Op/Ed
April 11, 2008
In Praise of Denial
Jerusalem
Stuart Schoffman
Special to the Jewish Times
On a pleasant Thursday evening in early spring I found myself in a classy new Jerusalem restaurant on Shlomzion Street, named for a Hasmonean queen of the first century C.E.
The food was tasty and plentiful and glatt kosher; this was a large private dinner, a group of visiting American Jewish leaders and donors and their guests. I was one of several speakers, a carefully selected array of counter-balanced viewpoints, right, left, center; or in my case, all of the above, depending on time of day.
Somewhere between the pasta and the steak one of my fellow commentators, a journalist for a Hebrew daily, got a frightening message on his beeper. A gunman had somehow gotten into the Mercaz Harav Yeshiva, a Jerusalem landmark, and with an automatic rifle had murdered eight young men studying Torah.
The group’s professional organizer swiftly took the mike and suggested that everyone call home and assure their loved ones that they were all right. I took the opportunity to call my wife to get details from the TV, and make sure my teenage kids stayed off the streets.
It was my turn to speak next. My Israeli colleague took me aside and said, listen, the people at my table are freaking out, tell them they have nothing to worry about, here we get used to it, for us it’s like the weather. Truth is, I was pretty rattled, and what came out was something like, you don’t have to worry, it happened way across town, it’s like a crime in any big American city.
But, of course, different places have different risks, and just like someone in Malibu, Calif. (where I lived before making aliyah) faces a calculated risk of mudslides and ocean flooding and brushfires, we have terrorism, and you learn to live with it. So relax.
How many people felt more relaxed? I have no idea. But the analogy is not unreasonable. A movie mogul who builds his beach palace 10 feet from the roaring Pacific knows what he’s getting into, and so does a screenwriter who moves from Malibu to Jerusalem.
Clearly Mercaz Harav had not been chosen at random. If the Twin Towers represented American power and New York wealth, Mercaz Harav, the venerable rabbinic think tank of the Greater Land of Israel movement, represented a face of Judaism that enemies of Israel (and some Israelis themselves) especially detest. But at a moment like this, it’s clear which team you’re on. We are all Mercaz Harav. One night a yeshiva, the next night, God forbid, a fancy restaurant.
I didn’t add any of this edgy stuff, of course. The evening got back on track and chocolate dessert came and everybody seemed to agree that a two-state solution was a good idea, if only we and the Palestinians could make it happen. And then everyone went home or to their hotel.
It eerily turned out that the young murderer was a driver by trade, and may have — accounts differed — made deliveries to Mercaz Harav. The enemy within: The killer’s home village, Jebel Mukaber, is located inside the security wall. Visitors to Jerusalem who marvel at the golden view of the Old City from the Haas Promenade, slightly west of United Nations headquarters, tend to be unaware that just past the U.N., on the other side of the hill, is picturesque Jebel Mukaber. Today, Hamas banners fly there.
This paints an awfully dark, monochromatic picture of Israel. Ideally, information consumers should habitually log onto Web sites that specialize in purveying the bright and brilliant side of Israel. But they don’t, because the impressive things, compared with terrorism and its heartbreaking consequences, are boring. For most people, whose impressions of Israel come from headlines and video clips glimpsed on Fox or CNN.com , it’s mainly a dangerous place, best avoided.
Most of the time, I avoid thinking about the grand scheme of life in the Middle East. Like most Israelis, I keep abreast of the news, and then unabashedly change the channel. I know what’s out there, but usually prefer to worry about it later, after taxes and dental work, or a hike with the kids on a beautiful afternoon, or a pizza with friends, or a chapter of Midrash with my study partner.
You can call this approach utilitarian denial, or emotional procrastination, or even fiddling while Rome burns — but it’s a necessary art, if you live in my neighborhood. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s probably essential in your neighborhood, too.