Suicide is Painless: Dating Etiquette in the Holy Land

Whenever I am asked how Israelis compare to the British, there is one single reoccurring experience that always springs to mind as best illustrating  the cultural, social and psychological differences between my two sets of compatriots.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

This is a compulsory first date question. Indeed, it is on that mental ‘note’ that we serial first-daters keep in our mental ‘pocket’ just in case our mind is blanked out by the devastating appeal of the stranger sitting opposite us or, as is more common, by the thought “What the f* ck am I doing here?!”

“I had a brother, but he died.”

In England, this was invariably the cue for a swift glance floorward or (for the more self-assured woman) a courteous extension of sympathy, and – in both cases – the immediate changing of the subject.

The odd bold bird would go a bit further.

“How did he die?”

 “Suicide.”

She looked sorry she asked.

But not here. Israeli girls go further in every sense.

“How did he do it?”

The first time I was asked this question, I thought I was on some cruel Israeli dating version of Candid Camera. But judging by the frequency with which I had to field it thereafter – on about two out of every three first dates – it soon became obvious that I was the one who would have to be making the psychosocial readjustment.

I don’t know why it should matter to a potential second date how Jonny took his life, but it would certainly appear to.

One could argue that the army and the “matzav” (political and security situation in Israel) desensitize Israelis to death . . . or, not giving the natives the benefit of the doubt, that they are just remarkably tactless. And it does sometimes feel as if that part of the cognitive process that inhibits other nationalities from asking grossly insensitive questions is just missing from the mental makeup of most Israelis.

New olim (immigrants to Israel) – especially those from the UK, where the natives tend to be rather less frank – often cite Israeli openness and directness as one of the main reasons they prefer it here.

Indeed, in Israel, it is better to be asked such questions than not to be asked at all.

Last Saturday evening, I went on a blind date arranged by Sidney, my real estate agent.

Eylat was refreshingly normal for a Tel Aviv woman, reasonably attractive, and studying for a Ph.D. (and not in Retail Therapy). I hadn’t been blown away, but Eylat was a considerably better proposition than any of the apartments Sidney had shown me.

And, on my stroll home from the Dizengoff café where Eylat and I had shared a two-seater, I resolved that I would look kindly on the fact that Eylat could not have been far off 40, was in possession of a rather oddly shaped mouth, and larger thighed than I tend to like. In fact, I would reward Eylat with a second date.

I was now feeling distinctly regal. In fact, if I had been double-jointed, I would have patted myself on the back for my generosity of spirit.

So, on Sunday morning, I sent Eylat an sms, notifying her of her good fortune. And, a few hours later, I received the following reply:

“Mitz’ta’eret, aval zeh loh ma’tim – be’hatz’lacha.” (I am sorry, but it is not suitable – good luck.)

I was flabbergasted. Where was the appreciation for my selfless grant of a second audience?! Anyway, our conversation had been pleasant and had flowed, and was totally devoid of that bane of the first date: the awkward silence.

But then it occurred to me . . . after enquiring about my sibling situation, Eylat had not followed up on the news of Jonny’s death in any way. She simply didn’t care. The warning sign had been there, but I had been too preoccupied with the concessions I would be granting Eylat to notice it.

Suddenly, the memory of all those tactless women seemed a whole lot better . . . and, from now on, I will no longer wish for what in Israel is considered cold indifference.

Story of Isaac[son]: Lenny and the Prince of Davka

I admit it. My behaviour can, at times, be strange. And in ways I can barely explain. Even to myself.

And my not even attempting to obtain tickets for the Morrissey (last year) and Leonard Cohen (last week) concerts in Israel was amongst the strangest. I am a hard-core fan of both singer-songwriters (add poet for Cohen), owning virtually their entire back catalogues, and both performed just a few miles from Melchett.

But I will at least try to explain (if only for myself) . . .

I guess I am a cultural snob. And, when Israelis suddenly feign interest in visiting musicians whose work I have spent much of my adult life exploring, it can just be too much. I mean it might be okay with your Depeche Modes and Madonnas (both of whom played Israel this summer), but more inscrutable artists like “Mozza” and “Lenny” should not be so easily accessible! It is not just a question of buying tickets, showing up . . . and catching up.

This distaste is similar to the one I have for football ‘supporters’ who only show an interest in their team when it starts to win (on that note, has anyone come across a Manchester City fan who goes by the name of “Seitler”?) . . . as opposed to loyal fools like me, who even go to watch them in shit holes like Scunthorpe (yes, I visited Glanford Park on my last trip to the UK).

No, the opportunist concert goer is no better than the “glory hunter”, or “part-time”, football fan. You don’t want to share your adoration of your idol(s) with either of them. Unlike you, they lack credibility (and snobbery).

And so it was, for the first performance by Leonard Cohen in Israel since 1975 – all 47,000 tickets were sold in less than 24 hours – I didn’t even pick up the phone. No, I voted with my feet . . . and cut off my nose, because a large part of me obviously wanted to be there.

In Israel, such behaviour is referred to as davka – loosely translated, in this sense, as “just to be contrary” – and I am the Prince of Davka!

But, last Thursday afternoon, staring blankly at yet another contract in my office, I started to become increasingly distracted by the thought that, a few hours later – while I would be walking Stuey and Dexxy along Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Boulevard – Leonard Cohen would be playing to a packed National Stadium just down the road, in Ramat Gan. And who were they to be there . . . and me not?!

At some point, the momentousness of the occasion then hit me even harder. It was three days after the Canadian’s seventy-fifth birthday. But, more poignantly, we were in the middle of the Ten Days of Repentance – between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur – and Cohen would undoubtedly be performing a Holy Land rendition of Who by Fire, his cover of the High Holy Days’ “hit”, Unesaneh Tokef (as well as of other songs with Biblical themes, like Story of Isaac and Hallelujah).

I got into Leonard (and, indeed, Bob) in the sixth form at school, thanks to the precocious taste – for Hasmonean, at least – of my classmate, Jonathan Levene, to whom I am forever indebted. Who knows . . . if not for Jonny – who even now I believe, as a black-hatted frummer (called “Yoynosson”), occasionally (though perhaps clandestinely) still listens to Cohen and Dylan – I may have succumbed, like so many of my peers, to the relative poverty of Billy Joel, Elton John, Genesis, ELO, Meat Loaf, and even, God forbid, Dire Straits. I have seen Cohen “live” on just one occasion, at the Royal Albert Hall in 1993. (Any Lenny “virgins” would do well to check this out for starters . . . just to understand.)

So, leaving work on time for once, I raced home, threw Stuey and Dexxy into the back of the car without their customary early evening walk (thus risking bladders being emptied on the back seat), and headed down to Ramat Gan. Bringing the beasts meant that I wasn’t even going to be looking for a ticket – I just wanted to feel part of the “occasion”, and, if possible, hear just a little of the great man’s distinctive bass from outside the stadium.

I was not alone. There were a couple of hundred of us ticketless hobos, sitting on kerbs and the grass verges of the adjacent Ha’yarkon Park. I bumped into a journalist acquaintance, Lisa, who had hoped to bum a ticket through media contacts outside the stadium. But to no avail.

I fantasized, briefly, about approaching queuing Israelis (an oxymoron, I know), and posing a simple enough question (for any genuine Cohen fan):

“Chelsea Hotel #2 refers to Lenny’s affair with which singer?”

I even planned my response for the (expected) failure to provide the correct answer (Janis Joplin):

“Right, get outta the queue! And gimme your ticket! It’s confiscated. Now go home!”

Back on planet Earth . . . following one round of the stadium perimeter, Lisa and I perched ourselves on the stretch of kerb where Cohen could be most clearly heard. To our chagrin, however, there were a couple of horribly annoying Israeli women also seated in the vicinity who insisted on vocally accompanying his every word. And not only that . . . but with the heaviest of “Hebrish” accents. Nauseating guttural noises accompanied Lover Lover Lover:

“Yes and love-airrgggh, love-airrgggh, love-airrgggh, love-airrgggh, love-airrgggh, love-airrgggh . . . love-airrgggh, come back to me.”

Lisa, eventually, could take no more and left. The opportunity I had been waiting for arrived when Stuey and Dexxy started barking at a passing canine, at which the irritating duet – far less attractive, I might add, than my hairy duo (otherwise I may have let them off) – had the temerity to deliver filthy looks in my direction. That was my cue. I assured them that I would keep the dogs quiet . . . if they would do the same with each other. I am becoming more Israeli by the day. (There was plenty other Israeli chutzpah on show – during the second half of the concert, for instance, as minibuses started rolling up, fellow freeloading kerb-sitters remonstrated with drivers about the noise of their engines!)

I had a hot date planned for later in the evening, and left early to avoid the departing hordes. To quote Suzanne, perhaps Cohen’s most well-known song, “[I] want[ed] to be there”. And, strangely, I felt as if I had been. It was well worth the effort.

In spite of having been ordained as a Buddhist monk (in 1996), Leonard Cohen still considers himself “one of us”:

“I’m not looking for a new religion. I’m quite happy with the old one, with Judaism.”

Legend has it that Cohen – who was performing for Israeli troops – shared cognac with Arik Sharon in the Sinai during the Yom Kippur War, and that he was plagued with guilt when he found himself relieved to learn that a passing convoy of bloodied bodies was ‘only’ one of Egyptians. He would later remark:

“Lover Lover Lover was born over there. The whole world has its eyes riveted on this tragic and complex conflict. Then again, I am faithful to certain ideas, inevitably. I hope that those of which I am in favour will gain.”

The recollection of Israeli singer Oshik Levi sheds further light:

“Leonard Cohen proceeded with us for three months, day after day, four to five – and sometimes eight – performances a day. And, in every place we arrived at, he wanted to be drafted. At one time he wanted to be a paratrooper, at another time in the marines, and another time he wanted to be a pilot. We would sleep in sleeping bags on the floor because there was no room, and Leonard – who didn’t want to feel like a star – refused when I tried to arrange a place for him in the Culture Room.”

Asked which side he supports in the Arab-Israeli conflict, Cohen has responded:

“I don’t want to speak of wars or sides . . . Personal process is one thing, it’s blood, it’s the identification one feels with their roots and their origins.”

Cohen hit hard times in 2005, alleging that his longtime former manager had misappropriated over five million dollars from his retirement fund (leaving just $150,000). And the Israel leg of his world tour will not have done much to help – Cohen donated all of the profits (estimated at two million dollars) to an Israeli-Palestinian charity (a political gesture, no doubt, in the face of pressure from the anti-Israel lobby).

Even international music legends are not guaranteed to make money here . . . though I am certain that Cohen will have enjoyed coming back to his “roots”.

God bless you, Lenny. And come back again soon (I promise, next time, to leave Stuey and Dexxy at home).

 

[For further photographs from, and discussion relating to, Cohen’s time in Israel during the Yom Kippur War, see the Leonard Cohen Forum. Other quotes and information from Wikipedia.]

melchett mike’s Rosh Hashanah Message

Dear Friends (well, that’s how “Sacksy” starts),

Dalia, one of the Rothschild kiosk quarter-to-seven crew – and the most balanced and normal of the natives who drink their morning coffee there (the competition, it has to be said, is not all that fierce) – recently surprised her husband, for his birthday, with a long weekend in Budapest.

On the morning following their return, she was simply gushing about the Pearl of the Danube, and especially the Marriott Hotel, on its banks, at which they stayed. The food. The rooms. The service. All superb. “And the best thing of all,” declared Dalia, without even a hint of jest, “we were the only Israelis.”

Now, you will never hear the Englishman – on his return to Blighty from the Costa del Sozzled (or whichever other destination he decided to grace with his civilising presence) – revel in the fact that he didn’t come across any other Englishmen during his sojourn.

Far from it. The Englishman delights in being amongst his own (and is even somewhat lost without them). Indeed, it is the “Kraut” and the “Frog”, the “Itie” and the “Spic” – in short, “Johnny Foreigner” – whom the Englishman does not wish to rub shoulders with on his hols.

I have been pondering this difference in attitude between the Englishman and the Israeli towards their own. It is not hard to fathom what it tells us about the Englishman . . . but what does it say about the Israeli?

The Israeli revels in one-upmanship. Everything he does or has must be better, less obtainable, more expensive – or, in the case of an identical product or service, cheaper – than what his friend does or has. So, for Dalia, the absence of other Israelis in the Marriott perhaps gave it an air of exclusivity.

The Israeli also believes that the Gentile – or at least the European, or white, English-speaking one – must necessarily have more class and/or culture than the native of the Middle East (said Israeli has obviously not spent a Friday evening in your average English city centre). Even I, a naturalised Israeli, receive looks of reverence when I – or, rather, my dreadful Hebrew-speaking accent – reveal my English roots. And I listen in puzzlement as awe-filled locals rave about aspects of London and England that I always took for granted. So, perhaps Dalia just didn’t want the Middle East interfering with her European weekend.

The Israeli also exhibits his own variant of what comedian Jackie Mason describes as “too Jewish” syndrome, relating to the Hebrew’s lack of comfort in his own skin. So, escaping her fellow Israeli for a few days perhaps provided Dalia with a welcome break from that uncomfortable ‘mirror’.

Jewish self-deprecation, our numerous complexes, and especially Groucho Marx’s not wanting “to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members”, all play their part here too.

Or perhaps I am just over-analysing. Anyone who has been on a flight, in a hotel, or anywhere for that matter, with a group of Israelis will know that there are politer, more decorous and rule-obeying breeds. Dalia’s continental breakfasts would not have been quite the same if dozens of her compatriots had been fighting over, and smuggling vast quantities of food out of, the Marriott buffet.

But – and I am getting to the Rosh Hashanah Message bit now (I think you will find the transition quite seamless!) – whilst neither Israelis nor life in Israel are perfect (both far from it), I strongly believe that those of you who are still living in the Diaspora are really missing out. You are just not “in the game”.

And when I hear of the ‘problems’ and concerns of friends visiting from the UK, of their interests, and those of their kids – not to mention Britain’s (and Europe’s) creeping Islamisation (about which I have blogged) – it just serves to reaffirm my decision to live here. Apologies for getting all existential on you, but, in the large scheme of things, the plushest of homes, flashest of cars, most extravagant of holidays, and even the best of schools, surely mean and count for little.

Diaspora Jewry . . . the shofar calls!

To return to the “footie” analogy (they tend to be the best, I find), the intensive training, expensive boots and fancy strip mean nothing . . . if you can’t even get on the pitch. And having the privilege to live during a rare period of Jewish self-determination – with sovereignty in the Land of Israel – has given all of us the opportunity to get on that “pitch”. It is totally incomprehensible to me how Jews, and self-declared Zionists to boot (pun intended), choose instead to watch from the touchline. (Whilst this may come across as preachy, my intention is not to patronise. And if just one or two readers think about the “Israel option” while bored sh*tless in shul this weekend . . . then pissing the rest of you off will have been worth it!)

So, a happy, healthy and peaceful New Year to readers of melchett mike and to all of Am Yisroel (the Jewish people) . . . but especially to the State of Israel and its citizens, who – in spite of their many faults – are the vanguard of our people, bringing their Diaspora brothers the standing, credibility, and thus security, to continue what I believe to be their relatively meaningless (in a Jewish sense) and increasingly precarious existence.

And, whilst Dalia may not be so pleased to see you during her next European “weekend of culture” . . . she would be delighted to have you here!

melchett mike,
Rosh Hashanah 5770

HOT . . . in the bedroom and under the collar

Over a drink in Tel Aviv yesterday evening, a friend divulged details to me of the HOT Action that he and his girlfriend have been enjoying in the bedroom.

Alas, he was not referring to “action” of the rumpy-pumpy, bit of the other, “ooh err missus” sort . . . but that of the Channel 14 variety (14 is the action movie channel on Israel’s HOT cable TV network).

A mere matter of weeks into a new relationship – and with a particularly attractive woman – said friend, who doesn’t have a television in his own apartment, has started to appreciate the benefits of his girlfriend’s.

So, every evening, they rip off each other’s clothes, jump into bed . . .  and watch telly.

This, it has to be said, does not bode particularly well for their relationship. HOT’s standard fare of tasteless wannabe/quasi-celebrity “Isratrash” and shit films (repeated ad infinitum) has transformed the international news networks – BBC, CNN, Fox, and Sky – into the staple television diet of most English-speaking households in Israel.

I pay a monthly 210 shekels (about 35 British pounds) to, in effect, have Sky News “rolling” on in the background – it has taken on an elevator music-like quality in my apartment – but, essentially, for the luxury (for a further 50 shekels) of being able to watch the English Premier League from Dexxy’s and Stuey’s (previously my) Rechov Melchett couch.

HOT’s abysmal programming (with the notable exception of Channel 8 documentaries) is matched only by its miserably inefficient, unreliable and thoroughly discourteous customer service . . . easily the worst I have experienced in a country in which it faces formidable competition in that regard (see my earlier post, The Buyer’s a Freier).

There is even a Hebrew website, Ani soneh et HOT! – translated as “I hate HOT!” (logo above) – dedicated to the seemingly widespread contempt for the network. (If any readers of melchett mike wish to suggest a more worthy contender for the title of Worst Customer Service in Israel, please do so below.)

I spent yesterday morning – like so many others during my decade in Israel – pulling my hair out in the futile wait for a HOT technician. “Seven-thirty to nine,” I had been confidently assured by HOT’s telephone customer service representative.

The technician didn’t turn up. Neither did he call. And, to add insult to injury, after I demanded compensation for the wasted two hours off work, HOT’s customer service manager offered me a temporary extra channel (to add to the over one hundred others that I never watch).

“The Food Channel? What . . . for a WHOLE MONTH?! Wow! Yeh! That’ll be fine then.”

When the technician finally did turn up, yesterday evening, Dexxy treated herself to a taste of his calf. That showed him! Bastard.

So, I will be voting with my feet and switching to HOT’s satellite competitor, YES. Either that, or I will splash out a one-off 400 shekels for a receiver that will allow me to view Israel’s handful of terrestrial channels.

And, should I desire some HOT Action, I could always pop round to my friend’s girlfriend . . . sounds like he could definitely do with some ‘assistance’ in that regard.

Tel Aviv Gay Murders: A Rude Awakening

Just as there can be no substitute for a first hand witnessing of Ground Zero, where New York City’s World Trade Center once stood, walking past the gay and lesbian youth center on Tel Aviv’s Nachmani Street on Sunday evening brought home to me the true horror of what had happened there just the night before.

Amongst the grieving Tel Avivis and burning candles – in memory of Nir Katz, 26, a volunteer at the center, and Liz Trubeshi, just 16 (fifteen others were injured, four seriously) – were signs reading “Die le’homophobia” (Enough homophobia) and “Ahava loh sina” (Love not hate). They said it all.

Israelis comfort each other at the scene of Saturday night's killings

Outside the (mainly residential) building, I ran into Tzachi, a kiosk acquaintance. The front door of his apartment, he told me, is directly opposite the center, and on hearing the shots – of the lone, masked gunman – he loaded his gun in readiness. But he was too late. On exiting his apartment, Tzachi stumbled across two bodies, lying in pools of blood, in the building’s hallway.

I have been meaning to address the following question on melchett mike for some time now: what is it about homosexuality that so disturbs so many, otherwise reasonable, people? Actually, I will rephrase that: what is it about homosexual males that so disturbs so many, otherwise reasonable, heterosexual (ostensibly) males?

I have a few straight (ostensibly) male friends who recoil in disgust every time that they see other men holding hands or kissing (not uncommon sights in Tel Aviv). Another goes into a frenzy whenever he passes men’s clothes stores which he considers too camp. One doesn’t, I suppose, have to be a brilliant psychotherapist to come up with plausible explanations for such behavior.

But repressed, conflicted and/or closet homosexuals apart, why the hell should it bother anyone where some men like to stick their todgers (or take another’s)?

My religious cousin yesterday trotted out the “it’s unnatural” argument. I informed him that I had recently seen research indicating that over fifty percent of heterosexual couples either regularly indulge in or have experimented with – I don’t recall which (I didn’t take notes, but you get the point) – anal sex.

He retorted that, if everyone in the world was gay, it would signal the end of the human race. But not everyone in the world is gay. And what about single people, those with fertility problems, etc? Should we discriminate against them too?

It is interesting to note that male homophobes are, in general, not remotely disturbed by the sexual proclivities and activities of gay females. Especially not those of attractive ones. Very far from it, in fact.

Religious bigotry in Israel has certainly not helped the homosexual community. And unthinking chiloni (secular) Israelis have already pointed fingers of blame for Saturday’s attack at haredim (the ultra-Orthodox). Needless to say, that is totally wrong. It is far from inconceivable that a chiloni homophobe or just a plain nutter perpetrated the atrocity, or that it was the result of some internal dispute.

Conversely, kneejerk reactions that a haredi was unlikely to have carried it out are similarly unhelpful. Among the curious reasons provided in one particular comment to melchett mike were: “1. A haredi is recognizable with or without a mask. Beard, peyot, clothes, etc.  2. Most haredim neither have automatic rifles nor know how to use them.  3. Motzei shabbat [post-sabbath] seems an “unlikely” time for a haredi to act.  4. Where did he get the intelligence?”

It is as if, English football fan-like, many Israelis have chosen their side and will support it whatever. Such are the chasms in our society.

Anyway, another commenter to melchett mike, who opined that homosexuals are “just ill” and “halachically [according to Jewish law] should be put to death”, is merely modern, not ultra, Orthodox.

What this tragedy has brought home to me are the genuine dangers faced by Israel’s gay community (and others). Perhaps we should all be more careful in our discourse, even in our jesting, which otherwise may unwittingly create an atmosphere in which homophobic behaviour is tolerated. Whilst never having considered myself even remotely homophobic, perhaps I have not been overly sensitive to the gay community’s interests and concerns, recently penning a satirical post – Vot do you mean “gay” . . . like “happy”? (which is followed by the full gamut of commenters’ opinions) – on Tel Aviv’s Gay Pride Parade.

On Saturday night, the purpose of, and need for, such public displays of solidarity and pride suddenly and shockingly became much, much clearer.

I am sure we all wish they hadn’t.

Expanding Our Sporting Horizons

Confined to my sickbed this past week and a half, the miserable alternatives offered by HOT (Israeli cable TV) have more or less compelled me to take an interest in professional cycling and to renew a former one in darts.

Watching the Tour de France reach its exhausting conclusion gave me cause to wonder why there has never been an Israeli participant in this, the greatest test of stamina in world sport.

Indeed, it is a question I posed to the kiosk brain trust, on Rothschild Boulevard.

After all, why shouldn’t the Israeli male, who displays such outstanding determination, resilience and tactical astuteness in his IDF uniform, be able to bring those very same qualities to the hard saddle?

The reply – delivered, of course, by chairman (self-appointed) of the trust, Avi (well known to readers of melchett mike) – was instant.

“That type of professional cycling demands a special type of self-discipline and denial. And it is one that we Israelis simply don’t possess. We are far too sociable, and incapable of such lonely individualism. Your average Israeli might be able to start his Tour training rides at the crack of dawn, but he’ll be off his bike in a flash at the first sight of people drinking coffee, eating croissants and chatting!”

Hankies to the ready . . . but, if Israel has shown us anything, it is that nothing is impossible for “us” anymore. Still, knowing Israelis as I now do, it is hard, for once, to disagree with Avi.

"Jocky Wilson . . . what an athlete." (Sid Waddell)

Now, I am unashamed to admit that I have always been a big fan of TV darts, especially when accompanied by the quite wonderful commentary of Sid Waddell, a Cambridge University graduate who has shown that you don’t have to be sub-working class to enjoy this most watchable of sports (or games, if you wish to argue the toss). During one particularly tense match, the Geordie proclaimed: “There couldn’t be more excitement in here if Jesus Christ walked in and ordered a cheese sandwich.” Brilliant.

I now started to wonder why no British Jews have ever taken up a career with the arrows. It can be extremely lucrative if you reach the top, you don’t get dirty, and hardly even have to bend down. There are two separate professional world bodies – any self-respecting Diaspora Jew will require one that he doesn’t belong to – and the rule book of neither prohibits consumption of vodka and orange, or even a good pure malt, instead of beer.

But, whilst Jewish guys might be able to handle the dart thrower’s compulsory chains and rings, they would never smoke B&H, Embassy or Rothmans, and would look ridiculous in those “tent” shirts.

And what about the sobriquets? Amongst world champions, past and present, have been Eric “The Crafty Cockney” Bristow, Steve “Housewife’s Choice” Beaton (right), and Phil “The Power” Taylor.

Who would we have? Neville “The Calculator” Rosenberg? Lionel “Mummy’s Boy” Frankel? Melvyn “The Doormat” Levy? It could just all get very embarrassing.

So, even though I ran it down a little in my last post– as not exactly a competition of sporting giants – perhaps the Maccabiah Games, held “in private” in Israel, is the best sporting option after all for British Jews.

The Good, the Sad and the Ugly

There have been two stories dominating the news in Israel this past week. While the first demonstrates everything that is good about today’s Jewish State, the second shows it at its most ugly.

And the good story does not relate to the start of the eighteenth Maccabiah Games. I can’t get too excited about a “Jewish Olympics” . . . which, for me, is about as interesting as an Islamic beer, or Christian Klezmer music, festival.

Indeed, to call the Maccabiah amateurish would be unkind to much non-professional sport. In the men’s 100 metres final (stumbled across whilst channel-hopping), all the sprinters were in their blocks and the starter’s gun raised . . . when this guy appears out of nowhere, unchanged and remonstrating. Not having the heart to send him, un-run, back to Canada (I think that’s where the nincompoop was from), the sprinters were made to get out of their blocks and wait while he changed in front of a ‘live’ national TV audience. The commentator’s observation, that “something like this would never happen at the real Olympics” (in fact, it was pure Hasmonean Sports Day), was more than a little redundant.

Like the role of British polytechnics (now renamed “universities” . . . though everyone knows what you really are) – to enable those who can’t get into a ‘proper’ university to obtain a (worthless) “-ology” – the primary purpose of the Maccabiah is to allow yiddishe mamas whose children could not become doctors, lawyers or accountants, but who had a little sporting ability (a lot for a Jew), to kvell (gush) about something:

“Have you heard?! Darren’s been chosen to represent Great Britain in kalooki!!”

What Mrs. Shepnaches omits to mention is that: kalooki is a card game, Darren is only 37 – and should still be participating in active sports (like lawn bowls) – and he is only going to be representing Great Britain’s 280,000 Hebrews (less than half a percent of its total population).

The Maccabiah is all a bit sad, and perhaps the time has come to question its relevance and its future.

No, the stories that I am referring to are the victory of Israel’s men’s Davis Cup tennis team over the world number ones, Russia, last weekend, and the charedi (ultra-Orthodox) riots in Jerusalem these past few days.

For a sporting “minnow” like Israel – which, less than four years ago, was on the brink of virtual disappearance from the international tennis map – to beat the mighty Russia 4-1 and reach the Davis Cup semi-final (in Spain, in September) is little short of sensational. Indeed, alongside Maccabi Tel Aviv basketball team’s five European Cups, it must go down as one of Israel’s greatest sporting achievements (and further poetic justice following Sweden’s spineless capitulation to Islamofascists in the previous round).

More importantly, however, and as opined by David Horovitz in his weekend Jerusalem Post Editor’s Notes (aptly subtitled “Wonderful things can happen when everybody pulls in the same direction”), it demonstrated how – as we have seen in so many of Israel’s “against all odds” military victories – a spirit of unity and solidarity can enable this miraculous little country to far out-punch its weight.

The riots in Jerusalem, conversely, illuminate the ugly side of Israeli Jewish society and a chasm of as much concern, if not more, than that between Jew and Arab. And it is one which serves to further weaken the country in the eyes of its many, queuing, detractors (see, too, Horovitz’s weekend editorial). Thousands of charedim went on the rampage after a woman belonging to a radical anti-Zionist hassidic sect, and believed to be suffering from mental illness, was arrested on suspicion that she had almost starved her three-year old son to death. Tens of police officers were injured in the clashes, with over half a million shekels worth of damage caused to municipal property. The rioters’ leaders remained silent.

These anti-Zionists do not recognise the sovereignty or legitimacy of the secular State of Israel, and – like other, merely non-Zionist, charedim (for a brief background on charedim and Zionism, click here) – pay relatively little or no tax (the vast majority don’t work), and (with a negligible number of exceptions) do not serve in the military. If I were the parent of an IDF combat soldier, I would want to know why my son has to risk – or had to sacrifice – his young life, when charedi boys of the same age get away with sitting in yeshivot (Talmudic seminaries) all day?

And please don’t insult us with the disingenuous nonsense that learning and praying have been as much a part of Israel’s great military victories as the heroism and selflessness of its young soldiers. I had to suffer more than enough of that from the feebleminded Jewish studies ‘teachers’ of my childhood and youth. We saw how much good prayer did us in Auschwitz and Treblinka. In fact, if charedim had (perish the thought) been leading this country at any one of  its many times of existential crisis, we would all now be fish food somewhere at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

I don’t hate charedim. I am from charedi stock, and most ‘connected’ to my Galician and Lithuanian roots. Indeed, should I ever be viewed as truly chiloni – secular, in the rather extreme Israeli definition of the word – I might consider it time to head back to the Diaspora.

I am, however, convinced that charedim have rather lost the plot in modern day Israel. The hassidic choice of clothing, especially, which had some rationale in Eastern Europe, is positive madness in a country with an average summer high (even in Jerusalem) pushing 30°C. No wonder Stuey and Dexxy bark when they walk past! Even the most sacred and entrenched of Jewish traditions – and the wearing of such garb could never be classed as that – have been adapted to the relevant environment and other circumstances.

There are communities of Ger and Belz hassidim living in in a spirit of peaceful coexistence in my Sheinkin area of Tel Aviv, considered the ultimate symbol of modern, chiloni Israel. I was shocked, however, to be told recently by one of their number that that he doesn’t consider chilonim to be Jews.

Anyway, my suggestion to all of those charedim who don’t like it here in Israel, do not recognise and respect the country’s laws, and/or who oppose the very basis of the State – like the Neturei Karta filth who demonstrate against Israel alongside the most hateful of anti-Semites, attend Holocaust-denial conferences in Tehran (right), and who, on Thursday, paid a visit to Hamas in Gaza – is that they return to live in the shtetls (small towns) of Poland and Eastern Europe. Perhaps life will be better for them there, where they will be more or less self-governing and left to their own devices.

Charedim such as these, living in Israel, are no better than parasites. And to add chutzpah to injury, whilst considering themselves not subject to the law, they – again, like all charedim (about 8% of Israel’s citizens) – try to influence how the rest of us lead our lives.

They can’t, however, have it both ways. If they expect to enjoy the fruits of Israeli citizenship, they must obey and fulfil the same rules and obligations as the rest of us. If they are unwilling to, I am certain that the Poles, etc, will welcome them back with open arms (or, at least, blades).

Sometimes, I think that they deserve each other.

Moti, you ain’t no Motty!

Slimy, spurious psychics (see June’s Mook of the Month) aside, the hotly-contested title of Most Offensive Israeli, contrary to popular belief, does not go to the swindling taxi driver who besmirches all of his fellow countrymen within an hour of tourists landing at Ben Gurion Airport.

And, though I despise them with a passion, neither does it go to the HOT (cable company) customer disservice representative who cuts off callers – I am convinced deliberately – after keeping them on hold for 45 minutes.

Its recipient is not the arrogant American “settler” who should have done us all a favour and stayed, together with his ugly fanaticism, in Teaneck or Borough Park.

Neither is it the Charedi (ultra-Orthodox Jew) who gives little or nothing to the State but still believes that he has the right to dictate to all of us who do how we should live our lives.

And it does not even go to the Neanderthal beach predator in his Speedos (three sizes too small, naturally).

No, the title of Most Offensive Israeli goes to none of the above. And the toughest challenge of Aliyah is not, as is commonly thought, the lower salary, the stifling hot summers, or even the rudeness . . . it is having to suffer the Israeli TV sports commentator.

During Wimbledon fortnight, which ended yesterday, Sport 5 (Israeli cable TV) commentators appeared to feel compelled to employ every nonsensical cultural stereotype about the English . . . but got even those wrong. So, for instance, when Andy Murray’s fourth round match ended at 10:39 p.m. last Monday, we had to endure interminable silly references to the English spectators having to wait for their dinners of “kidney pie” (for those fortunate enough not to know, it is steak and kidney).

And those same commentators were remarkably incapable of distinguishing between spectators’ Englishness, Murray’s Scottishness, and all of their Britishness (for me, after being knocked out, Murray immediately reverted to “miserable Jock”).

Whilst his knowledge and understanding of his subject may be negligible, however, the Israeli sports commentator – like so many of his compatriots – delivers his ignorance with the conviction of the world-renowned authority.

I once, in a Tel Aviv pub, confronted Sport 5′s Avi Meller (right) – a self-proclaimed expert on English football (on the basis that he once, apparently, spent a couple of years in London) – for never mentioning Leeds United’s David Wetherall, then in his mid-twenties, without the epithet “ha’vatik” (the veteran). Meller said he was grateful to be corrected . . . and then continued as before.

Having grown up in a country steeped in sporting tradition (even if a losing one), I won’t deny that there is more than a little snobbery in my disdain for the local sports coverage. But what right do Israeli commentators have to refer to Liverpool footballer Steven Gerrard, as they continually do, as “Stevie Gee”?!

Not for the Israeli sports commentator the phrase “A picture is worth a thousand words”, nor the sacred rule – applied by the very best TV journalists and commentators the world over – of “Letting the pictures speak for themselves”. No, he prefers to speak (usually bollocks) for the pictures, with the result that many will only watch them with the sound turned down. Moreover, his predictions – which are, generally, ridiculously reactive to the toings and froings of a particular match – are invariably and uncannily wrong.

Israeli TV’s football studio pundits are even more insufferable than its commentators, the ex-pros having to be suffered most being the Arse’s Arse (Hebrew for medallion man) Itzik Zohar and that most arrogant of gobshites Eyal Berkovic.

Zohar (left, during one of his eight [including four as substitute] appearances for Crystal Palace) has not let his “glassing”, last year, on Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Boulevard – which left him requiring 52 stitches to his face – dent his formidable ego (many believe the unknown assailant to have been a vengeful boyfriend or husband).

Neither does Zohar’s ignominious inclusion in Crystal Palace fans’ all-time worst eleven – believe me, he had some competition! – prevent him from pontificating about Champions’ League football. Yes, this is the very same Itzik Zohar to whom Palace fans used to sing: “One Itzik Zohar. There’s only one Itzik Zohar. One Itzik Zohar. One too many.” When Crystal Palace fans sing that – and to one of their own – it is time to consider not only hanging up one’s boots . . . but also why one ever put them on in the first place.

Zohar, however,  is a positive breath of fresh air when sitting alongside Berkovic (right), who delights in publicly, spitefully rubbishing Israeli League players purely on the basis that they are not as good as he once was. Many Israelis’ fondest memory, however, of the career of Berkovic – who, as one of the country’s all-time great footballers, should have been a national treasure – is of the time his West Ham teammate John Hartson kicked him in the face during training. That the actions of the yobbish Welshman were understood by many here tells you everything you need to know about this odious little tosser.

Domestic football appeals, almost exclusively, to the lowest common denominator of Israeli society (see my second ever post on melchett mike: Ran Ben Shimon: A Deeper Malaise). And most of my fellow expat Brits regard it in much the same way that the former Liverpool manager Bill Shankly did his city rivals: “If Everton were playing down the bottom of my garden,” he memorably quipped, “I’d draw the curtains.” Rather more intelligent, professional coverage by the Israeli media, however, might change (if slowly) its public perception.

The glowing exception to the embarrassment that is Israeli television sport is the excellent, charismatic Sport 5 presenter Modi Bar-On (left), who would give even a Des Lynam or an Adrian Chiles a run for their money.

But, oh, what Israel would give for an Alan Hansen or a John Motson (right) . . . though, in these climes, “Motty” might have to do something about that sheepskin coat!

Vot do you mean “gay” . . . like “happy”?

Tel Aviv’s eleventh annual Gay Pride Parade took place this afternoon.

Whilst I have nothing against gays – some of my best friends are homosexual . . . well, not really, but I do have gay friends – what exactly do they have to be so damn “proud” about? That they broke the hearts of their poor Yiddishe mamas (only partially repaired by subsequent qualification as a doctor or accountant)? That they are attracted to their own sex? After all, surely my desire to nail most members of the opposite sex in Tel Aviv should not constitute a source of “pride”?

In fact, a Straight Pride Parade would be more appropriate as, in the central area of Tel Aviv where I live, we heterosexuals – yes, mother, I am (she gets a lot of questions “already”) – if not (yet) in the minority, often feel like we are . . . being rather more “in the closet” than our “out there” gay neighbours.

I should, of course, be grateful to every gay man, for freeing up another potential woman . . . or, to quote Blackadder II, for “leav[ing] more rampant totty for us real men” (even though, recently, it hasn’t seemed quite that simple).

I bumped into a gay friend, Ido, on Rothschild Boulevard yesterday evening, whilst we were walking our dogs. His standard greeting or, rather, announcement – “The handsome Englishman!” – always rather embarrasses me. So, too, do his habits of sharing with me which passer-by he would like to f*ck – seemingly every one – and of tapping my stomach with the back of his hand whilst enquiring whether I have yet switched sides.

“Ido,” I keep reminding him, “I don’t.”

In spite of my insistence, Ido always remains strangely optimistic that I will.

I do assure him, however, that, should the unexpected occur, he will be the first to know . . . or, at least, well before my mother.

The only straight ex-Hasmo in the village: (from left) Jonny Rose, me & Mark Goldman (Tel Aviv, 15.4.11)

Yosef and the Amazing Secondhand Bookstore

There is only one person in Tel Aviv of whom I am truly envious. His name is Yosef. And he has the dream job.

Somewhat surprisingly, seeing as I have lived just ten minutes’ walk away since 1999, I only came across Yosef last month. I have walked passed 87 Allenby Street countless times over the years, but was probably usually daydreaming about some bint or other.

That particular May evening, however, my recent disillusionment with the unfairer sex allowed me to focus on Allenby’s esoteric variety of shops. And, passing a glass presentation case containing a selection of English language books, I decided to follow the inauspicious looking alleyway to its inauspicious seeming end.

The 49-year old sitting behind the counter didn’t appear particularly pleased to see me (if he saw me at all). Like the record store owner in High Fidelity, Yosef Halper, the owner of Halper’s Books, wears the world-weary look perfectly befitting the owner of a secondhand bookstore.

During that first visit, I overheard an American customer inform Yosef that he could buy a particular book “for less on the Internet.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” replied Yosef, with more than a hint of cynicism, “what is stopping you?!”

At that moment, I realised that Yosef and I would be friends.

Originating from Springfield, New Jersey, Yosef (previously James) made Aliyah in 1983, for reasons of “Zionism and the chicks”. Following his army service, he founded a Hebrew superhero comic, which didn’t have a superhero ending; but, after stumbling across Jerusalem’s Sefer ve’Sefel new and used bookstore, in 1990, suddenly understood what he really wanted to do. “I always liked wasting time in bookstores.”

Yosef, newly married, returned to the US for nine months to gather his thoughts, some cash . . . and some used books to ship back. He opened Halper’s in 1991, just before the outbreak of the first Gulf War, and 18 years later it is still there (no mean feat in Israel). Halper’s replaced a typewriter repair store, which – in typically upbeat fashion – Yosef describes as “another dying industry . . . just like books.”

Halper’s is situated between Mazeh and Montefiore Streets (a few hundred yards from Tel Aviv’s Great Synagogue), an area which has undergone significant gentrification since 1991; and, while some of the “whores and used needles” remain, reflects Yosef, the “burlesque house” opposite – with its “stripteases and porno movies” – is long gone. I get the strong sense that Yosef wishes it had stayed . . . instead of the inevitable higher rents which have followed Allenby’s cleaning-up.

Halper’s is an English language oasis in a largely Hebrew and Russian speaking desert. Of its approximately fifty thousand titles, about two-thirds are in English, making it – Yosef believes – the largest English language bookstore (new or used) in Israel. And customers can take advantage of a forty percent rebate on returned books.

The wealth of sections in Halper’s would put many used bookstores in English-speaking countries to shame – in particular, I couldn’t help but notice its extremely impressive philosophy section, with hundreds of titles for me not to choose from (I haven’t picked up a philosophy book since completing my first degree, but still like to impress [myself] with my familiarity with philosophers and their inconsequential meanderings).

I decide to test Halper’s fiction section by seeing if it has anything by my childhood next-door neighbour (in Edgeworth Crescent, Hendon), Clive Sinclair. To my astonishment, I find four titles, and snap them all up. I have also cleared Yosef’s shelves of Clive James, and am in the middle of Antony Beevor’s gripping account of (the Battle of) Stalingrad.

In addition to English-speaking Olim (immigrants), Israeli and Russian intellectuals and academics feature prominently among Halper’s customers, as do foreign workers – the many Filipino care workers in Tel Aviv, Yosef tells me, are particularly keen on romance novels – and embassy officials. Perhaps its most surprising patrons, however, are Tel Aviv’s Haredim (ultra-Orthodox), who request that Yosef conceal their purchases in black plastic bags.

Yosef with customer, a visiting philosophy professor from Boston University

In the same way that watching professional football (“soccer” to Yosef) can never match the authentic experience of Hendon FC on a miserable Tuesday evening, there is something refreshingly “real” about secondhand – as opposed to new – bookstores. And, in the several hours I have now spent in Halper’s, I have already come across many weird and wonderful characters, not least the fifty-something Israeli with the implausibly tight shirt who rolls in with a trolley-full of books scavenged from Tel Aviv’s refuse – a daily occurrence, Yosef says – and who also attempts, unsuccessfully, to flog Yosef an original photograph of Golda Meir.

Yosef’s sideline is dealing in such memorabilia, much of it pre-State. His biggest sale was of a typed reply by Albert Einstein to a request from an emissary of Lechi (the “Stern Gang”) – dispatched to the US specifically for the purpose – for financial support. The gist of Einstein’s refusal was that “If tragedy should befall the Jews in Palestine, it will be because of the British, but also because of people like you and the organization you represent.” Yosef regrets the sale of this “extremely significant letter”, to Sotheby’s, because it was “lost in the middle of a rare book auction”.

Yosef also found, in a newly acquired secondhand book, a handwritten “thank you” note from Sigmund Freud, which he returned – following a hysterical phone call from the book’s previous owner – “after sleeping on it and debating with my conscience”.

His biggest book sale – to a collector in California – was of a second edition of Anne Frank’s diary in its original Dutch, though undoubtedly his most original and prestigious was to Buckingham Palace. When the Internet order came through – for a biography of King Christian IX of Denmark (for the Palace library) – Yosef “thought someone was pulling [his] leg”, but a phone call confirmed its authenticity. And Yosef packed a few Halper’s fridge magnets for Queenie, for good measure.

Internet trade has, however, according to Yosef, become the victim of its own success – the Web has made it far simpler to locate books these days, with the consequence that many titles which might previously have been considered “rare” are no longer.

Of course, in running a retail business in Israel – especially a secondhand one – Yosef has to put up with untold shtiklach (Yiddish for “idiosyncrasies”). “Some customers are unwilling to pay for books which they realise have been found. And when a book, in good condition, is marked at forty shekels, I get people arguing that they ‘can get it new at Steimatzky’s for sixty.’ And then there are those who say ‘Look, this book is marked a dollar fifty!’ What they forget to mention is that it is rare, out of print, and was marked that in 1950!”

Halper’s obtains a large part of its stock from estates of the deceased, including from, in the past, those of Moshe Dayan and murdered Knesset member Rechavam Ze’evi. And it acquired much of former President Chaim Herzog’s library, too, from an alte zachen (“old things”) cart that happened to roll past 87 Allenby.

On another occasion, Yosef was called to clear the impressive library of a bankrupted lawyer, whose name he wasn’t told. An inspection of the books revealed that many had been purchased from Halper’s. The lawyer visited the store shortly afterwards, seeing his former collection on Yosef’s shelves. But neither uttered a word about it.

Amongst Halper’s more famous clientele are artist Menashe Kadishman, musician Kobi Oz, and political commentator Aluf Benn. Amongst its more infamous is ex-President Moshe Katzav – about to stand trial for rape – a collector of Judaica (especially Passover Haggadot) . . . though, as Yosef remarks drily, “I guess he has other worries right now”. Like Katzav’s relationship with his former office, that with Halper’s also ended in acrimony, when Yosef – not unreasonably – eventually sold books put aside by Katzav, but which he did not collect. “He was a nice guy,” recalls Yosef, “if a little brusque.”

Halper’s, Yosef observes, is “a pleasant way to make a very modest income.” If he ever tries a desk job, he will understand my envy. (And, with the publication of this post, I can surely now safely own up that Stuey is the one responsible for the chewed spines on his lower shelves!)

Above all else, what amazes me most about Halper’s – if you will excuse my Zionist idealism – is the wealth of English language culture and learning that it reveals in this tiny, miraculous Middle Eastern country . . . though we are, I suppose, the “People of the Book”.

halpbook@netvision.net.il, (03) 629 9710.