It’s been a long weekend here, first Shabbat, then Rosh Hashanah. Lots of family time, lots of eating and talking and more eating – everyone’s favourite Jewish pastimes. But now it’s back to work and time to move on.
The local train station is packed with kids, all going back to school after the holidays. Only they’re not going back to school, they’re going back to the army. They’re all milling around, these kids and they just look like kids, all fresh faces and larking around, except they’re wearing green army uniforms and mostly carrying guns. Odd doesn’t begin to describe it, but of course to them it’s not odd, to them it’s just normal life.
Most of the kids I talk to enjoy the army. They talk of learning skills, of the camaraderie, of instilling discipline, of being fit and sharp and becoming an adult. No one talks of front lines or killing or war. No one talks of the right or wrong of what they’re doing, but then again, I don’t suppose any armies do.
Everyone goes in the army. Most everyone The Haredi don’t go in the army, and that’s a cause of a lot of internal debate. The Haredi are always the cause of a lot of debate. What they contribute, what they do, how many kids they have and how much they take out of the social security system, how they don’t do the army.
I wish I could speak to the Haredi, but that’s not going to happen. It’s easier to speak to a Palestinian in a refugee camp than it is to break into a Haredi circle. Actually, I did have one conversation with one. I was on a train and a big, extended family, maybe four generations, sat down in my carriage and I found myself sitting next to the grandma. I smiled at her, she looked at me, saw my earring and smiled back.
“You’re Jewish?” she said with a surprised tone.
“Of course. Isn’t everyone here?”
And the rest of the journey was her talking to me – at me – about spirituality and the word of The Lord. It was like being cornered by a little old lady Jehovah’s Witness who was wearing a wig. “Everything you see, the sky, the land…” I thought about asking her about ‘the situation’ but… next time.
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Settlements. What do you think of when you hear the word “settlement” on the news? We watch the news every night and every night there’s some report about the West Bank “settlements” and there’s some hideous story, usually presented by Jeremy Bowen – the only bloke who I’ve made an official complaint to the BBC about. In one of his pieces, he referred to the “Jewish bombs” falling on some poor bastard place. Jewish bombs. Got to be careful there, Jeremy, you might just let that mask of impartiality slip. Anyway.
I had quite a romantic – possibly quite stupid – idea of pioneers, tents, wagons, like characters in a John Wayne film heading off West, looking for gold and a new life. The Israeli settlements I went to on the West Bank weren’t quite like that.
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I was going to meet an old mate I was very close with back in the old days, primary school days. We’d grown up in the same neighbourhood, gone to school together, our parents were friends, the whole thing. Despite coming from a similar background to mine – more a cultural Jew than a religious zealot – he left England when he was 18 and had gone to live in Israel. First, university, then just living. And now, 45-odd years later, we were back in touch.
Thing is, he lived over the Green Line, in a settlement. A place called Efrat in Gush Etzion.
The West Bank. I was looking forward to going there because, you know, it was a chance to see an old mate and because… it’s a settlement on the West Bank. This is front line living. Me and John Wayne. Westworld in the real world. I was also a bit trepidatious because usually my idea of front-line danger is cutting it fine getting to Waitrose before it closes. A settlement on the West Bank. That’s dangerous, no?
Lovely Ruth had also been friends with Antony at school, but wouldn’t come to visit because it’s over the Green Line. And she won’t go over the Green Line. Perhaps curiously, I didn’t feel conflicted about going. Do I feel that the settlements should be there? No, because the only thing I knew by now was that I didn’t know anything.
Gush Etzion is the name of the area, in English terms maybe the Sussex to Efrat’s Brighton.
“Tell me where you are. I’ll come to your place” I said to Antony on Messenger.
“It’s OK” he said. “Let’s meet in Jerusalem. It’s easier”.