You don’t realise how close you came to not getting a post from me today.

Last night, Bernice and I were eating dinner at 8:15 when I suddenly blurted out: “Good grief! It’s Monday today!” Bernice, having been married to me for 51 years, immediately realised the significance, and offered me encouragement: “Well, you’re not going to bed early tonight then, are you?” I then felt obliged to point out that, since she must always read and approve my post pre-publication, nor was she.

Which explains why this post was written in a mad rush, starting just over 10 hours before publication, and finished in a record time of 40 minutes, which, by my reckoning, is a composition speed of over 35 words a minute.

I left you last week in mid-air – literally, as we winged our way to Portugal. So let me pick up from there. We landed only 15 minutes behind schedule, but then had to wait an inordinate amount of time for our luggage to come through. This was followed by picking up the rental car, which sounds easy, but, as we found out on our last trip, can have unexpected complications. When I checked out prices for this trip, it soon became clear that renting from a company with offices in the airport, while very convenient, is also very much more expensive. After some discussion, we decided that we would use the company we ended up using last time, whose offices are a 12-minute drive from the airport by shuttle bus.

When we reached the pick-up point for the shuttle bus, we found a couple of English businessmen in front of us, who explained that the bus had just left, and that the driver had told them that another bus would be along very soon. We all agreed that there was no other bus, and that the same driver would return in 25 minutes, which he indeed did. By the time he returned, the four of us had been joined by another four couples. Having checked our names, the driver announced that he had room only for the principal driver in each pair. He would take these and he would then return for the partners while the principal drivers started the paperwork.

After some argument, discussion and translation, everyone accepted this plan, and so I left Bernice waiting outside the airport. When we arrived at the office, the driver assigned us numbered tickets from a machine. He was kind enough to promote me to number 4, having asked me how old I was and awarding me priority status. We were then invited to scan a Q-code on the wall and start the paperwork independently. This went well until I reached the section asking for my address, which I completed as follows:
Country of residence: Israel
City: Ma’ale Adumim
County: [Since Israel has no counties, and nothing equivalent, I left this field blank]
District: [Since I was far from sure what this referred to, I left it blank]
Address: 14, Hashminit Street

When I pressed Next, I was of course informed that I had left one or more mandatory fields blank, so I returned to the two problem fields. Under County, I clicked the dropdown, which proved to be empty. I then tried Jerusalem, Central, Ma’ale Adumim (with, then without, an apostrophe, and with one and then two ‘m’s in the middle of Adumim). No success. I then went over to one of the clerks who was processing another customer and explained that I was not able to proceed until I provided information that did not exist. “Well,” he asked me, “what region do you live in? Is it in Haifa, or the Mercaz, or what?” At a subliminal level, something about this last question seemed odd, but I was becoming too enraged to explore it further.

Eventually, the clerk told me to leave the form, and it would be sorted out when I sat with a clerk later. Indeed, a few minutes later, my number was called, and I sat down with the same clerk I had spoken to earlier. Just then Bernice arrived – which was just as well, because the form also wanted to know my identification number, and, although I had filled in my Israeli ID number, I knew that they would almost certainly only accept my passport, which Bernice was holding.

When it came to District, the clerk established from me that we lived near Jerusalem, entered something on the form and then turned his screen to show me. “You see!” he said triumphantly. I read the word Yerushalayim. “So, you’re telling me,” I said, “that I am supposed to guess that your program thinks Ma’ale Adumim is in the non-existent district of Jerusalem, and then I am supposed to guess that I have to enter an English transliteration of the Hebrew name for Jerusalem. Sorry, I know you didn’t write the program, but…” The clerk agreed that he and his colleagues often discussed how the program’s requirements are incompatible with the political geography of many countries around the world, From that point on, we were the best of friends. When he was finishing the registration process, I said to him: “So, tell me: you know the Hebrew name for Jerusalem, and you know that the centre is the mercaz in Hebrew. Is this just something you’ve picked up from your work here, registering Israeli drivers?” “No,” he answered, with a shy smile, “my grandparents are actually Jewish…but” he added apologetically, “I’m afraid I don’t practice anything.”

It transpired that he had spent much of his childhood in New Jersey, and had made many Jewish friends there, which also explained why his English was so good, as I told him. He was kind enough to ask how I had acquired my excellent English, but by that stage I was too tired to take offence.

The upshot of all this was that we drove away from the car rental office about 90 minutes later than we had hoped. Then, an hour into our drive, for the first time ever in Portugal, we took a wrong turning – or, more accurately, missed a right turning – , adding 45 minutes to our drive. The result of all this was that we arrived at 00:15 (Portuguese time), after an 18-hour door-to-door journey. The lovely thing about our arrival (apart from the fact of the arrival itself) was that we were greeted very warmly by Micha’el, who we expected, Lua, the dog, who appeared to remember us and wagged her tail furiously, and, as an unexpected bonus, a not-having-the-best-of-nights Ollie, who made Bernice’s day, nay, her month, by happily going straight into her arms for a cuddle, a position from which he has scarcely strayed in the ensuing week.

The following morning, Tslil and Tao greeted us no less warmly, and it was all systems go from first thing in the morning. This first week has flown by, filled with nothing very special at all, just the usual round of daily routine, starting with our regular big first shopping expedition, In this case, Bernice is sure that the young cashier at the supermarket will be dining out for weeks on the story of the people who bought so much more stuff than he has ever rung up for a single customer, and then produced a second trolley just as full.

Unfortunately, both Tao and Ollie had been ill before we arrived, with colds and viruses and all the usual wintry things. They have both been a bit up and down for the whole week, but we have still had a lot of time for games and songs and stories, bath-time and playing, puppet shows and shared meals.

The one dramatic highlight is that, in the last two days, monosyllabic Ollie, whose single schwa note (like the sound of the ‘e’ in the word ‘taken’) I mentioned several weeks ago, has discovered diversity. He suddenly said “Hi” when one of us came back yesterday, and today, when we went to the supermarket with Tao, leaving Ollie behind, we had a string of both “Bye-bye’s” and then, on our return, “Hi’s”. It is very exciting to be here to witness this watershed moment firsthand, although it’s fair to say that Ollie seems considerably less excited about it than some of the rest of us.

What there doesn’t seem to have been time for this week, inexplicably, is photographs. In addition, it seemed a little unfair to photograph boys with streaming noses and highly-coloured cheeks. I hope that the coming week will bring full recovery, a chance for photos (which I will send privately to those interested, as I explained a few weeks ago) and more of the same.

Until then, and now that Bernice has read and approved the post, I will let her go to sleep and wish you, in Israel, a happy national holiday for municipal elections.

The vast majority of these posts are composed as I gaze, largely unseeing, through the window of the office at home. (Bernice always refers to it as my – i.e. David’s – office, although I am always telling her that she is only too welcome to use it whenever she wants.) This window affords me a view of the patch of scrub that lies at the back of the houses on our almost circular road, and, beyond the houses on the far side, the land rising towards the Mount of Olives. Jerusalem, over the distant ridge, is almost completely hidden from view.

More rarely, I will have slid open the frosted windows that closes in the balcony of our bedroom in Penamacor, and I will be gazing, largely unseeing, at the not unimposing ruins of the tower of the castle, on the far ridge of the saddle of land on which Penamacor rides.

But today, I am gazing, largely unseeing, through the porthole of a Boeing 737, as we cruise smoothly above the Mediterranean. The ice cream castles beneath us are bathed in strong sunlight, and could not be more different from the heavy blankets that rained on us this morning as we carried our cases to the taxi. In the space of five hours, we have indeed looked at clouds from both sides, which makes today a very special day.

I am gazing through the porthole and my heart is already in the West, where Micha’el and family, so he tells us, are all “very excited and waiting to see” us. My heart is also in the East, where Esther and family are holidaying in Sri Lanka. How well it worked out that they and we will both be out of Israel at the same time, so that we won’t miss any opportunities for our weekly visit to Zichron.

My heart is also in the centre, our home, Israel. A few hours ago we walked down the sloping corridor from passport control to the departure lounge at Ben Gurion airport, a corridor now lined on both sides by posters of the 134 abductees still being held hostage, each picture giving the name and age of the abductee. Every picture is heart-wrenching, but some are particularly so. Here is the baby, ???? The original text gave his age as 10 months, but a piece of paper has been stuck over this, updating it to 1 year. There is ????. Someone has pasted on the side of his poster the notice announcing his death in captivity. How fitting it is that everyone leaving Israel should carry those images with them as they go.

Because Micha’el and family came to Israel for December, we skipped a trip to Portugal, and this is our first visit since last July. I had been thinking that perhaps, given that we have both  celebrated a birthday since our last trip, we might travel a little more light this time, and, indeed, when I surveyed our boxes of ‘stuff for Portugal’ a few weeks ago, I was quietly optimistic. Naturally we would have to take two suitcases, but perhaps they would each weigh 15 kilo, rather than 22.8.

I had, of course, forgotten Bernice’s extraordinary power through the final bend and into the home straight. For the last couple of weeks, every day it seemed that she had another errand to run in the mall, and, half of the time, when she returned home, it was with another few outfits for one or other of the boys, outfits that the shop practically paid her to take off their hands. The other half of the time, it was with a toy or a game that Tao had particularly enjoyed when he played it in Israel, or that Ollie will adore – you can’t, after all, expect him to only have Tao’s hand-me-downs to play with.

Not that I disagree with Bernice. She has her late grandmother’s nose for a bargain and eye for the perfect gift, especially when buying for our children or grandchildren.

Last Thursday, I weighed all of the boxes, and added in the estimated weight of the last minute items that we would be packing – cheese, a couple of items for Bernice and myself. I estimated that this would come to 43 kilo. So much for travelling light!

Last Friday morning saw the next stage in our preparations: the grand assemble. This is when I unpack the contents of all the boxes and bags onto the sofas in the salon, dividing them as I do so into two piles, designed to be of roughly equal weight, bulk and nature. So, half of the bumper packs of bags of bamba (a peanut puff snack that is the Israeli child’s staple diet) go into each pile. That way, if one case is lost, everybody gets half of their toys, clothes, treats or whatever.

The bamba occasioned our first discussion of the day:
David: “You don’t honestly think we’re going to take all this bamba, do you?! It will fill a suitcase by itself!”
Bernice: “If we haven’t got room, then leave some of it out.”
D: “It’s not just a question of room. By the time we unpack, it will all just be sawdust.”
B: “Then leave it out.”
D: “No, we’ll see how it goes.”

Once everything was laid out, it was time for the second ritual discussion.
B: “I’m sorry. I had no idea it was going to be so much.”
D: “Don’t worry. It’s not too much.”
B: “We don’t have to take everything.”
D: “Don’t worry!”

The next step was the bringing down of the empty suitcases. As happens every time, somewhere between the wardrobe that I took them out of and the sofa that I lay them down on, the suitcases magically shrank. Lying next to the piles of stuff to be packed, it began to look as though Bernice might be right. However, experience has taught me that however much we have to take, it always ends up fitting into the suitcases leaving no room for any other single thing, and the combined weight of the suitcases is always 46 kilo.

30 minutes later, the sofas were empty, and the cases had weighed in at 24 kilo and 20 kilo respectively. A little juggling between cases brought the heavier case down to 23 kilo. Then on Sunday (yesterday) a few last-minute additions came to mind, with the result that, when I weighed the cases for a final time, they came in at 22.5 and 23 kilo. At those weights, weighing on our bathroom scales is challenging. The full cases are too bulky to rest them on the scales without them touching the floor, so I have to first weigh myself, then pick up a suitcase and endeavour to clamber back onto the scales and retain my balance without wobbling so that a reading is possible. Of course, when I am holding a suitcase I cannot see the reading, so I have to wait until I guess that the reading has frozen and then get off, hoping to get a valid reading.

Last night, it took me several attempts before I managed a valid reading. At the airport this morning, the cases weighed in at 23 kilo and 23.5 kilo, but we all know that the airport scales always weigh heavy. Fortunately, the check-in clerk did not bat an eyelid, or Bernice and I would have had to start eating cheese.

In fact, we are going out with less than usual, because we only have one carry-on trolley this time. This of course made our journey to the airport – taxi to Jerusalem and train to the airport – easier than usual. Coming home we should be able to fit the trolley inside one of the almost-empty suitcases, and board the plane with just our backpacks. As always, we spent some time this morning discussing how much longer we will be able to keep up travelling this heavy, but, meanwhile, we seem to be managing.

The effort is, of course, worthwhile, to see the pleasure the boys get from their gifts, and from the shabbat kiddush grape juice, and the delight Tslil takes in her silan, tehina, botz, and so on. We, similarly, can’t imagine going four weeks without good cheese, and wine from duty free. I also can’t contemplate going the first two or three days without granola, until we can do the shopping and I can make a batch. Micha’el is, fortunately, considerably more ascetic, in dietary matters at least, and hardly contributes to our luggage weight.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some rest in preparation for the three-hour drive this evening. Next week, I hope to be updating you with all the latest exciting news from Penamacor.

Week 19 – Monday

Day 129

I went to bed last night wondering what I should write about this week, and woke up this morning to discover that the question had been answered for me overnight in a totally unexpected way. It seems to me that there are several ways in which the news of the rescue of two hostages is a major new development, and I would like this week to think about some of those ways.

First, a couple of general observations. If one of the hostages was my child or parent or spouse, I would conceivably be prepared to contemplate releasing any number of convicted terrorists to ensure their return. Any discussion of how Israel should act to attempt to secure the release of the abductees has to begin by acknowledging one simple fact. Those of us who are not counting the days until our dearest loved one is returned have no right, and no basis on which, to judge the statements and actions of those who are counting the days until their dearest loved one is returned.

At the same time, this does not mean that the families of the abductees are in the best position to decide how the authorities should proceed. If one of the abductees was the child of the Prime Minister, I think there would be a very strong case to be made for the Prime Minister excluding himself from decision-making about how to proceed. The decision-makers certainly need to hear, and to listen to the families of the abductees, but they then need to reach decisions weighing other considerations as well.

Since very soon after October 7, there has been a well-organised campaign to put pressure on the authorities to bring the abductees home at any price, and to keep their return as Israel’s primary objective. While the majority of the families support this campaign, and many of them have been working tirelessly, in Israel and around the world, to achieve this goal, some of the families do not believe that paying any price is justified, and are less certain that defeating Hamas is less of a primary objective than returning the abductees. Their voice, it is fair to say, has been less audible, and less reported by the mainstream media.

As the days grew into weeks that have grown into months, the majority campaign has become more aggressive, in terms of both its actions and its words. In recent weeks, demonstrations have been less disciplined; there has been some disruption of traffic and blocking of roads by a few demonstrators.

Perhaps more significantly, the initial mood of seeking to persuade the government to prioritise the return of the abductees has soured. Over the weeks, the families increasingly complained that they were being ignored by the authorities, and that nobody was sharing with them what steps were being taken. In recent weeks, the campaign seems to have moved to one of calling for the replacement of the government – in immediate elections – or the replacement of the Prime Minister, who is now cast in some campaign material as the traitor who fed and fostered the Hamas monster over the years and enabled the pogrom of October 7.

Israel is a country where no secret can be kept, and where Cabinet arguments and caucus cabal meetings are reported verbatim in the media, often with audio recordings. My personal feeling is that it is unreasonable, in such a country, to expect the government to share sensitive material – diplomatic or military – with abductee family members who are very understandably emotionally charged. It is inevitable that, if the government did share sensitive material with them, it would be leaked, sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, the manner in which Netanyahu publicly addresses this issue often sounds very patronising, which, understandably, serves to antagonise the families further.

As the days pile up into months, I increasingly feel that at least some of the families’ energies should be directed towards those who are primarily responsible for their family members being held prisoner in Gaza: Hamas. The fact is that there is nothing we can do to “bring them home” overnight. However, Hamas could literally send them home overnight. A partial change of focus from the families might draw more the world’s attention to that fact.

At the same time as the tension over the status of the abductees is building daily within Israel, international tension over the continued waging of the war is also building daily. In the last week, this tension has focussed on Rafiah/Rafah (which are the Hebrew and Arabic names respectively of this southernmost major town in the Gaza Strip). Rafiah is the last stronghold of Hamas, and Israel’s intention is to open a humanitarian corridor to allow the civilian population to move northwards to safe areas and then for its ground forces, supported by the air force, to move through Rafiah, hunting down and eliminating Hamas terrorists, destroying Hamas infrastructure, seizing Hamas assets, as it has done throughout the Strip.

Voices have been raised about the potential humanitarian disaster such an evacuation would, it is claimed, create. (I have written before, in the 4^th paragraph here, about civilian casualties, so I won’t repeat the argument.)

Against all of this background, we woke this morning to discover that, starting at around 1AM last night, a joint operation was conducted by Israel’s General Security Services and counter-terrorism unit, supported by the navy’s commando unit and the armoured brigade, as well as by Air Force planes and rescue helicopters. The operation succeeded in rescuing alive, and in good condition, two male, civilian, abductees, Fernando Marman, 61, and Louis Har, 70. One of the troops suffered minor injuries as a result of a fall from a height. No other injuries were sustained by our troops.

As more details emerge, it seems that these two men were kept together, ‘embedded’ in the home of an ordinary Gazan family, and guarded by at least three Hamas guards. What their relationship was with the family we do not yet know. However, as more details of this action emerge, they may well make it clearer why Israel has to continue its ground assault into Rafiah and just how intertwined Hamas and the civilian Gazan community are.

Already today the news of this brilliantly planned, coordinated and executed operation has raised spirits here in Israel. It will be very interesting to see whether the fact of this rescue will lead the families of the remaining abductees to reassess their opinion of the authorities, and their scepticism about how highly the government ranks the safe return of all the hostages. It is just possible that the events of last night may lead to a softening of positions and be a move towards the healing of a rift that we really do not need now.

Just Numbers…and Unjust Numbers

In the heart-wrenching reality that is this war, these two ‘reclaimed’ lives were tragically balanced by the announcement this morning of the names of two more soldiers who died fighting in Khan Younis: Sgt. First Class Adi Eldor, 21, from Haifa and Sgt. First Class (res.) Alon Kleinman, 21, from Tel Aviv. May their memory be for a blessing.

As we reach 129 days since October 7, five more numbers:

123 – the number of abductees that have returned so far from Gaza;
134 – the number of abductees that have not yet returned from Gaza;
105 – the estimated number of abductees left alive in Gaza, and, consequently:
29 – the estimated number of dead abductees in Gaza, who were either abducted when already dead or who were killed or succumbed to their injuries or neglect in Gaza;
229 – the number of Israeli troops killed in the ground offensive in Gaza.

I don’t know what you do with those numbers, other than to remind yourself, every day, that every one in each of those numbers represents a human being, an entire world.

Week 18: Monday

A Humanitarian Crisis or Humanitarian Relief?

In the last couple of weeks, more than fifteen countries, including United States, Germany, Switzerland, Canada, Netherlands, United Kingdom, Italy, Australia, Finland, Japan and the European Union, have announced that they will be suspending their contributions to UNRWA after being made at least partly aware of the extent to which Hamas is embedded in the agency. These contributions represent about 60% of UNRWA’s funding.

The evidence has been hidden in plain sight for years: textbooks used in UNRWA schools (with their arithmetic exercises built on a narrative not of the number of apples Johnny has eaten, but the number of Israelis Mohammed has killed); videos of end-of-year plays staged by pupils in UNRWA schools, depicting terrorists murdering Israeli soldiers. It appears that the evidence Israel presented has compelled these governments to confront the truth: evidence of UNRWA staff in closed WhatsApp groups revelling in the news of the October 7 pogrom; evidence of a handful of UNRWA staff (including teachers in UNRWA schools) actively participating in the massacre.

There are many calls for these countries to reconsider. UNRWA, it is argued, represents the best agency for providing humanitarian aid to the civilian population. The evidence on the ground would suggest, rather, that UNRWA represents the agency by which Hamas ensures that little aid reaches the civilian population, thereby artificially stoking the humanitarian crisis and expropriating the bulk of the aid for its own use.

If UNRWA’s initially dismissive response to Israel’s accusations, and the evidence of arms caches and tunnel entrances located in UNRWA schools, and arms smuggled in UNRWA grain sacks, leads to a decision to cease funding UNRWA, perhaps UNHCR may be able to take over, and, finally, after 76 years and four generations, something may be done to alleviate the Palestinian refugee situation rather than perpetuating and nurturing it.

Iberian Reactions

Sadly, Spain has announced that it will continue to fund UNRWA and send an additional 3.5 million euros. The acting government of Portugal (Spain’s less wealthy neighbour) has similarly announced that it will send an additional one million euros.

Also last week, demonstrations in Porto against the rising housing costs included protestors waving banners and chanting slogans attacking the Jewish community of Porto. One sign read “Not Haifa and not Boavista, no to a Zionist capital”, referencing the Porto neighbourhood that houses a synagogue and a growing number of Jewish residents. Other signs called for “cleansing the world of Jews” and urged people “not to rent a house from Zionist murderers”.

Bernice and I are due to fly to Lisbon in another two weeks, to spend a month with the kids. It is certainly true that Penamacor is a very long way, geographically and geopolitiucally, from Porto, and I am confident that we will not encounter any unpleasantness on the streets. To be honest, outside of retailers, we don’t have much contact with the local population, beyond the occasional ‘Bom Dia’. However, this is yet another reminder of the way much of the world is going. (Or should that be ‘reverting’?)

The Theatre of the Absurd Part I: Pinter

On Saturday night, Bernice and I watched a National Theatre production of No Man’s Land, which is probably Harold Pinter’s lightest and least menacing play. We had never seen it before, although I was well aware that it premiered with John Gielgud and Ralph Richardson playing the two lead characters. In the revival we watched, the two leads were Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I can pay them no greater compliment than to say that I didn’t feel the absence of Gielgud and Richardson for a moment. These were spellbinding performances by two men, each of whom can command a stage without speaking.

Having seen Patrick Stewart as Henry IV in the 1970s, I have always felt that he ‘sold out’ when he boldly went where he didn’t oughter go, as Captain Picard in Star Trek. It was therefore a particular joy to see him on stage. I also suspect that his decades principally in front of the camera have made him less ‘theatrical’ in his delivery and stage presence, a characteristic that certainly lent itself here to a filmed performance of the stage play.

McKellen, it is fair to say, was more flamboyant, but this was certainly appropriate to the role he was playing. The balance between the two, and their generosity to each other on stage, was wonderful to watch.

At this point, I should probably make some apposite comments about the ‘meaning’ of the play. I am reluctant to admit that neither Bernice nor I has any clear idea what the play is about. Extraordinarily, the production was so polished, and all of the performances so riveting, that we didn’t actually mind being in the dark.

After we had discussed the play briefly, I googled some reviews, and was, to be honest, relieved to read Michael Billington, reviewing in The Guardian this production. He stressed how enigmatic the play is, and, after offering his own interpretation, concluded that “it is up to every spectator to make up their own mind.” Clearly (or perhaps less than clearly) it is a play about memory, about rivalry, about the threat of oblivion and the various strategies we use in our attempt to avoid it. It is also, let me say, a mesmerising piece of writing, elevated here by two bravura performances.

The Theatre of the Absurd Part II: Richard III and Oedipus

Here I pause, as I wonder just how to do this next extraordinary subject justice. Shakespeare Globe Theatre on London’s South Bank is staging a production of Richard III later this year. Richard is famously known for his deformity. (The recent discovery of what is now agreed beyond reasonable doubt to be his skeleton confirms that he suffered from curvature of the spine.)

Interestingly, the theatre’s artistic director has been cast to play the king, and this has caused an uproar, after a professionally trained actor with a disability, posted on X: “Why is an artistic director of any theatre hiring themselves to play the lead when it’s not their casting or lived experience? Before anyone says it doesn’t matter, every time this happens more harm than good is done to disabled communities through misrepresentation.”

Let me first attempt to put this statement in context. In recent years, at least two English theatre companies, and one Australian, have cast disabled actors as Richard. (Unfortunately, I do not know whether all three actors suffer from scoliosis – Richard’s specific condition – or other disabilities.) At the same time, at least two major productions have starred non-disabled actors.

I feel I should tread carefully here. Not being disabled, I am perhaps not really entitled to talk about this topic. However, it does seem to me that this is a slippery slope. If only disabled actors can play disabled roles, because only they have the requisite ‘lived experience’, then perhaps only blacks can play Othello, or, since Othello is a moor, perhaps only North Africans can play him. Or, given that Othello has risen to a commanding position in the Venetian army, perhaps only Colin Powell can play him. Can only Jews play Shylock? Can only gay actors play gay parts?

And, if this is so, then presumably only straight actors can play straight parts, and only white actors can play white parts. It is usually at this point that the second purpose of this campaign is articulated. The disabled acting community is under-represented onstage. Disabled roles should be reserved for disabled actors as a form of positive discrimination, to redress an unjust imbalance. In the same way, black roles should be reserved for black actors.

Oedipus, of course, poses a particularly tricky challenge, since he blinds himself midway through Sophocles’ tragedy. Perhaps he needs to be played by a sighted actor before the blinding, and a blind actor afterwards.

You may have detected a certain tetchiness in my tone over the last paragraphs. This is brought on by my clearly unfashionable belief that the essence of acting is the ability to imagine an experience that is not one’s own lived experience. This is the magic, the alchemy, of acting. Rock Hudon convinced us that he was sexually attracted to Doris Day just as successfully as Anthony Hopkins convinced us that he enjoyed eating human flesh. John Hurt in Elephant Man, Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man…

Oh, this is ridiculous! Almost any actor you have ever seen, playing any part you have ever seen them playing, convinces by imagination and empathy, not by identical experience. Through that remarkable alchemy, a successful performance allows the audience to feel the emotion, and share the lived experience, as well. Somewhere in there is, perhaps, as good a definition as any of art.

The logical consequence of believing that only a disabled actor can portray a disabled character, because only a disabled actor has the lived experience, is that only a disabled theatregoer can identify with a disabled character, because only a disabled theatregoer has the lived experience. Theatre is, in that case, both unnecessary and ineffective. (I happen to believe that isn’t the case.)

Not the least absurd part of this whole argument about the Globe’s casting is that scoliosis is arguably not the only, and possibly not even the most blatant, of the casting director’s perceived inappropriatenesses to play the role. This particular casting director is not, I have it on good authority, a murderer of inconvenient nephews, nor is she, as it happens, a man. However, in modern Britain, nobody argues (at least not aloud) that Michelle Terry does not have the ‘lived experience’ to play a man.

Having watched Tamsin Greig play Malvolio in Twelfth Night, I can say that I find no compelling reason why a woman cannot play a part written for a man. I certainly enjoyed her performance, and the production. In a different way, the casting of black actor Lucian Msamati as Salieri in Amadeus made immediately apparent how isolated and out of place the Italian composer was in the cosy, German-speaking, Viennese court.

Inevitably, casting against the obvious externals of the part sets the audience thinking about any significance. I am not certain how far an audience (let me rephrase that: I am not certain how far I) can be colour-, gender-, height-, physical-attribute-blind. Perhaps, if the current practice continues of casting with no regard to these externals, we will all become blind to these externals. I can only hope to be watching theatre long enough to find out.

Photo Note: As I explained last week, I won’t be posting any more photos of the grandkids on this very public platform. However, a few of you have expressed a desire to continue seeing photos. I thought I might create a quiet WhatsApp group and send out photos every couple of weeks. If you’d like to be included, please WhatsApp me (+972-052-8651-591). Please mention your name, so that I know I’m confining the group to bona fide followers. Please don’t feel awkward if you feel no desire to see more photos of my grandchildren. I have no real desire to see photos of yours, so I quite understand.