Thank goodness for YouTube. This tele-visionised parallel universe enables me to watch the many programmes I miss in Israel. This includes Channel 4’s documentary, ‘The War on Britain’s Jews’, which I could view yesterday. My initial thought was 'it is about bloody time.' Anti-Semitism isn’t a new phenomena to me at all, in the real sense. Only now, however, in 2007 was light shed upon this reality, as the world of media decides to spit out populist-controversial documentaries along with the barrel of others focusing on the geo-political dynamics of today.
Instead of being an informative 60-minute viewing time, it was trip down memory lane. I remember the bullying, or should I say the anti-Semitism, experienced by all of us Jewish school kids: the spitting, the hitting, the ‘jew jew don’t spit on my shoe’, ‘dirty jew’ and ‘scum’. Police escorts after school to Kentish Town Tube station, taking diversions home to avoid the conflict from the kids on the estate we would pass. Recollections of nearly being pushed on the train lines at Finchley Central Tube station and the intimidation by a group of girls in Camden town came to surface during this documentary. The bullying was due to the simple fact: we wore a blue sweatshirt with a gold menorah, and the letters J.F.S. embroidered underneath. At university, it didn’t end. My housemates were followed home from synagogue and later would find a brick lying nicely in their car the following evening. Anti-Semitic remarks continued at University conferences, followed by again, the spitting. I suppose it made me somewhat bitter towards the British nation. Yet, once coming to Israel, I never felt more nationalist towards Britain. Strange.
The latter part of the documentary played tribute to the whole Israel-Jew concept, one dynamic fuelling racism into the other. This is when my own identity got entangled. Whilst the sale of Arabic-translated versions of Hitler’s Mein Kampf in a sweet shop in Edgware Road infuriated me, I maintain pride towards my distinct British-ness in Israel, from my p‘s and q’s and my afternoon cup of tea. But having dwelled on the thought of reality, the level of hatred existing in England against Jews demonstrated in the documentary, enlightened old memories and turned me into a somewhat confused soul. And now I do not feel like such a proud ‘Brit’, as it is Britain increasingly despising my community.
Much commentary following the programme on Channel 4’s website took the unsurprising turn of discussing the single issue: Israel as a terrible country, and that the balance of a debate should reflect this. Obviously much of the general public did not get the point of the discussion. This precisely demonstrates that the Jewish identity in Britain is irrevocably and inevitably tied in with the politics of Israel. I am a British Jew living in Israel, yet I still do not believe I should carry the weight of the Israeli government's decisions, unless I was to sit in the Knesset and influence them.
I still distinguish between my ‘Jewish-ness’ versus my ‘Israeli-ness’, which are two disparate identities. I am firstly Jew and I will not be defined by Israeli politics, whilst now holding an Israeli identity.
I highly recommend watching ‘The War on Britain’s Jews’, presented by Richard Littlejohn, on YouTube.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
2:17 A Train Journey in My Old Town
I was a little jet-lagged yesterday. I arrived in from London at 5am, home, few hours sleep then out to work, to my monthly-meeting with the other ex-pat researchers and our boss.
The lack of sleep made me somewhat delirious, strolling to and from the meeting in a state of part-unconsciousness, on auto-pilot. I wasn’t quite use to the heat, having retuned from London’s drizzle. I reached my apartment, not even recalling the journey there, and then realized I hadn’t for one moment gone through the whole Israel versus England conversation in my head. Actually, for once I was feeling neutral, impartial; well, I am not really sure.
London was another short trip, a four-day cramming exercise of family, friends, shopping and drinking expeditions. I felt much the same way, neutral, impartial; well, and again, I am not really sure. I have been fizzled out from concentrating on the emotional grand scale of my life, and began to notice the little differences. London is a great character. It is quirky, somewhat easygoing, a little funky, a little hectic, but at the end of the day, it is always up for a good time. It is reliable, its dynamics polite, smiley and always maintaining an arms-length zone of courtesy. The cobbled-streets were reliably tough on the soles of my feet, the shops were reliably generous in their end-of-season sales, the pubs were reliably laid back and in good spirits, and my friends, well, they were all reliably amazing.
My last evening, Saturday night, came in a dash. I met an old school friend, to reminisce in the motions of a Thai curry and a pint on Angel high street. I jumped on the tube in the leafy suburban stop of Woodside Park, to head towards the city. Tube journeys in London are a voyeurs’ dream. The train is reliably filled with jellybean allsorts. A couple dressed in black attire, heavy eye-liner and tattoos. Students stand by the doors, dressed in fairy hair bands, sparkly bangles and oversized sneakers with red and blue stripes. An elderly couple sit squeezed together, murmuring under their breaths and gazing at the various characters in front. And, as per usual on a Saturday night tube ride, a group of girls on a hen (Bachelorette) party clambered on to the train, heading to town to celebrate.
My initial thought was how different these girls were to my Anglo crew in Tel Aviv. On a Thursday night in Tel Aviv, my girl friends and I make our way to the latest hangout, our attire not that glitzy, not so glam; but who needs sparkly tops, high pin-pointed stilettos, and top-shop accessories in the heat of the city. This group, on the other hand, was dressed in an array of colours and sparkles. Skimpy floral dresses, red hot pants and boob tubes. One girl pulled out her collection of star-shaped earrings, asking the other dressed as Marilyn Monroe, “low-dangling stars, short-dangling stars or studded stars?” From far away, the group was polished. But when close up, the bronzed tan legs in the four-inch heels became a hazy tint of patchy fake-tan. The bold red-coloured lips became a smudging glaze of burgundy. And the security of their group presence became an individual collection of hesitant, insecure girls, confirming their appearance in their purse mirrors and in the reflection of the train window. Yet, just as my girls do, without fail, the cameras were out, flashing away at the grins and the poses, grasping the moments of innocence.
And what makes me pause for thought is the realization that these girls now have the same fears as me. Israel use to be one of the lone countries, shaded grey under the gaze of terrorism and fear. Yet London was now tarnished, consumed with an inner fear of the unknown. Exiting Angel station, I noticed reactionary posters plastered on the walls by the ticket gates. Look, Listen, Speak. I guess for this reason, my old fears of living in Israel have been neutralized by the thought of how London is now.
The lack of sleep made me somewhat delirious, strolling to and from the meeting in a state of part-unconsciousness, on auto-pilot. I wasn’t quite use to the heat, having retuned from London’s drizzle. I reached my apartment, not even recalling the journey there, and then realized I hadn’t for one moment gone through the whole Israel versus England conversation in my head. Actually, for once I was feeling neutral, impartial; well, I am not really sure.
London was another short trip, a four-day cramming exercise of family, friends, shopping and drinking expeditions. I felt much the same way, neutral, impartial; well, and again, I am not really sure. I have been fizzled out from concentrating on the emotional grand scale of my life, and began to notice the little differences. London is a great character. It is quirky, somewhat easygoing, a little funky, a little hectic, but at the end of the day, it is always up for a good time. It is reliable, its dynamics polite, smiley and always maintaining an arms-length zone of courtesy. The cobbled-streets were reliably tough on the soles of my feet, the shops were reliably generous in their end-of-season sales, the pubs were reliably laid back and in good spirits, and my friends, well, they were all reliably amazing.
My last evening, Saturday night, came in a dash. I met an old school friend, to reminisce in the motions of a Thai curry and a pint on Angel high street. I jumped on the tube in the leafy suburban stop of Woodside Park, to head towards the city. Tube journeys in London are a voyeurs’ dream. The train is reliably filled with jellybean allsorts. A couple dressed in black attire, heavy eye-liner and tattoos. Students stand by the doors, dressed in fairy hair bands, sparkly bangles and oversized sneakers with red and blue stripes. An elderly couple sit squeezed together, murmuring under their breaths and gazing at the various characters in front. And, as per usual on a Saturday night tube ride, a group of girls on a hen (Bachelorette) party clambered on to the train, heading to town to celebrate.
My initial thought was how different these girls were to my Anglo crew in Tel Aviv. On a Thursday night in Tel Aviv, my girl friends and I make our way to the latest hangout, our attire not that glitzy, not so glam; but who needs sparkly tops, high pin-pointed stilettos, and top-shop accessories in the heat of the city. This group, on the other hand, was dressed in an array of colours and sparkles. Skimpy floral dresses, red hot pants and boob tubes. One girl pulled out her collection of star-shaped earrings, asking the other dressed as Marilyn Monroe, “low-dangling stars, short-dangling stars or studded stars?” From far away, the group was polished. But when close up, the bronzed tan legs in the four-inch heels became a hazy tint of patchy fake-tan. The bold red-coloured lips became a smudging glaze of burgundy. And the security of their group presence became an individual collection of hesitant, insecure girls, confirming their appearance in their purse mirrors and in the reflection of the train window. Yet, just as my girls do, without fail, the cameras were out, flashing away at the grins and the poses, grasping the moments of innocence.
And what makes me pause for thought is the realization that these girls now have the same fears as me. Israel use to be one of the lone countries, shaded grey under the gaze of terrorism and fear. Yet London was now tarnished, consumed with an inner fear of the unknown. Exiting Angel station, I noticed reactionary posters plastered on the walls by the ticket gates. Look, Listen, Speak. I guess for this reason, my old fears of living in Israel have been neutralized by the thought of how London is now.
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