My parents used to live a couple of doors down from this illustration. There was no such thing as art in the square back then. At least not like this.
I taught a middle aged relative how to fix a flat tire in front of this spot, too. It was 1995. He’d just arrived from Uruguay, and told me he’d never driven before.
Kikar Hamedinah, Tel Aviv. 11/5/09.
Rough trans: The good will overcome the bad. Ibn Gvirol, near the Ministry of Defence. Tel Aviv, 11/5/09.
A poster child for those seeking to demonstrate the Israeli government’s failings to properly look after its citizenry, or a prisoner of the larger Arab-Israeli conflict, the figure of Gilad Shalit has come to symbolize almost every conceivable kind of victimization Israelis suffer from. So ubiquitous has his image become, both in Israel and in the Diaspora, Shalit’s captivity has been used as though it were a reminder to Jewry that it is collectively hostage, and that everything is, as usual, threatening to spin out of its control.
Pity the parents of POWs like Shalit, who have to contend with the uses of their children for such ends. Granted, Noam Shalit (pictured here) has put himself in the public eye for longer than anyone can remember, in order to get the government to secure the release of Gilad. Yet, the defacement of Shalit here, in this Tel Aviv phone booth – eyes crossed out, the word “Inspire”, in English, scrawled on his mouth – suggest a weariness with how Noam’s image, as an anxious father, has been put to as many partisan uses as his son.
King George Street, 5/5/09.
Two weeks ago, France 24 produced a larger television piece on the recent advert attempting to ‘shame’ Israelis who do not do their military service. Based on the recent forum on the Observers site, I discuss my decision, 23 years ago, to not do my military service. Jennifer shot the original interview.
The nicest part about this experience was hearing about it first via my uncle Avi in Tel Aviv, who saw it on France 24 at home, and then telephoned my parents about it, who in turn called me. I didn’t get a chance to see the full piece until last week, when Roi Ben-Yehuda let me know it had been posted online.
Note the use of the word ‘deserter’ in the English broadcast of the interview. In French, the original term, ‘deserteur’ is also used to describe people who choose not to do military service as an act of conscience. It doesn’t consistently translate as ‘to leave one’s post’, though that surplus is most definitely there.
Click here to watch the English version. The French edition is worth a gander, too.
Two blocks away, an Israeli-American couple sat down to a late lunch in a local cafe. Ten minutes later, a young woman and her middle aged mother took the table next to them, and in Hebrew, began discussing the differences between San Francisco and Tel Aviv real estate prices.
Walking back to our car afterwards, we talked about how much more familiar this city is starting to feel. The prevalence of pita and hummus on restaurant menus, how often we run into Israelis. And, the increase in signs like this, which we caught as we got into our Toyota.
It was late in the afternoon at Tel Aviv’s Olympia restaurant. Barely a soul was present, with the exception of an overweight middle aged man sitting at the center of a large table, surrounded by several IDF officers sporting berets neatly folded inside their epaulets. Some were sipping cups of Turkish coffee. Others were smoking cigarettes and talking, while the gentleman at the center of the proceedings sat there in silence.
Eventually a large plate of shawarma arrived, and when it did, all of the soldiers present allowed him to help himself first. Digging his hands into the steaming hot dish, he ended his silence. “Nu, Elie,” he yelled out across the room to my father. “Manishma?” (“how are you?” ) he asked. My father got up from our table and politely made his way over to him. “Beseder,” (“Fine”) he said politely, explaining that he had arrived for a late lunch with his son, whom he’d just brought over from the United States.
“Who is that man you just said hi to?” I asked my father after he returned to our table. “That’s Ariel Sharon,” my father said. “He’s a retired general, who’se now working in politics.” I recognized Sharon’s name. I’d seen it in the newspaper. It corresponded with a picture book I was reading about the 1973 war. “Isn’t he a hero?” I asked. “Well, yes,” my father replied, sounding a little conflicted. “He lead the charge against the Egyptians two years ago in the Sinai.”
Over dinner at a friend’s apartment in Tel Aviv in 2005, I asked what had become of the Olympia. “It closed many years ago,” the hostess said. “When did you last go there?” “When I was eight,” I replied. “In 1975.” Telling them the story of running into Sharon, they both laughed. “I once worked on Sharon’s ranch when I was a kid,” the host said. “Watching him eat was an amazing – and a somewhat unpleasant experience. He would attack food like it was the enemy.”
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