Shalom L'Shalom

The old city of Jaffa is a beautiful park-like area with a few restaurants, artisan shops, an historic church and a wide promenade and plaza overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a favorite spot for brides and grooms to be photographed so it’s a common to see both Arab and Jewish wedding parties in this picturesque setting just before dusk. At one edge of the old city is a windowless building that looks something like an underground warehouse. This spot is home to the Arabic-Hebrew Theatre of Yafo, a cross-cultural center that hosts plays, films, and musical events for adults and children, sometimes in Arabic and sometimes in Hebrew. It’s a simple space that consists of a café and small theatre that seats about 100.

Last week, my daughter Hannah and I went to see a one-man show there performed in Hebrew by a Palestinian actor/playwright named Hashem Yassin from Rafiach in the Gaza Strip. The play was billed as an autobiographical account of Yassin’s life for the past 24 years in Israel. That was enough to draw me in. A Palestinian from Gaza, performing in Hebrew and living in Israel for 24 years? How could that be? I thought Gazans could only get day permits to work in Israel. How could he be living here for so long? Since the Second Intifida and all the more so, since the devastating war there last year, weren’t Gazans totally persona non grata in Israel? Yet here was this Palestinian actor claiming he had lived in Israel for more than twenty years! The playbill went on to explain that Yassin came to Israel on a “personal mission” to work for peace through the arts. Indeed, the play is his account of how that went.

The set was a bare stage covered in a thin layer of sand with a single chair. Sounds of the sea ebbed and flowed throughout the 60 minute play. Hashem’s monologue was in fact, his conversation with the sea, looking to it for answers to whether he should stay or go, and whether his work makes any difference at all. Snippets of his life as an actor and as a Palestinian living in Tel Aviv unfolded through his stylized and engaging movements and storytelling. He spoke of his hope that art could serve as a bridge to enhance understanding and build trust among Arabs and Jews. Yet, the reality of his experience made it very difficult to hold onto this hope. He spoke bitterly of his frustration with the “so-called Peace business” that put on arts festivals during the halcyon days after the Oslo Peace Accords where he was continually cast in stereotypical roles as either a terrorist or a collaborator. “Jews can’t see us as anything else,” he said. More powerful to me were the personal stories he told about what happened to his relationships with Jews during the Second Intifada. In one account, he told how he desperately tried to get in touch with a friend who worked at the Dizengoff Center, after a suicide bombing attack there. When he finally reached her, she said, “oh, I thought maybe it was you who was the bomber.”

There was no doubt that the core message Yassin wanted to convey was that after more twenty years of living and working amongst Jews, he was still considered the enemy. Here he was living in Tel Aviv, the most tolerant and open city in Israel, and yet every three months, he has to report to the Ministry of Interior and get his temporary residency permit extended for another three months. He is still the other, still a suspect, still not to be trusted.

“I am an Arab” he said, “nothing more”. But, what he seemed to want most of all, was simply to be recognized as a human being. In Hebrew, he pointed out, the words artist and humanist share a common root and indeed, Yassin’s vision for this stretch of sand along the Mediterranean is a humanistic one. Yet, that’s not so easy for a non-Jew in the Jewish state. “Speaking good Hebrew doesn’t make me a Zionist” he said. And that’s the essence of the dilemma.

Yassin’s vision is grounded in the hope and belief that Jews and Palestinians can together build a place where all can live in mutual respect and peace. It’s an idealized vision that asks us to put aside history, guilt, and blame. To look forward rather than backward – hardly simple for either side to do. Likewise, his vision of universal peace, sadly goes against Jewish particularity and therefore, challenges the soul of the State. Thus, he questions whether the Jews really do want peace or whether they want to “encase themselves in a ghetto that they call a state.” It’s a tough question, maybe the toughest one confronting this place and the one that most people least want to confront.

After the performance itself, Yassin came back out and engaged the audience in a conversation. Here, he dropped his artistic persona and his remarks seemed more textured, ambivalent, and human. It was clear that he admires and maybe even loves Tel Aviv and Israel and is also incredibly frustrated by it. He goes home to Rafiach for visits and sees he has no future there, certainly not as an artist. Yet, he is angry that he is not able to fully realize his artistic potential in Israel since he is always cast in stereotypical roles. He vacillates between hope and despair, and yet still clings to the idea that art is a bridge towards mutual understanding. After all, he says, “We Palestinians share a lot in common with the Jews. No one likes either of us.” Not exactly the best reason for solidarity and respect, but maybe it’s a start……

The title of the play, Shalom l’Shalom embodies the very ambivalence that is at the heart of his life and his mission. Do we read it as “Hello to Peace” or “Goodbye to Peace?” Do we give into despair and accept that intransigence and impossibility of attaining a peace that fully recognizes the humanity and particularity of both Arab and Jew? Shouldn’t that be our ultimate goal? Isn’t the answer in our hands?

Off Season

It was a quiet week in the Valley of the Ghosts. That’s the name of the main street of the German Colony, the Jerusalem neighborhood where I am living these months of my sabbatical. The street gets its name from a passage in the Book of Joshua that describes the territorial boundaries for the tribe of Judah as the Israelites are entering the Land of Israel. The Hebrew is Emek Refa’im, which literally means the Valley of the Ghosts. Ironically, Emek Refa’im is hardly a ghost town. But, maybe the biblical ghosts were carefree, since Emek Refa'im is a bustling street in a highly desirable, liberal enclave in walking distance to the Old City and the center of Jerusalem. It’s a vibrant neighborhood filled with restaurants, jewelry stores, ice cream parlors, coffee shops, and boutiques, a place where I invariably run into people I know. During tourist seasons, it’s packed.

Apparently, early February isn’t much of a tourist season though except for the few South Americans I’ve seen who are here during their summer. It’s not that I don’t hear any English. In fact, many of the people who live in this area are immigrants from English speaking countries. But there are also plenty of native-born Israelis and immigrants from other countries, most noticeably France.

The absence of tourists means it’s a little quieter and easier to see the neighborhood as a place where regular people live, work, and play. The street gets off to a slow start in the early morning. Traffic is light and there are just a few people waiting for a bus or sitting in the cafes reading the paper. The pace picks up a bit later in the day when the restaurants begin to fill, and teenagers gather to hang out after school. It’s really quite normal, people going about their daily lives. In some ways, I could be anywhere.

But then again…..

The German Colony is something of a protected bubble in the midst of a complicated and often contentious city filled with distinct sub-groups who lead separate lives where they might pass each other on the street, but basically look straight through one another as if they really were ghosts. And that’s on a good day. Other times, they are fighting with each other in the streets and in the courts, to assert their right to a Jerusalem that fits their image. There seems to be a higher degree of tolerance in the Valley of the Ghosts, maybe because it’s an upscale neighborhood, maybe because it’s one of the few remaining Jerusalem neighborhoods where secular Israelis feel comfortable living, maybe because there are so many one-time Americans and Brits who live here. As removed as it is from the politics and pressures of the mainstream, there’s still no doubt that you are in Israel. During this quiet week, that has been most apparent to me at the gym I joined, about a 7-minute walk from my apartment. It’s both emblematic of this particular neighborhood and also tells a broader story of Jews and Jewish peoplehood.

First of all, it’s a women-only gym, not something that’s terribly commonplace in most western societies. It’s upscale in that offers a wide range of the usual classes – spinning, body sculpting, aerobics, yoga, and Pilates, and a variety of spa treatments such as massages, facials, manicures and the like. But it’s also somewhat shabby in that the locker room is chaotic and dusty, and about half the lockers seem to have broken doors. There are small exercise and weight rooms, a spinning room, and a large open studio, all with equipment that seems 2-3 generations removed from state-of-the-art.

On my first day, I took a spinning class. When I arrived, the teacher saw I was new and offered to help me adjust the bike. She opened the conversation in Hebrew and we continued that way. Once the class began, however, she switched over to a mix of about 80% English and with only a few key words in Hebrew. Language wasn’t the only thing that stood out though. Given the neighborhood and the single sex clientele, it’s not surprising that there would be a sizable number of Orthodox women members. Indeed, there were a few religiously observant women who kept their hair covered throughout the class. But there also was the woman who came into class, dressed in a long skirt and a wig who stripped down to gym clothes and removed her wig to reveal a full head of hair that she swept up into a ponytail. On the opposite end of the modesty spectrum, there was another woman who came in a bit late and used the class as her locker room as she changed out of her street clothes into her gym clothes in front of us all.

Another day I took a yoga class. That instructor made no pretense of speaking Hebrew. She was a young woman, originally from America, dressed in full yoga get-up but with her hair fully covered under a scarf. Not only didn’t she speak a word of Hebrew, but she also didn’t use very many yoga expressions in her practice. Apparently Namaste and Om don’t mix too well with Orthodox Judaism.

Finally, on day four at the gym, I took a class with a native Hebrew speaking instructor. Understanding her language wasn’t a problem, but following the complex aerobic step patterns certainly was!

The women in the gym were obviously comfortable with one another. They chatted amiably before class and as they worked out side by side in the exercise room. They shared news of children, trips, and new books they were reading – the stuff of everyday life. It didn’t really matter what you wore outside the gym; inside there was a shared purpose and warmth of spirit, key elements that build community (though of course, men were missing from the equation!).

So what is there to learn about off-season in the German Colony?

The gym tells me a lot about what is right and what is problematic about the German Colony in particular, and maybe Israel in general. Israel is still very much a society of immigrants and the German Colony is a place where English-speaking immigrants have made their own. Inside the gym or even when you venture out onto Emek Refa’im, it doesn’t really matter how religious or not you are, or where you fall on the political spectrum. There’s still enough you share in common with your neighbors to ensure a sense of familiarity and comfort. Staying in the bubble keeps you focused on the mundane essentials of life – caring for family, engaging in meaningful work, running errands, celebrating holidays and milestones, spending time with friends. After all, those are the aspects of life that give us the greatest meaning and joy. So maybe, the off-season is really the most important of times.


But the peace and quiet of off-season doesn’t last very long in Israel. When you change out of your gym clothes and put back your religious or secular garb, things get much more politically charged. Then the friendly chatter at the gym subsides. When you are a ghost (or at the gym) everybody looks and acts the same, but as soon as you leave the neighborhood, you enter back into reality where people are much more likely to retreat into their factions,ignore or malign those who disagree with their assumptions and points of view, and build walls to protect themselves and punish others. The safety and comfort of the bubble is ephemeral. You only have to open a newspaper or walk a few streets away to confront a much more complicated ever-present reality of a host of competing and contentious social, cultural, economic, historical, ethnic tensions that make up the complex weave that is Israel.