owner’s son (who sometimes plays soccer with my oldest son and stepson), and I was kvelling over the linguistic skills of my nice American-born Jewish son.
After we left, we stepped into another store to buy a can opener. Ari spoke in Arabic to the store owner, who began searching for the opener. Then I stopped dead in my tracks.
In front of me was a map that looked like Israel with Arabic writing and the date 1948. To me, that date represents the birth of Israel, my adopted country.
But it was obvious that the map showed the land without Israel, thereby erasing our existence from reality. This wasn’t a map of nostalgia, I realized, it was a map of negation.
So there I stood listening to my son chat away with the owner who said he didn’t have a can opener but he’d be happy to order us one. I stood there trying my utmost to hold onto my naïve belief that we can work it out while feeling deep down that our predicament is far too overwhelming for a couple of well-meaning folks to tackle.
Huffington Post blog on surprising diversity in Israel: