London in Jerusalem

British Mandatory rule of the region known at the time as Palestine but currently the State of Israel lasted only thirty years, from 1917 (the conquest of the region by British forces and the granting of the mandate by the League of Nations) to 1948 (the declaration of independence by Israel). In view of the region’s recorded history, going back several thousands of years, this is a mere blip, nonetheless the effects of that brief interlude can be seen still today.

The exhibition entitled ‘London in Jerusalem’ tracing just some of these effects occupies part of the exhibition space in the ancient Jerusalem structure known as the Tower of David (the rest describes the conquest of Jerusalem and entry into the city by General Allenby). There are those who believe the site to be the burial place of King David, but the archaeological evidence dates the structure to a later period. However, the building is certainly at least one thousand years old, and has yielded many interesting artifacts. It stands at the outer edge of Jerusalem’s Old City, and forms a prominent landmark, constituting part of the wall surrounding it, separating the old from the newer parts of the city.

During the period of the Mandate the Tower of David served as a focal point for cultural and artistic activities, as is attested by posters in the exhibition advertising exhibitions, concerts and art auctions held there. The influence of British rule may be clearly seen still today throughout the newer parts of Jerusalem, as the first Governor-General, Sir Ronald Storrs, issued an order stating that any new building erected in Jerusalem had to be faced with Jerusalem stone, thus preserving the architectural character of the city.

Under British rule Jerusalem flourished both physically and culturally, with the construction of important buildings, among them the YMCA building and the King David hotel, as well as the garden suburbs of Rechavia and Beit Hakerem. The period also saw an influx of new inhabitants, mainly from Europe but also from other parts of the Middle East, so that both the Arab and the Jewish populations grew. It goes without saying that in the 1930s Jews from Germany and other parts of Europe also made Jerusalem their home, although immigration by Jews became increasingly difficult with the restrictions imposed by the Mandatory authorities as they bowed to Arab pressure.

Nonetheless, alongside the surge in residential and public construction, social and cultural life in Jerusalem flourished. One wall of the exhibition is devoted to posters for concerts, recitals, plays, art exhibitions and dances open to the public. Alongside the growth in the population from former European countries, there was a general expansion of life in the cafés and restaurants of the city, and the exhibition contains a life-size reconstruction of an authentic Jerusalem café of the time, as well as of the famous Fink’s bar, where a large number of journalists and others spent many happy hours.

One of the most outstanding legacies of British rule was the establishment of the broadcasting service, known at the time as the Palestine Broadcasting Service (PBS). The broadcasts were in English, Hebrew and Arabic, and members of the three communities served on the programming board, although this did not preclude disputes over content and time slots. ‘Jerusalem Calling,’ as the station was known, played a significant role in fostering local culture, broadcasting news as well as live music, language lessons, radio plays, segments for children and youth and morning exercise programmes.

One intriguing display cabinet contains the delicate bone china tea service used by the King David hotel when VIPs came to stay. In addition, main roads were given English names, some of which have endured to this day. Thus, every Jerusalemite knows where King George street is located, though few remember that its continuation was once known as Princess Mary street. The exhibition notes point out that as well as turning Jerusalem into a financial and cultural centre, the British made it the administrative center of the region, a status it had not enjoyed under Ottoman rule.

All in all, it is possible to look back at that brief period as one of relative peace and harmony between the different cultures, as a time of cultural blossoming and economic stability. It was also the period in which the leaders of the Yishuv, as the Jewish comunity was then known, were able to focus on creating the instruments of self-government and forging the path for the future State of Israel.



Music in the Creuse

Summer in the depths of rural France is peaceful in the extreme, providing R&R (rest and relaxation) and constituting balm for the soul.

One does one’s best to take advantage of the quiet time, and even to enjoy the food and wine while endeavouring to maintain a modicum of moderation. This, of course, is particularly hard given the many temptations that surround one on all sides.

Cultural delights such as those we are able to enjoy in the city are rare, however, and one doesn’t expect to encounter first-class entertainment of that kind while in the countryside of any country, and certainly not in France, far away from any centre of any kind.

However, we were able one evening to enjoy music-making on a high standard in a church in one of the nearby villages. An ensemble consisting of a flautist and harp-player, both originally from the Netherlands, entertained the packed hall with a selection of classical music ranging from Bach to very modern pieces, in some cases written especially for these artists. The musicians, who also teach in Dutch music academies, are both members of the Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra.

In between the two parts of the concert (which started at the very sensible hour of 6 p.m., leaving time to get home in time for dinner) we were entertained by the local choir of some forty adults, presenting a very eclectic programme of songs sung in a variety of languages. This took us far from the provincial and rural France we have come to know and love, with harmonious arrangements of French folk songs, the orthodox Serbian liturgy, a rendition in French of ‘Let the Sun Shine in,’ from the musical ‘Hair,’ and also of ‘Amazing Grace,’ as well as of Handel’s ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’ and ‘Erlaube mir’ by Brahms. The grand finale, in which the choir was accompanied by the flute and harp ensemble, was Verdi’s ‘Va Pensiero,’ the chorus of the Hebrew slaves from ‘Nabucco.’

The choir seemed to consist mainly of elderly and middle-aged individuals drawn from the various local communities of the region. What was surprising was its particularly strong male section, which added considerably to the quality of the sound as it resonated around the tiny church. The enthusiasm of the lady conductor was also admirable, though I was somewhat distracted by wondering whether the sleeves of her jacket would withstand the strain of her energetic arm movements.

The audience also displayed considerable enthusiasm, and seemed reluctant to let either the players or the choir end the evening without a series of encores of various kinds. However, sitting on hard wooden benches for two hours was starting to get too much for us, so that we felt impelled to leave before the choir embarked on a repeat performance of ‘Va Pensiero.’ It was also becoming apparent that the choristers were also beginning to get tired, having had to stand for most of the evening.

After all, they must have wanted to go home and have dinner, too. They certainly deserved it.

Trump crumbled!


The recent furore over Donald Trump’s policy of separating migrant children from their parents and placing them in enclosures that have been likened to cages, seems in the end to have brought out the best in American society.

After all, virtually all Americans, Trump included, can trace their roots back to immigrant forefathers, whether relatively recent or distant. For many years immigration into America was permitted in almost unlimited fashion. In the 1920s America introduced quotas restricting the number of immigrants by country, thus putting paid to the hopes of many European Jews of finding refuge from Nazi persecution.

Initially there seemed to be general support for Trump’s policy of ‘zero tolerance’ regarding the illegal entry into America of people entering the country via the southern border from Mexico. However, as reporters and photographers provided evidence of the heartbreaking scenes of children being separated from their parents, this gave way to widespread indignation.

To America’s credit, except in a handful of cases, this indignation was expressed right across the board, regardless of party affiliation or political beliefs. The general outrage eventually persuaded even that most stubborn and presumably heartless of presidents to revoke his edict, which he falsely claimed had been introduced by the previous Democratic administration.

The whole episode brought back to me an episode from my own life, which I call ‘my epiphany in the library.’

When I was studying for a degree in Sociology at the London School of Economics back in the 1960s, we were told to read the work of psychologist John Bowlby on maternal deprivation. Sitting in the university library, I read about the deleterious effects of separating a young child from his or her mother. It was then, at the age of eighteen, that I remembered having been told that when I was one year old I was sent away to a children’s home in the countrside in the framework of the evacuation of children from London during the Blitz of the Second World War. My parents had said that before that I had sung and even spoken, but that when I was brought back, about a year later, it took a long time before I would sing and speak again.

At the time the account of what had been done to me left me unmoved, but as I read more and more about the long-term psychological damage that separation from a mother or surrogate mother does to a very young child I became more and more agitated. I don’t know if I burst into tears there and then, but I certainly had a lot of food for thought.

I was living at home at the time, and when I got home later that day I asked my mother, possibly with a note of accusation in my voice, how she could have done that to me, her only child at the time. I recall that my mother became very upset, possibly even breaking down in tears, and said that what they had done had been only for my own good, to save me from possible injury or death from the bombing.

At that time, my parents were house-parents at a hostel for some twenty-five refugee children who had come to England in the framework of the Kindertransport, which gave refuge to ten thousand unaccompanied children from Europe. So the concept of separating children from their parents must have seemed quite reasonable to them, although none of their wards were under the age of eight or nine, and some were already in their teens. Most of those younger children were also sent out of London in the framework of the general evacuation policy.

Many years later I wrote about this episode in my life, as well as others, in my first novel, ‘The Balancing Game.’ I have no actual memory of the event, but I’m in no doubt that it affected my psyche. Writing about what I imagined that I felt may well have served in some way to help heal the wounds.

However, it isn’t necessary to have experienced maternal deprivation oneself in order to feel empathy for the children of immigrants separated from their parents, as has been proved by recent events in America.

I can only say, well done, America, and thank goodness for its free press and social media. The uproar forced Trump to crumble. If only other countries had behaved in a similar fashion who knows how different history might have been. But at least the America of today has proved that it has a heart and that the vaunted American values still prevail.


‘Jacob and his Sons’ at the Israel Museum


The exhibition of paintings by  Francisco de Zurburan, a seventeenth-century Spanish painter, has been a major attraction at the Israel Museum for the last few weeks. I had never heard of him, so I made use of a free morning to go and take a look.

What met my eyes came as a huge surprise (with the emphasis on ‘huge’). Each of the thirteen paintings depicts Jacob and his twelve sons, as described in the Old Testament. As Jacob feels his last hours approaching, he calls all his sons to him and on each one by turn he bestows a blessing and a characterization, phrased succinctly and sometimes in a caustic or prophetic way. In the exhibition at the Israel Museum these quotations are given in both Hebrew and English alongside each picture, enabling the viewer to relate the visual depiction to the father’s analysis.

The twelve sons of Jacob are regarded as the ancestors of the twelve tribes of Israel, and it is in that light that they should be perceived through Zurburan’s paintings. The actual pictures are extremely large, larger than life even, and clearly painted with a great deal of thought and attention to detail. The models for each painting were evidently chosen with the idea of revealing some aspect of the Biblical character. But that is only part of the story. Each model wears clothing that reflects his character and role in life. Thus, Judah, the son who is destined to be the predecessor of kings, wears regal robes of great delicacy and complexity, while Asher, who is described by Jacob as someone who both feasts on and provides good food and delicacies fit for kings, is painted as a ‘bon vivant,’ with an expression of satisfaction on his face.

What is most striking about all the paintings is the richness of the colours of various items of clothing. Thus, even the attire worn by Gad, who is depicted as a poor man, is painted in such great detail and with such artistic delicacy that to the viewer it feels as if one can almost touch the fabric of his dress.

The paintings apparently have a checkered history, and it is thought that they were intended to be used as a visual stimulus for the conversion of the natives of South America. The Spanish conquerors managed to overcome the physical resistance displayed by the local population, which nonetheless continued to adhere to their own beliefs. It is thought that the paintings were on board a vessel bound for South America that was captured by pirates and were lost for several years. Eventually, in the mid-eighteenth century, the pictures were bought at an auction in England by the Bishop of Durham, who hung them in Auckland Castle in Scotland. He did this in the aspiration that they would serve to further awareness of the need for tolerance and social, political and religious understanding between Christians and Jews in Britain.

Since Auckland Castle is currently undergoing renovations, the Israel Museum was given the opportunity to provide a temporary home for them in the form of the current exhibition, which is certainly well worth a visit.

Mazal Tov!


When I got married, over fifty years ago, the custom in Israel was for weddings to be festive affairs, but compared with today’s scene they were relatively sedate. I know that people hired halls and hotels in some cases, but I do not recollect any such event involving the participation of many hundreds of guests, dervish-like dancing that went on for hours and the total abandonment of consideration for the eardrums of the participants.

Being constitutionally averse to large-scale celebrations, I chose to celebrate my own wedding in an even more low-key fashion, with just a handful of guests (close friends and family), in the garden of friends in Jerusalem’s German Colony neighbourhood, and refreshments that consisted primarily of sandwiches (which I felt too excited or occupied with my guests to partake of). Of course, I spurned the traditional long white dress and wore what I hoped was a tasteful cream-coloured two-piece. I recollect the annoyance I felt at having to take myriad photographs with each guest in turn. Furthermore, the subdued background music that was supposed to have been provided by a friend who had undertaken the task failed for some reason and there was no music at all.

Still, neither I nor anybody else seemed to be unduly disturbed by the lack of entertainment or the modest refreshments, and the event was as joyous and enjoyable as any I have attended since. But then, I might be biased.

These days, however, weddings in Israel seem to have become ever more raucous, and to involve ever greater throngs of people, with music blasting the eardrums of the assembled guests making it totally impossible to conduct a conversation of any kind, whether civilized or not. The marriage ceremony is generally followed by several hours of frenetic dancing by all concerned, whether in separate groups for men and women or in mixed formation. In the misanthropic miasma that descends on me at these times I try – but usually fail – to understand why anyone would get dressed in their best clothes in order to get all hot and sweaty jumping up and down along with hundreds of other people doing likewise.

What cannot be denied, however, is that such events provide a golden opportunity to get together with other members of our ever-growing family, as relatives from all over the country (and abroad) join forces to celebrate yet another merry milestone in the life of one of its members. In effect what is being celebrated is the continuation of one more branch of the tree that has grown and blossomed from the plant nurtured by the first generation, thata of our parents, the penniless young couple who once found refuge from persecution and war in England and eventually ended up in Israel, together with the rest of the family.

So I suppose that when all is said and done, in the final analysis, weighing up the pros and the cons, taking the rough with the smooth and considering all the options, I will continue to attend these nuptial festivities as and when they come (and they seem to be coming ever thicker and faster these days). At any rate, festive occasions are infinitely preferable to mournful ones.

Mazal tov to the young couple and everyone in the family!

‘Uscolia’ by Gabriel Lanyi




It is many years since I read material on the theory of education, and this book on the subject came into my hands through the kindness of our new neighbor, who also happens to be the author. But it is no standard book on education, far from it, as it is presented in the form of an account of a fictional voyage to a distant land (something akin to Thomas More’s ‘Utopia’ and Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels’) together with a raft of revolutionary ideas about what education consists of and what role it should play in society.

The book starts with a description of the narrator being ‘surf-wrecked’ off the coast of north America, incidentally displaying admirable expertise in the terminology and technique of wind-surfing. This brings him to the imaginary island of Uscolia, where a highly advanced society with unique ideas about education and socialization has emerged. What follows is a series of narratives designed in the form of Russian dolls, with conversations taking place at the level of the society in which the narrator finds himself as well as at the level of the book’s initial starting point and a subsequent discussion among visitors staying in the local hotel. This can be a trifle confusing at times, but the main point is to examine and justify the distinctive approach to education that permeates every aspect of life on the island, starting with the education of children from early infancy.

The basic premise of the Uscolian theory – and this even appears on the back cover of the book – is that ‘all newborns are created equal, but a day later they no longer are.’ In other words, the task of moulding a child’s brain begins at birth, if not before, and it is to this end that from the outset tiny babies are exposed to all kinds of stimuli, starting with language, as is generally the case with humans, but also involving music and tactile experiences. Building on the concept that native fluency in one’s first language is learned by hearing and responding to messages received in the mothertongue, the idea is that using this approach it is also possible to learn other languages and skills, and even acquire knowledge in many fields, using the child’s natural curiosity and ability to learn. Another basic premise is that the human brain’s capacity to absorb information is infinite, and that most people use only a fraction of their abilities. In effect, in the Uscolian system there is no such thing as direct teaching, but rather an approach that enables a child to work out for him- or her-self what it is that interests them and how to pursue these subjects and solve problems, generally doing so in cooperation with other children of various ages.

The idea of independent learning is conducted by means of ‘studios’ in which children interact with one another and share their enquiries by developing projects. All this is done without a teacher of any kind being involved, though there does seem to be some kind of supervision, or rather monitoring, by ‘helpers,’ whose task it is to facilitate the children’s exploratory activities. Thus, at some point we find one of the helpers ‘talking’ mathematics to a very young child, and it is assumed that this will enable him to grasp the relations between numbers and mathematical concepts.

This all seems to be very idyllic in the context of the world in which we find ourselves today, but, as in all utopias, the idea seems to work. In addition, the concept of criminality or delinquency either does not exist, is ignored or is channeled into ‘positive’ activity.

The most interesting part of the book comes at the end, where Gabriel Lanyi describes how he and his wife implemented their ‘Uscolian’ theories of education when bringing up their own child, Ariel, who is now aged twenty and studying music in London. They evidently invested a great deal of thought, as well as energy, originality and ingenuity, into applying their ideas about the optimum environment for the development of the child, starting with specific musical education, which could perhaps be more appropriately termed ‘immersion,’ and providing him with the tools and surroundings that would enable him to pursue any interest he showed in any subject. O fortunate infant!

In an ideal world I believe most parents would do the same for their children, though few parents are equipped with the mental and physical resources displayed by the Lanyis. However, as far as I can recollect, when my own children were born my husband and I were far too preoccupied with making a living, forging a career, and simply surviving to be able to develop sophisticated ideas about education. I reckon this applies to many, if not most, young parents. Maybe we were too young and inexperienced, but despite everything, our children have grown up to develop their own wonderful and unique abilities and personalities. It seems that innate ability and resilience still have a role to play.

Up The Women!

photo: The Guardian

It was one of those weird coincidences that sometimes makes me wonder what is going on in the world, or at least in my own little world.

One evening last week we went to see the Swiss film, ‘The Divine Order,’ because it had been recommended by a friend. We were not disappointed. The film portrays the struggle of the women of Switzerland to obtain the right to vote, which was granted to them only in 1971. Think of England’s suffragettes, who fought for that right and won it early in the twentieth century!

The film, which was written and directed by Petra Volpe, focuses on the life of one particular woman, Nora, a mild-mannered, docile housewife who seems content with her life in village, surrounded by picturesque scenery, but is irked by the fact that her husband exerts his legal right to forbid her to go out to work. This leads to a series of events that stirs up the family and eventually the entire village, so that we see our placid heroine turn into a feisty woman prepared to join in the countrywide fight for what she believes is her right.

What is particularly interesting is the resistance to the idea of women’s suffrage shown by some of the women, who contend that it is part of ‘the divine order’ and only right and proper for women to be dominated by men. Eventually, even some of the men come round to view matters in a different light, and so the election result finally gives the women of Switzerland the vote and all’s well that ends well.

The following day I turned the television on while I was doing my usual morning exercises and happened to catch the daily BBC interview, ‘Hard Talk.’ The interviewee was an elderly woman with a shock of white hair, and although I had missed the beginning of the programme, I soon realized that this was an Egyptian woman at the forefront of the battle for women’s rights in that country.

As the allotted half-hour progressed I found that she was Nawal al-Saadawi, a well-known Egyptian author and activist, who is also a physician and psychiatrist. Apparently she has written over thirty books, both fiction and non-fiction, and has now reached the respectable age of eighty-six.

Nawal al-Saadawi has campaigned consistently against FGM (female genital mutilation), which is still widely practiced in Egypt (and many other countries of the Middle East and Africa), but she also condemns circumcision, the male version of the practice, contending that in both cases it is a cruel and unnatural way of interfering with the human body. She claims that FGM is part of the ideology which seeks to maintain the dominance of men over women, promoting monogamy for women and polygamy for men. “We live in a harsh, patriarchal religious system,” she said, claiming that the support showed by some women for the continuation of the practice of FGM was evidence of their ‘slave mentality’ (akin to the Stockholm Syndrome).

When the interviewer asked Nawal what she thought of Egypt’s current leader, Abdel Fattah a-Sisi who, unlike the Moslem Brotherhood, has not been democratically elected, Nawal was adamant that he is infinitely better than the Moslem Brotherhood. The latter would undoubtedly have imposed all manner of religious laws, she said, on the grounds that everything came from Allah. “To play with religion is to play with fire,” she added, at the same time insisting that most Egyptians do not support the idea of a religious state.

Asked about her opinion of democratic elections, Nawal claimed that elections generally have nothing to do with democracy, and also that democracy has nothing to do with elections. She pointed out that it was money and power that determined election outcomes, and events in several countries seem to have borne her out.

Nawal denigrated the practice of marrying young girls to older men, and related how, at the age of ten, she resisted her parents’ intention to marry her to a much older man. When the interviewer asked her how she managed to do that at such a young age, she just laughed and said “For that you will have to read my autobiography.”

We Were There Too



As befits an English woman living abroad, I watched the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle on television, and revelled in the pomp and circumstance of each shot and every angle. I loved the sight of the beautiful mixed-race bride, her dress, the bridesmaids and page-boys, the various members of the royal family, the dresses and the hats. I enjoyed the reading from the Bible by Lady Anne Whatsername, the sister of the late Princess Diana, and even the rather long and rambling sermon preached with fervor and enthusiasm by the coloured American bishop whose name I did not catch.

But as the service proceeded it occurred to me that we were being treated to a bunch of Jewish traditions, starting with the reading containing the lyrical verses from the Song of Solomon, “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm; for love is as strong as death” that echoed through the church at Windsor. Luckily, the reading did not include the part that reads “I am black but comely,” as that might have been considered tactless. The American preacher-man also spoke fervently about those very same verses in the Bible, making it clear that Jesus’s teachings about loving thy neighbor were drawn directly from the Old Testament.

The connections between that ceremony and the Jewish tradition struck me only later that day, when we attended a concert in the Church of the Ark of the Covenant (where some people believe King David brought the Ark before dancing before it all the way to Jerusalem) in Abu Ghosh.

The programme started with Schubert’s beautiful Mass in G major. Listening to the music and noticing the words it struck me that those are our prayers. ‘Credo in unum Deum’ is the Hebrew prayer ‘Ani Ma’amin,’ and ‘Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,’ comes straight from the Hebrew prayer (kadosh, kadosh, kadosh). Actual Hebrew words are even included in the mass, in Latinised transliteration, such as ‘Deus Sabaoth,’ (elohei tzevaot) and Osanna (Hosha-na), which the Christian tradition mistakenly regards as something akin to ‘Halleluya (another Hebrew term) rather than a plea for mercy. As a man behind me in the supermarket check-out line said to me just the other day (don’t ask me why), “I asked the Christians in America if they knew what language they were singing in when they sang ‘Halleluya.’ And of course, the whole concept of the ‘lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world,’ (Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi) is taken directly from the scapegoat of the ancient Hebrews. Christians repeat these words and phrases almost every time they pray, though doubtless most of them are unaware of their source.

The concert ended with a lovely performance of Fauré’s Requiem. Some of the phrases mentioned above appear there, too, but in addition it ends with an exquisite passage, ‘In Paradiso,’ in which the holy city of Jerusalem is equated with paradise, the place where angels sing and all is peace and harmony.

I can only say Amen to that (another actual Hebrew word).



That Was The Week That Was was the title of a satirical programme on UK television in my youth, bringing a great deal of mirth and merriment to the British viewing public. As satire tends to be, it was irreverent and entertaining, helping to brighten the somewhat dull atmosphere of daily life there.

Life in Israel might at times be gloomy but it is never boring. The week that has just ended in Israel provided a veritable roller-coaster of emotions, starting with our entry winning the Eurovision Song Contest, followed by the celebration of Jerusalem Day, marking the fiftieth anniversary of the Six Day War, when Israel captured and regained that part of its ancient capital that had been barred to Jews in the nineteen years when it was held by Jordan. Hot on the heels of that event came the inauguration of the US embassy in Jerusalem, situated on land that has been part of Jewish Jerusalem since before the Six Day War. One wonders why so many people have managed to get so hot under the collar about one country recognizing another’s capital, or in other words, calling a spade a spade. As a sovereign country, it is Israel’s prerogative to determine where its capital should be. Throughout that period, and also for some weeks beforehand, the Palestinian population of the Gaza Strip had been holding supposedly non-violent demonstrations along the border fence with Israel.

The participants in those demonstrations, which were orchestrated by the Hamas organization whose avowed aim is to destroy Israel, were encouraged to break down the fence and enter Israel in order to wreak havoc, murder and mayhem there. Claims were made by some world leaders and especially in the foreign media to the effect that Israel had used disproportionate force in firing live ammunition at the demonstrators, whom it would be more accurate to call rioters. It brings no joy to learn that over sixty individuals lost their lives in those demonstrations, though later on Hamas acknowledged that the majority of them had been members of that organization.

The media outlets that I happened to encounter (BBC, Sky, CNN, France24) were quick to juxtapose the scenes of Palestinians milling about on the border with Israel and the rejoicing displayed by the dignitaries participating in the festive opening of the US embassy. Naturally, this kind of reporting cannot fail to present Israel in a negative light. Some reporters claimed erroneously that the demonstrations were a direct result of the opening of the US embassy, which was very far from the truth, as the demonstrations had been going on, as planned, for several weeks, after Friday prayers in the mosques. Other journalists hastened to point out that the root cause of the discontent was the ‘expulsion’ of Palestinians in 1948, when Israel was created. Needless to say, this was also a gross misrepresentation of the situation. In 1948 the Arab residents of what was then Palestine were encouraged to leave temporarily by their leaders to give the invading Arab armies a freer hand as they invaded the territory allocated by the UN to the nascent state of Israel. Their temporary departure and refugee status was perpetuated by the surrounding Arab states, while at the same time an almost equivalent number of Jews living in Arab countries were expelled from their homes, most of them finding refuge in Israel. Strangely enough, none of them are considered stateless refugees or housed in refugee camps in Israel today.

I have come across discussions on the internet that deny Israel’s right to exist, condemning it as colonialist, racist and adhering to a policy of apartheid. The thinking behind these exchanges seems to be an implacable hatred for Jews and their country, against which there seems to be very little that can be done. Denying Israel’s right to exist is simply one way of trying to deny reality and living in a fantasy world.

So Israelis continue to serve in their army, cultivate their land, develop their scientific, artistic and technical abilities, and hope that one day the Palestinians will come to the negotiating table so that a durable settlement can be reached. Until that day comes they will have to protect their borders from those who seek to breach them in order to destroy what they have built.


The Crown takes the Biscuit

When we were in Las Vegas last year, visiting our son and daughter-in-law, on one particular evening they were otherwise occupied. They made sure to seat us comfortably in the living room facing the large TV screen, handed us the remote control, and told us to find something on Netflix that would interest us. We looked at many garish posters advertising mainly American films which did not interest us in the least.

As we progressed down past the gaudy pictures on display, the solitary figure of a woman dressed in a sober blue outfit caught my eye. ‘The Crown,’ was the title, and this turned out to be a series made especially for Netflix (until then neither Yigal nor I had even heard of Netflix, the company that provides TV entertainment to many Americans who are sick and tired of the tasteless fare offered by the TV channels in that country).

We started to watch and were hooked from the very first moment. The series follows the life of our own dear Queen Elizabeth, tracing the trajectory of her life from childhood until her coronation (an event I remember), and then onwards through several decades.

The series appears to have been made with a great deal of attention to detail, and with first-class actors (British, of course). Alongside the personal life and development of the main characters, Elizabeth, Philip, and other members of the royal family, political events are given suitable prominence, and the interaction between the two strands is both entertaining and enlightening.

And so we are taken gently through the scandals and crises that have beset British politics and the royal family since time immemorial, starting with the abdication of the Queen’s uncle, Edward the Fifth, that caused her father to become George the Sixth and thus, it is intimated, bringing about his early demise and Elizabeth’s consequent accession to the throne.

We see the stately figure of Churchill, England’s war-time leader, gradually deteriorate until he is finally left with no choice but to resign. We see, too, the unfortunate incident of the portrait of him painted by Graham Sutherland which is eventually consigned to the flames in a fit of pique (or possibly artistic jealousy). Other prime ministers do not fare much better, with Anthony Eden leaving in disgrace after the Suez crisis and the fiasco of his collusion with France and Israel, and his successor Harold MacMillan, bowing out not-very-gracefully on the grounds of ill health but probably more as a result of the unfortunate Profumo scandal.

What is particularly fascinating for me is that I remember many of those incidents and even as a child was an avid reader of the daily newspaper that was delivered to our front door. To have lived through events and then to see them portrayed, with greater or lesser accuracy, as a television series, is a unique experience that cannot have been experienced by many people, I think.

In Las Vegas we ‘binge watched’ some twelve or so episodes, but then had no time or strength left to see any more (twenty have been made so far). But rest assured, almost as soon as we touched down back in Israel we subscribed to Netflix and managed to complete viewing the entire series. Now, together with many others, I am awaiting the production of the next series. After all, our Queen has reached the age of 92, and so there’s a lot more fun to be had, I’m sure.

Recently, I was treated to an extra bonus when one of my sisters asked if she could come round and watch ‘The Crown’ with me. Of course, I agreed, and so the two of us have been meeting weekly to watch the series, laugh and cry together, and enjoy our trip down memory lane. The fact that I have seen it all already does not detract in any way from my pleasure and emotional involvement.