Reading the responses to my previous post, I realized that some people may have misunderstood the point I was trying to make. It was not my intention to take a partisan political position. Tomer is not meant to represent all leftists, nor are David's words supposed to represent the beliefs of all religious settlers.

They are individuals, not axioms.

I was trying to convey the idea that too often we assume things about people because of where they live, how they dress or what they do for a living, and that mostly we're wrong. So Tomer walks the walk of the liberal humanist, but his words reveal that he tends to be a reactionary. As for David, a lot of people would assume that because he chose to live in Gush Katif, and is an Orthodox Jew, he would be radically anti-Arab and against giving up territory to the Palestinians; in fact David's opinions turned out to be far closer to liberal humanist ideals than Tomer's. But as he said, "I speak only for myself."

And so I pull out that old Buddhist quote that I used in my first-ever post: "keep your know-nothing mind."

Next post: Thelma and Louise go to Gaza.

Over this past week, I learned something about tolerance and preconceptions from three men of very different backgrounds and lifestyles. One is an Orthodox settlement leader who lives in Gush Katif; the other is an artist who curates exhibitions devoted to co-existence; and the third is a non-Israeli who is an internationally famous art curator.
The Orthodox settlement leader, David*, was a handsome bearded man who wore a large black skullcap, a rumpled white shirt through which his tzitzit (ritual fringed garment) was visible, and dark trousers. There was a pistol tucked into his belt. He had a warm smile, a direct gaze and an engagingly frank manner of speech that was utterly devoid of arrogance or pretence. The orange nylon curtains in his office were hung askew; an old computer with a blank screen sat on his desk, which was littered with messy stacks of papers; and there were paper cups half-full of cold coffee on the Formica meeting table.
Toward the second half of the interview, the American journalist asked David what his right to live on the land was based on. David leaned over to his desk, picked up a copy of the Old Testament, placed it on the table in front of him, and said, “It’s very simple. It says here that God promised all the land from Iraq to the Mediterranean, including Gaza, to the Jewish people.”
And then he continued…
“But it also says in the Bible that we have a responsibility to the guests and the strangers among us.” The Palestinians, said David, have suffered a lot. They deserve a state, and Israel should give them one, and help to make their lives better. David did not believe that evacuating his settlement, which was built on a previously uninhabited patch of land that had been in UN-patrolled no-man’s land before 1967, would help further that goal, but if the democratically elected government of Israel had determined that he had to leave, then he would do so. He would wait until the last day, and then pack his belongings and his family into his car, and he would leave. He didn’t know where he would go, but he would go. And then he added, “And if I see someone raise his hand against democracy, I will break his hand.”
The land that was promised to the Jews by God, said David, will be returned to them when the Messiah comes. Meanwhile, the Palestinians should have a better life.
David said that Ariel Sharon is a great leader. He also commented that Yossi Sarid – the leftist politician whose name is supposedly anathema to religious and right wing Israelis – is a man with high moral principles.
The American journalist told David that he wanted to follow him around the settlement for a few days, together with a photographer, and write an in-depth profile about him. Where I come from, said the journalist, people believe that Israelis are either self-identified leftists who are unambiguously in favour of disengagement, or right-wing extremists who are resolutely against. You can show that the situation is much more complicated than that.
David shook his head and said, “No, it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” we all shouted in frustration.
“Because,” said David, “I’m nobody’s guru or rabbi. I speak only for myself, and I don’t want to put words in other people’s mouths.”

A few days later, I went to interview an artist who curates exhibitions devoted to the theme of co-existence. Tomer* was a burly middle-aged man with long, curly gray hair who wore a blue work shirt and jeans, and spoke very correct, old-fashioned Hebrew; he was the very portrait of a classic Israeli leftist of the salt-of-the-earth variety.
He took me on a guided tour of his beautifully designed, cutting-edge exhibition space, providing fascinating insight into the background and meaning of the various multimedia works on display. He told me that he was dedicated to preaching the theme of co-existence through the universal language of art.
After the tour, we sat in his office for the interview. At one point I asked him why, if the exhibition space was dedicated to co-existence, the explanations for each of the works were in Hebrew and English, but not in Arabic. Tomer sighed, and asked if I’d noticed that there were some signs in Arabic. I told him that I had seen the trilingual entrance, exit, up and down signs.
Tomer said, you know that in France and Germany the museums only have explanations in French and German. They don’t care if foreigners understand or not. Yes, I said, but the Arabs are not foreigners. They live here.
Right, said Tomer. And the truth is that I used to have explanations in Arabic. But I stopped including them when I saw that there were no Arab visitors.
Perhaps you need to give them some more time and encouragement, I said.
No, answered Tomer. I’m preaching to the converted here. They’re not going to come.
Then he continued: I also tried to get some of the ultra-Orthodox Jews who live nearby to visit. They came, but they were very hostile and resistant. And you know, they smell really bad. I know that they believe the soul is more important than one’s external appearance, but it’s simply unpleasant to be around them.

That same day I interviewed the internationally famous non-Israeli art curator. He was very charming, urbane and knowledgeable, and I enjoyed our conversation immensely. We didn’t talk about politics, but rather about art and the institution he headed. Since the interview took place before the guided tour, I asked him whether his exhibitions included explanations in Arabic. He looked surprised at my question, and said “Of course. The language of art is universal, and should be understood by as many people as possible.”
Later, while wandering around and looking at the works on display, I saw that indeed, there were many Arab visitors – as well as religious and secular Israeli Jews, and non-Israelis.
I have quite a lot more to say about Gush Katif – in fact, I'll have more to report tomorrow, because I'm going to spend the day there again. But first I wanted to tell the story about these three men, because I think that there’s a lot to learn from it.

*All the names have been changed.

A l'occasion du Colloque Jean-Paul SARTRE, et en présence de
Bernard-Henri LEVY, Son Excellence Monsieur l'Ambassadeur de France,
Gérard ARAUD, vous prie de bien vouloir assister à une réception le
[date and time deleted] à la Résidence, rue de Toulouse, Jaffa.

(Real posting to resume shortly).

Less than a week has passed since my return from the Sinai, but it feels like much longer. Actually, the feeling of distance began while I was waiting to go through passport control at Taba: there was a huge queue, everyone was pushing and shoving and irritable, the staff was overwhelmed and, as a result, abrasively rude - nearly as rude as the U.S. immigration officials at Toronto's Pearson airport (hey - I just tell it like it is) - and I made the fatal error of turning on my mobile phone while waiting to have my passport inspected.

And felt the muscles in my shoulder girdle tighten as a long series of beeps announced an astonishing number of incoming messages.

Nearly everyone I work with had "forgotten" that I was on holiday - my first break in more than a year - and many had left multiple messages that began with some version of "I'm trying to reach you, where are you, it's urgent, get back to me immediately."

My skin still smelled of Sinai sun, my gut was still churning with third world diarrhea (a legacy from India that I've learned to live with), the flea bites on my face were still red (allright, so I slept outside and wrapped myself in a less-than-clean Bedouin rug to ward off the mosquitoes), but I might as well have been back in the rat race already.

Ho hum.

But oh, those four days were lovely. Jill and I slept outside our shared hut, facing the water. We watched the stars until we fell asleep, woke up with the sunrise and joined our fellow yogis for early-morning sun salutations, as the local Bedouin children gathered to watch and imitate. We sunbathed, read, swam in the clear water, lounged on cushions in the shade and drank sweet tea. There was no television, no radio - in fact, no electricity; a war could've begun, and we'd never have known.

In many ways, the Sinai is like a Utopian version of Israel. Arabs (the local Bedouin) and Israelis lounge around together, chatting desultorily and playing backgammon. The Bedouin staff at the place I stayed at all spoke Hebrew, and many had clearly become good friends with some of the Israeli regulars - many of whom drive down several times per year. Politics and cultural differences were totally irrelevant.

And the atmosphere of total calm and disconnectedness had a remarkable effect on Israelis, who comprised about 95 percent of the guests. One evening I was sprawled with friends on the rugs and cushions that were the only furniture in the wall-less, candle-lit beachfront restaurant, listening to the waves and basically doing nothing, when we decided that we really wanted some of the addictive local sachlab (a milky pudding). So I called out to a passing waiter, and asked him to bring us four. He brought them, smiling, and said, "You know, I don't work here. I'm a guest." He laughed at my consternation, asked my name, and said, "Lisa, there's nothing wrong with giving."

This same guy bummed a ride on my group's chartered bus the day we left. He drove us crazy with his two incessantly ringing mobile phones. His soft Sinai voice became loud and aggressive, and he tried to convince the driver to let him off at a place that deviated from our route - even though we had done him the favour of offering a free ride. In Sinai he was Mr. Zen; back in Israel, he was just an annoyingly inconsiderate being.

So yes, the past week was incredibly busy. And I wish - oh, how I wish - that I could write about all my doings. But I can't. This is the problem when people tell you things off the record; this is the problem when the people you want to write about read your blog, and might recognize themselves; this is the problem when the most interesting experiences happen to be work related.

Tomorrow I'm going to Gush Katif with a journalist from the USA. It looks as though I'm going to be pretty busy throughout "disengagement summer," which is shaping up to be a media circus. Part of me relishes the action; another part worries about getting sucked into the political bullshit and losing perspective.

And in June I will be going to Amman, to attend a four-day workshop for Israeli (Jewish and Arab) and Palestinian journalists. How cool is that?

Credit: Reuters/Nir Elias

I arrived at my local cafe, Ginbzurg, at five minutes before 11.00 this Memorial Day morning. Miri, the bartender, greeted me and said, "Do you want your coffee before or after the siren?"

"Oh after," I answered. "Otherwise it'll get cold."

At exactly 11 o'clock the siren began to moan. The truck passing in front of the cafe screeched to a halt; its passengers climbed down and stood with their heads bowed, along with nearly everyone else on the street.

Except for the boys at the Belz yeshiva, who were kept indoors. And except for the Arab men who were renovating an apartment building; they stopped hammering and withdrew from view. And except for three ordinary-looking 30-something Jewish Israeli women who were sitting at the cafe; they did not stand, nor did they cease their conversation.

I had never seen (non ultra-Orthodox) Israeli Jews who did not stand silently during the two-minute siren on Memorial Day. I stared at them, they ignored me, and all sorts of thoughts went through my head. Were they making a political statement? If so, why had they chosen this place and this manner of expression? And what was the meaning of their refusal to join in this communal two-minute remembrance of the dead? Was it a sort of anarchist statement of refusal to participate in a communal activity? A political statement against war? A pro-Palestinian statement?

After the last echo of the siren had faded away, I returned to my stool at the bar and Miri began frothing the milk for my coffee. One of the waitresses leaned across the counter and whispered fiercely, "Did you see that?! That was disgusting! I've never seen anything like that in my life! I feel like spilling their food in their laps!"

Miri shrugged her shoulders and said, "Oh, there are always one or two 'anti' types who refuse to stand. It happens every year."

"Well I think it's outrageous!" responded the waitress, in a near-shout.

I thought about the time I was sitting in the living room of my old apartment on Mazeh Street, chatting with Ilanit on the evening before Memorial Day, when the one-minute siren wailed at 8.00 pm. And even though we were sitting alone in our own home, we immediately stopped talking and stood in silence. The custom is that ingrained - it never occured to either of us simply to sit and continue talking.

Israel is a small country, with a population of less than 7 million. Since 1948, around 21,000 Israelis have been killed in wars and terrorist attacks. That means that nearly everyone has a relative, a friend or an acquaintance who died violently. So the mourning is very immediate and very personal.

Israel is also a democracy, which means that we have freedom of expression.

When I told a friend about the three women in the cafe, I said, "I don't know, it seemed sort of like walking around Mecca during Ramadan while eating a ham sandwich."

To which my friend responded, "A person eating a ham sandwich in Mecca during Ramadan would probably be stoned to death."

I thought about the Arab Israeli workmen's choice to withdraw from public view during the siren, versus the Jewish Israeli women's choice to abstain publicly from standing. Were the Arab men being respectful, or just avoiding conflict? Were the Jewish women being disrespectful and inappropriately provocative, or simply exercising their rights as citizens of a democracy?

I was left wondering about the tension between preserving the individual's right to freedom of expression in a democracy, and the responsibility to be sensible of one's fellow citizens' feelings.

And I'm still wondering.

On Saturday I went to the Orthodox Christian holy fire ceremony at the Church of the Holy Sepulchure in Jerusalem. It was one of the more insane events I have experienced, for so many reasons - and I still don't have time to write about it in detail.

The ceremony began - or was supposed to begin - just after 2.00 pm. But because I was with a news photographer who was shooting the event we arrived at 9.00 am - in order to secure a good spot in the unbelievably crowded church.

While standing in a tiny area reserved for the press, I struck up a conversation with a European photographer who had arrived in Israel three weeks previously. He had not yet been out of Jerusalem, and asked me about Tel Aviv. I told him that it's very different from Jerusalem, gave him my card and told him to give me a call if he ever wanted a tour of my city. Don't make the mistake that so many foreign journalists make, I told him, of getting stuck on the Jerusalem-Ramallah route. Israel is a lot more interesting and complicated than that.

Yes, he said, I heard that there's a really big Jewish neighbourhood in Tel Aviv.

I laughed, then stopped when I saw that he wasn't joking.

Um, listen, I said. That's like saying you heard there's a big black neighbourhood in Addis Ababa.

It never ceases to amaze and worry me that so many foreign journalists assigned to Israel know nothing - really, nothing - about this country. And they are the ones who influence international opinion.