In Herzliya there was once a restaurant called The Crocodile. It was in the Israeli equivalent of an American strip mall. They served pizza. The Crocodile was my favorite joint when I was, you know, four-years-old. It covered my culinary needs. When I was four, I refused to eat unless it was french fries and/or schnitzel and/or pizza, and everything had to come on separate plates. I vaguely remember that The Crocodile had outdoor seating, and the air was Herzliya air. It smelled of blossom and industry.
In Herzliya, my parents and I would walk home to our hotel at night, and the streets would be lit by lamp-posts, until sometimes the streets would just run out of lamp-posts. But you could always be guided by the extremely loud sound of crickets. The streets would also run out of pavement. And the concrete would be separated by a crossing of sand and soot that you would have to jump and climb over in order to continue your journey. “They’re always building here,” would be the words my mum would say, peering up at more cranes along the ocean front. It was true; the Israelis would continue to build – more high rise apartments, more offices, more hotels, more life.
The Crocodile was worth these obstacle course walks back to the hotel. So were a string of other haunts that my family and I used to frequent. Shuri Buri was the name of a fish restaurant that had no airs and no graces, just fish brought straight off a boat from the sea that morning, ready to serve. It was rough and ready, and I learned how to not choke on bones. There was some form of outdoor playground near that place on the beach with art, and lots of little kids would gather there at night in groups to play as the ocean waves lapped in the background. Sometimes we would go to the ice-cream shop for a night cap. They had the most creative flavors of ice-cream. Bazooka ice-cream. Insane. Dozens of flavors. And crepes. Teenagers would be hanging out there at 11pm on a school night. Yankale was the name of the man who owned it. I remember these things. In the years before the first intifada, it was all very simple and extremely safe.
My father had a taxi driver called Mordechai, who he would hire to take us on day trips all over Israel. This guy drove like a meshugennah. My mother hated it. I could feel her hands pushing down on his leather seats every time Mordechai was speeding erratically before I could even see her doing it. “Please, could you tell him to slow down?” she would say. And he would reduce the speed for all of five minutes. My mother pretended she liked Mordechai but she only really liked Mordechai when he stopped driving, and considering driving was really the whole point of Mordechai, I think it’s safe to say that my mother really didn’t like Mordechai at all. Mordechai would tell stories about the land of Israel while he was driving from the arid North to the desert South. He had an answer for every question. Knowing every story about his country was part of his job as a taxi driver. You’ll find that’s often the case in Israel.
Right up until I was about 13, I spent at least two hours every day in Herzliya in the kids arcade room, playing Street Fighter. I was an expert at Street Fighter and made a handful of shekels go a long way. Hours and hours worth of video game combat. Normal things for a kid.
Back in Glasgow, where I was from, I went to a Jewish primary school. We learned to speak, read and write Hebrew from the age of five. And we had two female Israeli teachers to help us do so. Shosh taught the younger children, and when you were old enough you’d be handed over to Ruti. I still remember a Hebrew fable, in Hebrew, that I can repeat by heart, about a green man who lived in a green house with green doors and green windows. I loved Hebrew, especially the alphabet. I remember it felt like being able to use a secret code.
As part of Hebrew class, once a week or so, we would go to the dining hall for some Israeli dancing, led by Shosh and Ruti. There’s nothing to learn with Israeli dancing. It’s for everyone. You truly just follow the person next to you, or else you’re dragged along by their hand. All the boys and girls would stand in a circle, and a boombox would play one of the 1970s Hebrew folk songs that had been cued up for us to link hands to. I have a memory of being in a non-Jewish high school years later, being forced to hold the cold sweaty hands of teenage boys to practice Scottish ceilidh dancing and I yearned for the days I once danced arm-in-arm with my younger classmates to funky Israeli disco and/or folk songs by Ofra Haza or Chava Albertstein or Yehoram Gaon.
I was fortunate. Israel was part of my childhood. I went there every year, usually to celebrate my birthday, and the festival of Sukkot. I think it’s because of this that I have the spirit of Israel in me.
My family and I went on vacation to other places in Europe, but those felt like vacations. Going to Israel always just felt like going to visit family, even if we weren’t necessarily blood-related. Everyone was family, even the cleaning staff in the hotel, and it made things very difficult. Everything in Israel is a fight, as though you’re dealing with your cousin, and yet you’ve never met this waiter/bartender/poolboy/hotel manager, etc before. And as infuriating as it is, it’s also the charm of it. You thought you were coming here to relax? You can go to the South of France for that.
Just before my last day at my Jewish elementary school, I remember a male Jewish university student came in to warn us all about the outside world, and the bubble that was set to burst soon. He told us that not everyone really accepts who we are, or what we’re about, and that they especially might have an issue with the whole Israel thing.
Regardless, I continued to be part of Jewish life in my local community. I went to Jewish youth groups like Bnei Akiva and eventually became the local leader of FZY (the Federation of Zionist Youth). I was completely unaware that “Zionist” was a controversial word. FZY was the coolest youth group to be in. That was all I cared about. Every Sunday night we’d meet at the Jewish Community Center for two hours, and there’d be between 20-30 kids. My non-Jewish school friends never really asked about it. Not that they’d have wanted to come. We made up activities for ourselves, and played childish games. It was very pure. The whole point was for Jewish kids to meet each other, get their first crushes and (eventually after getting a university degree) have more Jewish kids. There was no indoctrination going on at these events.
It wasn’t really until university that my affinity with Israel became a problem, and suddenly I learned for the first time that people with no understanding of Israel or Jews have a problem with the idea of a Zionist. I learned for the first time that being a Jew with a heart in Israel meant that you were charged with the pain of Palestinians whom you may never have met. Suddenly your position of innocence becomes one of defensiveness. It’s a shock to the system. It’s designed that way.
The news is horrific. I had a choice today between continuing to reveal the gut-wrenching details coming out about more of the torturous acts of Hamas upon the newly released captives, or seeking something else. I chose something else, and I hope that indulging in these nostalgic vignettes doesn’t seem too trite. But there are too many assumptions in the world about what it means to be Jewish, and too much that supposes that Jews could just lose Israel and we’d still be fine, or even better off.
No. Israel is us. We are Israel. You can’t cut off our limbs and expect us to move through the world in the same way.
Israel is not the problem. Antisemitism is the problem.
Last thing I'm reading before going to sleep in NYC.
Loved these memories, Eve.
Knowing more about your formative Jewish experiences deepens the already profound affection and respect your readers have for you.
THANK YOU!!!!This was the best thing I’ve read since Oct 7!