“Torah study is a foundational value in the heritage of the Jewish people and the State of Israel.”

On the surface, this is not, you would have thought, a contentious statement. Yet life in Israel is lived on an iceberg: what is on the surface represents only a small percentage of the total mass.

This one terse statement is the final total wording of the pared-back Basic Law: Torah Study, passed this week in its second and third readings and now enshrined in law. Lacking a constitution, Israel’s legislators have, over the years, passed a number of basic laws – a classification that carries something of a constitutional status. Basic laws are intended to serve as guiding principles of government, and although their exact status is not clear, they have historically been treated within Israel’s judicial system as superseding other laws.

This week sees the Government scrambling to pass a slew of laws in what will be the last week of the sitting of the current Knesset, prior to its dissolution on July 17, in preparation for the campaign leading to the general election that is scheduled for October 27.

If you are nor abreast of political developments in Israel, you may be wondering why this apparently innocuous statement of the value of Torah study has been taking up such valuable Knesset time precisely now. The answer is simple: but the ramifications of that answer are profound.

This basic law represents the latest attempt by the haredi (ultra-Orthodox) political parties to ensure their community blanket exemption from national service. It simultaneously represents the latest attempt by Bibi Netanyahu to secure his continued leadership of the country by securing the continued support of the haredim.

I want this week to focus on the beliefs and actions of the haredim, rather than of Bibi. The Israel Defence Force, when calculating its needs, has always factored in an average of a month of annual reserve duty over a period of decades. However, this model has been sustainable only because Israel’s military campaigns have typically been short and sporadic. We are currently over 1000 days into this war, and the strain on the reservists, in terms of their family and work commitments, as well as emotionally and mentally, and on the country as a whole, has been, and continues to be, colossal. Understandably, there have been calls across Israeli society, including, this week, from the IDF commander in chief, for the haredi sector to share the burden.

The response from the haredim continues to be threefold. First, Torah study is a supreme value, such that haredim cannot take time away from it for any other purpose. Second, their Torah study has triggered divine protection of Israel as effective as the protection offered by the IDF. Third, the IDF is not structured in such a way that young haredi men can serve in it and preserve their haredi values.

I want to examine each of these arguments, and to ask whether they are valid, and what they tell us about the haredi community.

Taking the third argument first. The IDF has taken great steps to create an environment that threatens the haredi way of life as little as is possible, within the constraints of running a people’s army to stave off an existential threat. The solution the IDF offers is undoubtedly less than ideal. At the same time, this haredi position shows remarkably little confidence in the effect that 12 or more years of education within the haredi world have had on the resilience of young haredi men to resist the temptations of the outside world. John Milton put it best when he stated: “I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.”

Turning next to their first argument. It is clear from the classic Jewish sources, from the written Torah to the Oral Law to Rambam and beyond, that the purpose of Torah study is to equip the student to fulfil the mitzvot. The virtue does not lie in the study per se, but in its application in the student’s life. When we look at the mitzvot, we see the requirement to fight in a righteous war, we see the duty to help and protect others, we see the duty to shoulder societal responsibilities. Torah study that interferes with, or prevents, or comes at the expense of, carrying out these responsibilities is not Torah study for the sake of Heaven.

I turn finally to the second argument. The haredim ask the nation to believe that their Torah study has triggered divine protection of Israel as effective as the protection offered by the IDF. This is part of their professed belief that, for one who devotes his whole life to studying Torah, God will provide. They ask the nation to believe this, but their very actions demonstrates that they themselves do not believe it. Rather than spending their every waking moment studying Torah, many haredi rabbis form political parties, spend their days in the Knesset plenum and committees, call their students away from the study halls to demonstrate in the streets, overturn and set fire to rubbish bins and police vehicles, bring traffic to a standstill, in order to achieve their political ends and to provide for their material welfare.

If they believed what they ask the rest of the nation to believe, they would simply study and trust in God. Their very presence in the nation’s political life puts the lie to their preposterous, and profoundly unJewish, claim.

For the haredim, the sole purpose of the Basic Law: Torah Study is to ensure that haredim do not serve in the IDF. For Bibi, the sole purpose is to buy him more time as prime minister. The one ray of sunshine on this bleak prospect is my hope that enough Israeli citizens, and, specifically, enough Likud supporters, will be sufficiently disgusted, at this coalition abandonment of the reservists and other defence forces who have carried this country for almost three years, to vote for a change of government on October 27. We can only hope, because, if after the election we have more of the same, the future will look even bleaker than it does now.

I’m not in general a fan of slogan t-shirts, but I own two that I am fond of. The first, which I seem to remember I bought around the time of my 40^th birthday, reads: ‘So far, this is the oldest I have ever been.’ This is a sentiment that is newly true, and strangely uplifting, every time I put the shirt on. I am even considering being buried in it, having first crossed out the opening two words.

The second bears the slogan: ‘If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bulls**t’, a philosophy that, if my memory serves me correctly, has served me well for about 63 years.

As Tuesday comes round again, and I find myself sitting facing a blank screen, I am trying to harness the power of the message of that second t-shirt, because the subject I am juggling with this week is particularly challenging. I’m fairly confident that my readership this week (in fact, most weeks) falls into two groups: those who are passionately knowledgeable about the subject, and those who know nothing and care less about it. In each week’s post, I attempt to find a way to ignite the interest of the second group while bluffing my way through with the first group.

This week, that dual task presents an even bigger challenge than usual, because my subject is football (as Group 1 know it) or soccer (for the benefit of many of those in Group 2). What you need to know at this point is that I belong in Group 2. I don’t pretend to know how that happened. I grew up in a football family, in a football community, surrounded by friends who were football fans. I played as a child – never well but never embarrassingly badly; in pick-up games, I would be chosen by one or other captain around the halfway mark of the selection process. However, I was always much more interested in playing, or watching, tennis or cricket than football.

Yet here I am, about to talk football. Or not, possibly. If you are expecting me to write about the World Cup, then you will be disappointed. Instead, I’m writing about a four-part TV drama series, James Graham’s adaptation for the BBC of his stage play: Dear England.

I first need to give the (essentially factual) background to the story. [Group 1 can skip the next three paragraphs.]

In the Euro 1996 semifinals, England footballer Gareth Southgate missed the crucial sudden-death penalty, crashing England out of the tournament and cementing decades of national footballing anxiety. Twenty years later, Southgate is unexpectedly appointed as the caretaker manager of a deeply fractured, media-battered, and underperforming England squad. Recognizing that the team is crippled by a historical fear of failure and the weight of public expectation, Southgate introduces sports psychologist Pippa Grange. Together, they challenge the traditional, aggressive culture of the dressing room and encourage the young players to face their fears, keep emotional journals, and talk openly about their vulnerabilities. This new psychological framework frees the team, culminating in an unexpected, joyful run to the semifinals at the 2018 World Cup in Russia.

The second half of the narrative deals with the mounting pressure of success and the inevitable intrusion of the real world. Heading into the Euro 2020 tournament, the team has evolved into a powerful symbol of inclusive national unity. However, England loses the final at home on penalties, and the three young black players who missed their kicks are subjected to vicious racist abuse online.

The drama tracks Southgate and his squad navigating this cultural backlash, leading into the highly controversial 2022 World Cup in Qatar. The story ultimately reaches a thematic resolution during the tournament’s quarter-final exit. When captain Harry Kane misses a crucial penalty that knocks England out, he isn’t vilified by his teammates or left isolated on the pitch. Instead, the team instantly rallies around him, offering the immediate emotional support, protection and love that Southgate himself never received in 1996.

While the team does not bring home a literal trophy, the narrative concludes that Southgate successfully rewrote England’s toxic cultural script—proving that true strength is found in recognition of vulnerability, compassion, and collective resilience.

It is almost impossible to over-estimate the degree to which identifying with the England football team contributes to English national identity, or the degree to which obsession with the fortunes of the team dominates the British media. The title of the play and TV series is the salutation of an open letter that Southgate wrote to the nation and published in the sporting press after the racist backlash that followed the missed penalties in the 2020 Euros.

He wrote: “what I want to speak about today is much bigger than football… Our players are role models. And, beyond the confines of the pitch, we must recognise the impact they can have on society. We must give them the confidence to stand up for their teammates and the things that matter to them as people…Why would you choose to insult somebody for something as ridiculous as the colour of their skin?… When England play, there’s much more at stake than [the result]. It’s about how we conduct ourselves on and off the pitch, how we bring people together, how we inspire and unite, how we create memories that last beyond the 90 minutes. That last beyond the summer. That last forever.”

All of this made the Southgate story a powerful vehicle for playwright James Graham to explore English male identity. In addition, he recognised how the story “describes a perfect narrative arc”. Film critic Mark Kermode, reviewing the TV series, aptly described the story as “a redemption narrative straight out of Shakespeare.” At that level, the series is very self-assured, and works very powerfully, even with a seven-day pause between episodes. I can only imagine the dramatic thrust of a two-hour play on stage, with a single interval,

The obligatory disclaimer screened before each episode of the TV series read: “This is a fictionalised account of the struggles and successes of England’s football teams, based on extensive research and interviews. It features characters inspired by some real-life individuals, and some composite characters entirely imagined by the author. Throughout, dialogue has been imagined by the writer.”

At the same time, of course, the documentary nature of the drama is very heavily emphasised. Joseph Fiennes plays Southgate, with the benefit of prosthetic teeth and facial hair, Southgate’s signature waistcoat and an accurate impersonation of voice and mannerisms. It isn’t always easy to distinguish the performance from the interspliced archive footage. Footage both of actual play, particularly the sudden-death penalty shootouts, and of fan reactions, on the stands, in the pubs and on the streets, add to the documentary feel.

At other times, the TV drama feels a little theatrical: for example, when the three black players take their penalties (against a black backdrop), or when Southgate takes a phone call while walking in the forest, and the caller ‘arrives’ to conduct the conversation in person as they walk side-by-side. These moments are slightly jarring, both because TV is a much more literal medium than theatre and because the series strives to emphasise its documentary credentials.

I want to mention two other telling details from the series. The first is an encounter between Gareth Southgate and then British Prime Minister John Major outside the England dressing room immediately after Southgate’s missed penalty in 1996. While attempting, unconvincingly, to console Southgate, Major frames the moment not as an individual failure, but as the last act of a summer that united the nation. He then mistakenly addresses Southgate as ‘Gary’, rather then ‘Gareth’. Much as this seems like a brilliant dramatic invention by the playwright, emphasising how out of touch the English establishment was with the mood of the nation and how isolated Southgate truly was at that moment, contemporary accounts attest that Major did actually make this clumsy gaffe.

The second detail is that, as Southgate rebuilds his team in preparation for the 2022 World Cup, the names of the ‘sacked’ players and those who are making their debut are displayed on screen, together with their legacy number – a unique, chronological number assigned to a player based on the exact order in which they made their debut for England. It is initially surprising to realise that Harry Kane, for example, England’s current captain, is #1207. I would intuitively have expected there to have been far more England players since the first international match in 1872. This detail emphasised, for me, the extraordinary achievement that each individual player’s selection represents.

As Southgate himself wrote in his Dear England letter: “The journey to earn an England cap is an incredibly difficult one, regardless of background or circumstance. Only around 1,200 players have represented England at senior men’s level. Ever. It’s a profound privilege. Don’t forget, many of our lads started out at Football League clubs like Barnsley, MK Dons and Sheffield United. Their backgrounds are humble. For them to make it to this point as one of the chosen few in England’s history … well, it simply doesn’t happen without pride. This is a special group. Humble, proud and liberated in being their true selves.”

Without ever losing its relentless focus on Southgate the man, and his difficult but ultimately liberating journey from penalty failure to national achievement, the series has interesting things to say about the English nation, and young English men, in the 21^st Century. The individual players in Southgate’s England teams, and their cohesion or lack of it, are a microcosm of English society.

I have read accounts which suggest that, on stage, the play succeeded in giving theatregoers who were not football fans a sense of the passion, the community, the peaks and troughs of following a sporting journey unfolding before your eyes, while simultaneously giving football fans who were not afficionados of the theatre a sense of the passion, the community, the peaks and troughs of following a dramatic journey unfolding before your eyes. While that experience is unavoidably diluted on the small screen, I can attest that the drama succeeded in keeping not only me, but also Bernice, on the edge of our seats, and if you think I’m not a football fan then you should see Bernice!

If you’re in Group 2, and you’re still here, I’m flattered. If you’re in Group 1, and you’re still here, I’m stunned. I must find something a bit easier to tackle next week. Meanwhile, it is beginning to look suspiciously as though it might just be not entirely inconceivable – dare I say it – that it’s coming home.

The story so far: Having eventually managed to arrange an MRI for three days’ time, I discovered that, by mistake, the clerk had booked the wrong MRI – brain instead of prostate. Despite my best efforts, the institute’s bot refused to correct the error or connect me to a human being.

Spoiler alert. This story has not one, but two, happy endings, despite appearances on the way.

On Tuesday morning, the day before the scheduled MRI, I decided to try just once more to get past the bot, and phoned at a time that I thought it most likely there might be a human being around. ready to field more challenging enquiries. Having gone through the usual routine with the bot and hit the usual impasse, I asked it to connect me to a human agent. “Certainly,” was the reply. “Just a moment.”

Fortunately, the moment turned out to be long enough for me to recover from my total shock at having achieved the equivalent of reaching the next level of Minecraft (whatever that means). I don’t know if you have ever wondered how long it takes to play the enchanting opening movement of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. In case you have, I can tell you that it runs – at least in the passable version used as background waiting music by the institute – to about 5 minutes and 18 seconds. This means that, in 18 minutes, you can listen to it all the way through a bit less than three and a half times. I know this because it was after exactly 18 minutes of waiting that my phone call was cut off.

However, having got so tantalisingly close to speaking to an actual human being, and given that the version of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik chosen was more than bearable, if suffering a little from irregular tempi, I was certainly not going to give up now. I immediately called again, raced through the same script with the bot, was put on hold with Mozart again, and, a mere one and a quarter renditions of the first movement later, a woman’s voice interrupted, asking how she could help.

Pausing only to assure her that she could have no idea the extent to which the sound of her voice had brightened my day, I explained my dilemma. Completely unphased by my account (I wonder how regular an occurrence this is), she explained that she would just have to check the system online, and asked me to hold. The music this time was considerably lighter, and, I felt, interminable, although in fact it was less than two minutes that I was left clutching my phone, barely time for my knuckles to turn white, before my guardian angel was back on the line, telling me that the correction had already been made online, and I was indeed registered for a prostate MRI.

I can only assume that my email had been read and acted on, and that the person who acted on it had thought how much more fun it would be not to email me a reply updating me, but rather to leave me stewing.

I thanked the clerk profusely, and asked her to send me the correct protocol for how I needed to prepare for the MRI. This she did immediately, and, the following afternoon, I arrived at the institute with all my papers and my innards in order. The receptionist studied my papers, called up my details on her computer, and said:
“Why are you here?”
“For a prostate MRI.”
“But you’ve just done a prostate MRI, at our other building.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”.
“No, I haven’t. If you look at the date, you will see that it was last year, not this year.”
“Oh, yes.”

By this stage, I was starting to miss the bot.

However, the best was yet to come.
“This is an authorisation for a prostate MRI.”
“Yes.”
“We don’t do prostate MRIs here. I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”
“If a mistake has been made, then it isn’t me who’s made it. Your office contacted me and booked me in here today for a prostate MRI.”
“Wait over there. I’ll go and see whether they can carry out a prostate MRI exceptionally.”

So I waited over there, while the clerk went out, came back a few minutes later, checked some things on her computer, then started making phone calls to schedule future appointments.

About twenty minutes later, by which time it was only 15 minutes before my scheduled MRI time, I went up to the desk again and asked the clerk whether she had an answer for me. She looked at me as if she was having difficulty remembering exactly which stone I had crawled out from under.

“You’re having a prostate MRI, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” (This somehow didn’t feel like the right time for a more smart-aleck response.)
“Why are you waiting here? Go and wair in the waiting area through that door.”

I offer it as further evidence of my maturity that I silently turned and went and waited.

The MRI, once I was eventually called, went smoothly. The noise seemed marginally less strident and stressful than usual, the lighting slightly more subtle, and background piano music was provided that was just far enough on the saccharine-free side of Richard Clayderman to be soothing rather than aggravating.

There was, however, time for one more hiccough, for which I will take some responsibility. I had been required to put all of my metallic miscellania – ring, watch, piercings – in a locker, with a very hi-tech locking mechanism, for which I was given a smart card. After my 45 minutes inside the MRI tube, I walked into the labyrinth of inner rooms, found the locker room and attempted to open my locker. I remembered that mine was the middle locker, and was reassured to note that the coloured dot on the locker matched the green dot on my smart card. However, the locker door failed to respond. I eventually found a doctor, who tried and failed to open the locker. I could see that the lockers had an override socket, and asked the doctor whether he had a key for the socket. He explained that the technician with the key had just gone off-duty. He managed to call him back and the locker was opened, to reveal…somebody else’s metal items.

At this point, the doctor who had admitted me and issued me with a locker came in and pointed out that my locker room was on the other side of the corridor. When I eventually stood in front of my own locker, I was interested, but not, to be honest, surprised, to note that my green-dot card actually opened the blue-dot locker.

By the time all this was sorted out, my MRI disk had already been burnt, and so I was free to go, having been informed that I should receive the analysis of the MRI in a week: happy ending number 1.

In the event, the analysis arrived the following day. I sent it to my urologist, and Bernice and I then delivered the disk by hand to his secretary in Shaarei Zedek hospital. This was on Thursday afternoon, and he was in surgery at the time. On Monday morning, he phoned me to say that he and his colleagues had reviewed the analysis and the disk, and could see no suspicious developments since my last MRI, and nothing to warrant taking any further action. My prostate is still, for the moment, just one of the nooks and crannies of my body that some specialist or other is checking in on every so often: happy ending number 2.

Since I took this call while we were driving up to Zichron, we were in an excellent state to enjoy a wonderful afternoon with the family there.

May we all continue to hear only good news, and I promise not to give you another organ recital next week.