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.

Week 17, Monday

For those of you who have had enough of me writing about ‘the situation’, good news: so have I (at least temporarily). For those who want more, let me point you (not for the first time) to the man who, more than any other, makes me feel that anything I have to say is less thoroughly researched, less insightful, less well-expressed than anything he has to say. Daniel Gordis offers a substack (whatever that is) also available as a podcast, entitled Israel from the Inside.

Click the link in the previous paragraph to read all about it, and read it, and even subscribe to it. In normal times, it provides a fresh and wide-ranging dip into anything of interest culturally, socially, politically, academically, scientifically – anythingly really – in Israeli life. (Since October 7, it has, naturally, reflected Israel’s almost exclusive focus on current events.) Its own blurb states, accurately: ‘Israel from the Inside is for people who want to understand Israel with nuance, who believe that Israel is neither hopelessly flawed and illegitimate, nor beyond critique. If thoughtful analysis of Israel and its people interests you, welcome!’ While aimed primarily at American Jews, it is relevant and accessible to everyone, and I highly recommend it.

74 Today

It may have slipped under your radar that today (or yesterday, as it will be tomorrow when I send this out) is (or was) my 74^th birthday. I was planning to celebrate by sharing with you some fascinating facts about notable 74s. When I started researching (which is a rather grand term for Googling) 74s, I soon discovered that 74 is the number of different non-Hamiltonian polyhedra with a minimum number of vertices. This looked promising!

In a previous existence, when I was at college studying to become an English teacher, I was required to take a second subject. I opted for maths, having eliminated all of the options that didn’t appeal to me, and, as part of my coursework, I completed a project on regular polyhedra, which included building models from stiff card of all of the stellated regular polyhedral. (A polyhedron is stellated by extending the edges or face planes of the polyhedron until they meet again to form a new polyhedron or compound.) Here, for example, is a stellated dodecahedron.

 So, non-Hamiltonian polyhedra sounded promising. All that I was missing was the faintest idea of what the hell a non-Hamiltonian polyhedron was. A little further delving clarified the issue. Non-Hamiltonian polyhedra are polyhedra that are not Hamiltonian. Well, who would have thunk it!

All that I was now missing was the faintest idea of what the hell a Hamiltonian polyhedron was. A little further delving clarified the issue. A ‘Hamiltonian’, I learnt, is a function that is used to describe a dynamic system (such as the motion of a particle) in terms of components of momentum and coordinates of space and time and that is equal to the total energy of the system when time is not explicitly part of the function.

Not yet entirely daunted (although the amount of daunt I had left was rapidly shrinking), I felt my heart leap as I read the dictionary’s final laconic instruction: ‘Compare Lagrangian’. ‘Well, this looks promising’, I thought. Lagrange I did at least recognise as the name of an 18^th Century mathematician, The definition of ‘Lagrangian’, I discovered, is: ‘a function that describes the state of a dynamic system in terms of position coordinates and their time derivatives and that is equal to the difference between the potential energy and kinetic energy’.

Increasingly, in recent years, I find that there comes a point in some of my research where I realise that Google has a lot more in common with Hampton Court maze than is first apparent. I felt that I had reached that point, and decided to look for other, equally fascinating, but less abstruse, 74s.

So, how about this? What is the definition of a hurricane (or, indeed, a typhoon)? It is a system with sustained winds of at least 74 mph. How, you are doubtless asking, did they arrive at this precise number? The only explanation I can find is that this figure is chosen on the Beaufort scale because it ‘represents the point at which the storm’s wind speeds become strong enough to cause significant damage to property and pose a threat to human life. Even so, the decision to opt for 74 rather than the more rounded 75 seems bizarre. Converting to kph or even knots (119 and 64 respectively) sheds no further light on the puzzle. Another mystery of life unsolved.

My final, desperate attempt to find something interesting to say about 74 is this. A ‘seventy four’ was, so I gather, a third-rate warship with 74 guns. This definition aroused my interest. I found it difficult to imagine His Majesty’s Navy being so self-deprecating as to describe one of its models of warship as ‘third-rate’.

This was, of course, in the days before British warships bumped into each other, as happened nine days ago in a Bahrain port, when HMS Chiddingfold reversed into HMS Bangor, apparently creating a large hole in the unfortunately named Bangor’s hull. Rear Admiral Edward Ahlgren sounded, to be frank, less than reassuring when he stated that while a full and thorough investigation is conducted, “the UK will continue to play a key part in ensuring the safety of merchant shipping in the region.” It would be petty to point out that the Royal Navy appears to be unable to ensure the safety of even its own shipping.

But I digress! Back to those third-rate warships. In the rating system of the Royal Navy, a third rate was a ship of the line which from the 1720s mounted between 64 and 80 guns, typically built with two gun decks (thus the related term two-decker). A second rate had more guns and a third deck, while a first rate had even more guns, although no more decks. The Navy maintained a hierarchical system of six “ratings” in all, based on size and firepower.

Ironically, the third-rate warships proved to be what we would term ‘first-rate’, since they represented an excellent balance between firepower and sailing qualities. These third-rate warships formed the mainstay of most major fleets in Europe until well into the 19th Century.

So, the mystery remains of why we persist in regarding third-rate as reflecting a ranking of quality rather than being purely descriptive and not judgmental.

And that, dear reader, is about all of the most interesting stuff about 74, so you can imagine what the least interesting stuff is like! I have to say that, so far, 74, for me, doesn’t feel strikingly different from 73. Personally, I’ll certainly settle for more of the same as I enjoyed when I was 73. We are all, of course, wishing for a better year nationally, regionally and globally, but that’s another story that I’m trying not to think too much about for this one day at least.

Editor’s wife’s footnote: I’ve just realised why this post isn’t very satisfying. It’s not at all personal; there’s nothing of David in it.

Editor’s footnote: Bernice is, of course, right, as always. I promise to try harder next week, but it’s now 8:52 on Tuesday morning, so I’m cutting it a bit fine for a complete rewrite, even with my track record of finishing homework on the bus to school.

Wot? No Photos!?

Although I have been vaguely aware of deepfake for some time, an article in The Times one day last week made me much more conscious of deepfake’s invasive reach and ugliness. Apparently, facial images are being lifted from social media and faked onto actors’ bodies in pornographic and paedophile videos.

Over the day after we both read this article, Bernice and I each independently started thinking about this, and when Bernice suggested to me a day or two later that I should stop posting photos of our grandsons, I had already reached the same conclusion. To recognise that this is what the world has come to, and that there seems to be no concerted effort to find a way back, is a depressing thing to think about on your 74th birthday, but it is what it is.

Week 16: Monday

Can We Win the War, or Have We Already Lost It?

I don’t have much in the way of good news to share on the national front this week. Indeed, at this stage it is not easy to imagine what might constitute good news. As one week gives way to the next, the declared (indeed, originally proclaimed) aims of the war – to bring home the abductees and to eliminate Hamas – seem less and less realistic.

As someone wrote about an earlier round of fighting in Gaza: ‘The public invariably expects the government to continue the battle and “flatten Gaza,” believing that with enough punishment the Hamas regime would collapse. Yet that would only happen if we sent in the army. The casualties would mount: many hundreds on the Israeli side and many thousands on the Palestinian side. Did I really want to tie down the IDF in Gaza for years when we had to deal with Iran and a possible Syrian front? (The someone was Netanyahu, in his autobiography.) Is the country ready for the daily rollcall of fallen soldiers – on a good day, one; on a particularly bad day last week, nine – to continue for years?

Note: It’s now Tuesday morning. When I wrote that last sentence yesterday, my heart sank as I typed ‘nine’. When I came out of shul this morning and caught the news headline, I wept: since last night, 24 reservists have died. Of those 24, 21 were in the process of mining two buildings used by terrorists close to the border, in preparation for their demolition; the buildings suffered a direct hit from an RPG, which triggered the mines, and the buildings collapsed on the soldiers. Is the country ready for this to continue for years? On the other hand, do we have any option? May their memories be for a blessing, and may their deaths prove not to have been in vain.

As for the hostages, the feeling is growing that it is unlikely that they can be brought home. This is a feeling that was for some time unspoken, but now, tellingly, is being articulated in the media as well as on the street. A prominent radio pundit last week baldly stated that it is completely unrealistic to think in terms of an Entebbe-type military rescue. The conditions under which the abductees are undoubtedly being held, the alertness of their captors, and the complexity of the terrain in which they are being held, all confirm what he said.

As for negotiating their return, it now appears that Hamas is not interested in the release of security prisoners (which, if Netanyahu were to agree to it, would probably bring about the collapse of his coalition). Instead, they are looking for a protracted ceasefire – possibly over 50 days – with a staged release of all of the abductees in return for increased humanitarian aid,

These conditions would, of course, allow Hamas to regroup, repair and recruit. Resuming hostilities after such a break would be, for Israel, like starting from square one again, All of our fallen soldiers to that point would have died for nothing. Not resuming hostilities would, of course, make their sacrifice seem even emptier.

Add to all this the fact that a significant number of the abductees are probably already dead, with more liable to succumb with every week that passes. This horrible situation offers no glimmer of hope that I can see.

Meanwhile, on the Northern front, it can be convincingly argued that Hizbollah has already won the war that officially has not started. They have advanced from North of the Litani river (as per international agreement) to the very border with Israel. The buffer zone has now moved from Southern Lebanon to Northern Israel. With almost 100,000 Israelis evacuated from Northern Israel, and with no indication of when, if ever, they might feel able to return, Hizbollah has effectively taken territory from Israel to a depth of several kilometres south of the border.

Can We Start Again?

Before turning my attention to other matters, let me leave you with a flicker of better news. Like the first saplings emerging in a forest ravaged by fire, here and there are signs of a possible direction for Israel’s political future. I heard today on the radio of a grassroots initiative to create a dialogue between religious and secular elements in Israeli society to explore common ground in the hope of being able to agree on a shared vision for Israel. There are, from various directions, calls for entirely fresh faces to enter the political arena: leaders of industry, organisers of voluntary initiatives, social activists.

Meanwhile, on Another Planet…(It Sometimes Seems)

Every now and again some philistine argues that state education should focus on ‘real’ subjects (like sciences and maths), instead of wasting time on ‘soft’ subjects like music and art. This month, the power of the arts has been demonstrated resoundingly in Britain…and Zichron Ya’akov.

Let’s start with the big story. (Those of you who live in Britain can safely skip the next three paragraphs.)

Between 1999 and 2015 an estimated 4,000 branch owner-managers at the Post Office were accused of wrongdoing after faulty IT software showed errors in their accounts. Many were sacked, chased for money, or accused of crimes such as false accounting, fraud or theft. As many as 900 were prosecuted and 236 sent to prison. Others were ordered to pay back substantial sums, leaving them financially ruined. Some of the accused have died without clearing their names, at least four are known to have committed suicide and others have been shunned after being convicted.

Horizon was the largest non-military IT system in the world in operation at the time and had been designed to deal with transactions, accounting and stock taking. It covered each of the 20,000 Post Office branches in the UK. From early on, many workers continually reported bugs in the system, with unexplained shortfalls in their accounts, but these were ignored. The Post Office allowed many of these workers to think they were the only one reporting faults.

In 2009, after being contacted by seven postmasters, the website Computer Weekly ran an article detailing their struggles with the system. It led to the formation of a campaign group, the Justice for Subpostmasters Alliance (JFSA), which began talking to MPs and fighting in the courts. Eventually, the High Court ruled that there were IT problems in the system, the Post Office apologised for the suffering caused, 10% of convictions were quashed and, in 2021, a full public inquiry was initiated.

However, all of this was much too little, and, for many involved, much too late. Despite the very real concerns being in the public domain, the powers-that-be seemed to still be wishing the story would go away, and stalling.

Then, in the first week of January this year, the mainstream TV station ITV aired a four-part dramatization of the postmasters’ struggle for justice, with the title Mr Bates vs The Post Office. Overnight, this changed the entire status of this story. Within days, the Government announced that a new law would be passed “within weeks” to achieve a blanket overturning of convictions, the former Post Office boss returned her CBE (a middle-order rank within the British Honours system), and the public outcry generated new interest in the case on the part of the police, the public inquiry and the press.

There is a long tradition of British television drama exposing injustices. The first prominent example is probably Cathy Come Home, which was a 1966 BBC television play about homelessness, unemployment, and a mother’s right to keep her children, topics that were not until then widely discussed in the media. The play produced a storm of phone calls to the BBC, and discussion in Parliament. For years afterwards Carol White (who played Cathy) was stopped in the street by people pressing money into her hand, convinced she must be actually homeless.

In 1990, the TV film Who Bombed Birmingham raised serious doubts as to the guilt of the Birmingham Six, six Irishmen who had been sentenced to life in prison in 1975 after two IRA bombs went off at pubs in Birmingham, killing 21 people.  The film led to their subsequent release after 17 years of wrongful imprisonment. The film discredited the government’s most prominent forensic investigator and went as far as identifying the actual culprits.

Cathy Come Home was watched on its first broadcast by 12 million people, a quarter of the British population. In 1966, when Britain had only two television channels, such an audience size was impressive, but understandable. In 2024, the British public’s home viewing options seem almost infinite. The average viewing figures across the four episodes of Mr Bates vs The Post Office, of over 9.8 million, are therefore arguably even more impressive.

The question I have been asking myself is: How is it that a dramatization that presented no new facts, that did not, essentially, tell the public anything that they did not already know, succeeded in igniting a nation in this way? The answer, it seems to me, is that the sheer scale of the impact of this miscarriage of justice made it more difficult for people to conceptualise. Mr Bates vs The Post Office, as the title suggests, personalised the story. It focussed on an individual story (that of one victim, Jo Hamilton, and one – albeit the central – campaigner, Alan Bates) that served to represent the total picture.

This is, of course, part of the magic of drama: its ability to capture the universal in the particular. Viewers were able to identify with the plight of one victim and extrapolate from that, in a way that the story as reported in the media had failed to make them do.

At a time when funding of the arts in general is under attack in Britain and Israel, this month has given us a timely reminder that a healthy democracy needs a thriving and independent art culture, not least to ensure that stories that need to be heard are heard.

And Closer to Home

On a not dissimilar note, Raphael’s fancy has been taken in recent weeks by a charming book entitled What’s Cooking at 10 Market Street. Each flat in the eponymous brownstone is occupied by a family with a different ethnic cuisine, and each double page of the book visits one family to see what they are cooking, and includes a recipe. Raphael, who, it’s fair to say, is fascinated by food preparation, adores the book. Here is the double-spread devoted to the Pings, and their stir-fried broccoli.

Under the influence of this book, Raphael is now a great fan of broccoli. Such, dear reader, is the power of art.

Meanwhile, Tao seems to be fascinated by a very grand-looking cake at a friend’s recent birthday party, Ollie continues to find the world a really fun place, and Raphael really enjoys his new sponge paints.

Week 15: Monday

Yesterday marked 100 days, a figure which not only resonated here in Israel, obviously, but which also echoed worldwide, in a variety of ways. Most notably in Turkey, perhaps, where Sagiv Yehezkel, an Israeli footballer playing for local team Antalyaspor, dedicated to the hostages a goal he scored, displaying on a bandage on his hand the inked message ‘100 days 7.10.’ As a consequence, he was suspended by his team and detained by the police for questioning with regard to a possible charge of incitement against the state. We have just heard that he has been released by the police and is expected to be expelled from the country. (Update: he has landed safely back home.)

In South Africa, the Jewish captain of the national under-19 cricket team was relieved of the captaincy on the eve of the Cricket World Cup being hosted by South Africa ‘for fear of endangering his safety in the face of expected pro-Palestinian protests at the event’.

In Mauritania, the exhibition that an artist friend of ours was invited to make, after travelling in West Africa and painting what she saw, has been cancelled for fear of antisemitic and anti-Israeli demonstrations and a real worry that the gallery would be burned down if it displayed non-political paintings of West African scenes by an Israeli artist.

And, of course, in The Hague, the International Court of Justice is trying Israel for genocide. Israel agreeing to this Orwellian trial is either a very smart or a very stupid move.

The statement from the German Government spokesman, when discussing his country’s request for third-party status at the hearing, was very encouraging: “In light of German history and the crimes against humanity of the Shoah, the German government is particularly committed to the [UN] Genocide Convention…We stand firmly against a political instrumentalization [of the Convention]… The German government decisively and expressly rejects the accusation of genocide brought against Israel before the International Court of Justice.”

David Cameron, Britain’s Foreign Secretary, when asked whether he thought Israel has a case to answer in the ICJ, stated: “No, I absolutely don’t. I think the South African action is wrong, I take the view that Israel is acting in self-defence after the appalling attack on October 7… To say that that country, that leadership, that armed forces…have intent to commit genocide, I think that is nonsense.

The US has stated that the allegations against Israel “are unfounded” and has called the submission at the ICJ “meritless, counterproductive, and completely without any basis in fact whatsoever.”

So far, so good. Naturally, the hearing also gives Israel an opportunity to make its case before a world audience that may find it difficult to ignore that case. While many of the ears Israel’s presentation of its case falls on will doubtless be deaf, there may be others that are prepared to listen.

The make-up of the justices hearing the case suggests that South Africa’s claim may even be rejected. While the judges do not represent their governments but are independent magistrates, nobody is under any illusions that Iran and its axis of evil partners will be swayed by Israel’s arguments. However, among the nationalities of the judges are several whose governments are not irrevocably hostile to Israel.

The 15 permanent judges hail from Australia, Brazil, China, France, Germany, India, Jamaica, Japan, Lebanon, Morocco, Russia, Slovakia, Somalia, Uganda, and the United States. In addition, the parties to the hearing (South Africa and Israel) are each allowed to nominate a judge. It is not impossible to imagine a scenario where that panel votes 8-7 to reject the South African claim of genocide.

As I remarked to Bernice the other day, either the claim is rejected, which will be a good thing, or we will have an even clearer understanding of who our enemies are, which will be a good thing.

Meanwhile, in today’s (Monday’s) Jerusalem Post, Senior Editor David Brinn makes the excellent point that the slogan ‘Bring Them Home Now’ implies that the obstacle to the return of the hostages is our government or our army. Of course, this is not true. “The enemy is Hamas, and they would like nothing more than for the internal struggles that gripped Israel before October 7 to reemerge as a dominant force, with blame replacing unity as the primary fuel running the country… Hamas…could spare their people unimaginable suffering by simply doing one thing:” releasing the hostages. That, argues Brinn, needs to be the slogan going forward. Let us call on Hamas to ‘Let Our People Go!’ He makes a lot of sense.

Happy Talky Talky

After due reflection, we have come to the conclusion that we are a family for whom language matters, and one of the joys of this visit has been observing the language skills of all three of the boys.

Tao has spent most of his first four years with his parents, both of whom – Micha’el in English, Tslil in Hebrew – have avoided talking childishly to him. He also seems to have inherited his parents’ relish for language and his father’s ear. As a result, his command of English is very impressive. This obviously includes a mature vocabulary, but also an ear for accents.

Exposure to American children’s videos means that for his own imaginative play, when he is pretending to be a super-hero (or, more often, a super-villain such as the Green Goblin or Dr Spooky), he speaks in a pretty convincing American accent and register. In addition, when he combines his language skills with his considerable negotiating skills, he is often able to persuade his parents to see his point of view on issues such as bedtime or food treats.

Tao’s Hebrew is not as strong as his English. Although Tslil is very disciplined about always speaking to him in Hebrew, he usually answers her in English. One considerable side-benefit for Tao of his visits to Israel is that his interactions with his mother’s family, and with children of friends, help his fluency and confidence in Hebrew.

While his Portuguese is currently very much his third language, this is something that will, naturally, become stronger in the years to come.

Ollie, on the other hand, gets by at the moment with basically one sound: the schwa. (This is the sound of the second ‘a’ in ‘America’ or the ‘e’ in ‘item’.) Remarkably, Ollie can use this single sound, in combination with a set of hand signals, head movements, and body postures, to convey almost anything he wants to express.

While he usually only verbalises this one sound, there is nothing that Ollie does not understand. Indeed, the gap between his listening comprehension and his spoken expression sometimes seems ridiculously large. However, Bernice keeps reminding me that Micha’el did not speak until he was almost three (since when, of course, he hasn’t stopped).

What is slightly surprising, given his current limited range of speech, is that Ollie is quick to mimic, and has a good ear for mimicking, sounds that he hears. His animal sounds are very good; he quickly copied my tongue-clicking when I was imitating a horse’s clippety-clop; he adopted his brother’s raspberry blowing depressingly quickly; and, when Tao blew through a long tube and produced a note something like that from a shofar, Ollie immediately reproduced a remarkably similar sound without any tube or other artificial aid.

On our weekly visits to Zichron, we of course have the opportunity to see Raphael’s progress, in language acquisition. Like Ollie, he understands everything, and, unlike Ollie, he has a rapidly-growing vocabulary. While he very much favoured English until a couple of months ago, the influence of his gan has brought his Hebrew on tremendously (not least with such phrases as “בא לי” (I’d like…) or even, occasionally, “לא בא לי” (“Don’t want to). Paradoxically, what was always “מים” has now, for some reason, become “water”. He has also now graduated from a generic term that covered both Esther and Maayan to referring to Esther exclusively as “Mummy” and Maayan exclusively as “אמא” (Ima).

In addition, Raphael is now moving from single word statements to two- and three-word sentences, which he does not really appear to find quite as exciting a development as I do. Indeed, rather like his, and Ollie’s, ever-advancing walking skills, he seems to take it all in his stride.

As always, to spend any time with young children is to stand in awe of how they achieve what they achieve, at what speed, and with what apparent lack of effort.

A House Full of Action…and Then It Wasn’t

From Shabbat afternoon until Sunday morning, we had a houseful. Esther, Maayan and Raphael arrived to join Micha’el, Tslil, Tao and Ollie for a last overnighter. What a joy to see the three cousins interacting!

Then on Motzei Shabbat we had all the adult extended family round to see our lot, and for us to celebrate, very belatedly, Esther’s 40^th birthday. Uncharacteristically for us, the evening was marked by no formality: no speeches, no music, no presentations; just an opportunity for everyone to catch up and make a fuss of the three boys, all of whom stayed up and sociable way past their normal bedtimes.

The following morning, the kids somehow managed to keep the grandkids away from Nana until 8:30. When they could contain them no longer, they erupted into our bedroom, and we were soon up and into action. After Esther and family left mid-morning, Bernice and I spent the rest of the day with Tao and Ollie, while Micha’el and Tslil somehow managed to condense all of their varieties of stuff, including the many gifts the boys had been given by generous family and friends, into their cases and rucksacks.

This morning, after a last breakfast, and games, and stories, and one last puppet show from Nana (with Zippy – a shout-out to all the Rainbow fans among my readers), the taxi arrived at 9:45 and suddenly we were, once again, two old fogies banging around our suddenly huge house.

Games, toys, books, trikes, baby chairs, floormats, kids’ table and chair were all stowed away in record time. Birthday banners and balloons were taken down; floors were swept; kinetic sand was cleaned from Lego cars; marbles were retrieved from under sofas; the extraordinarily loud and aggravating battery-operated noise-maker toy that Micha’el and Tslil conveniently omitted to pack was discreetly disposed of. Finally, Bernice and I sat down to a quiet and leisurely breakfast.

…and in five weeks we fly off to Portugal.

Meanwhile, some photos, including a rare one of all three boys together (at Esther’s last week).

Week 14: Monday

A number of you (mostly from outside Israel) have written to me in the last couple of weeks, expressing appreciation for my reflections on ‘the situation’. Thank you for that support. While I actually want to write about a couple of entirely different things today, let me start by briefly reflecting on the state we are currently in.

Plenty of Whats, but Precious Few Hows

Discussion in the corridors of power, in the media and on the street is increasingly about ‘the day after’. This phrase is, I fear, deliberately vague, because everyone is increasingly reluctant to articulate exactly what marks the day before the day after. The official talk is of the aims of the war being the complete destruction of Hamas’s capability and the return of the abductees. However, exactly how we achieve either of those aims is far from clear.

Will anything less than the killing of all 30,000(?) Hamas operatives completely destroy Hamas’s capability? Tzahal claims to have successfully destroyed Hamas as an organised fighting force in northern Gaza. I very much doubt that that is the same as completely destroying its capability. What Tzahal has achieved to date, remarkable as it is both in its success and in its minimisation of civilian casualties, looks like little more than kicking the can down the road. Further down the road than previously, certainly; but, nevertheless…

(Let me put that ‘minimisation’ into context. Yesterday, the Gazan Health Ministry reported that at least 22,835 Gazans have been killed in the war. Israel reported that about 8,500 Hamas fighters have been killed. This represents a ratio of 1.7 civilian deaths for each terrorist death, in a war fought against terrorists embedded among and shielding themselves with a civilian population. This ratio is unprecedentedly low in the history of warfare.)

As for ‘bringing the abductees home’, everybody agrees that this is an aim; but how is it to be achieved? “They ‘must’ come home before 100 days are up” is the latest mantra, but it is a mantra without teeth. The sad fact is that, when you are fighting an organisation like Hamas, there are no pressures that you can put on them to force their hand.

The only thing we could offer them is an immediate end to the war and the release of security prisoners. As Hamas has made clear, this would be the equivalent of offering them the opportunity to prepare for a repeat of October 7 in another couple of years. Nothing else that we could offer Hamas (in other words, nothing that we would be prepared to offer) would be more valuable to them than witnessing the agony that their continued torture of the abductees inflicts on Israel.

The Histadrut (National Trade Union) has declared a 100-minute national strike on the 100^th day (January 14) to support the families of the hostages. I may be a cynic, but I fail to see how a national strike supports the families. I would have thought that a more meaningful gesture than damaging the economy and adversely affecting the functioning of Israel’s public life would have been volunteering to work an extra 100 minutes on that day. They could use this extra time to advance such initiatives as the payment of grants to businesses crippled by the war, and the provision of practical and emotional support for displaced families.

The entire Jerusalem Post magazine section last Friday was devoted to ‘the day after’, but, again, it was full of whats and almost empty of hows. Yes, a framework for Gaza has to be found where terrorism is no longer taught in the schools, but how? Yes, Gaza has to be rebuilt and its economy established and grown, while ensuring that no resources are taken to rebuild a terrorist infrastructure, but how? Yes, ‘the world’ has to take some responsibility for the policing and the nurturing of Gaza, but how?

Stating the whats when there are no hows to be found is, sadly, little more than mouthing political slogans, whether it is the Prime Minister or the man in the street making the statement. We are in Week 14, but the day before the day after looks no clearer and no nearer. The Chief of Staff stated yesterday during an assessment of the situation: “The year 2024 will be challenging. We will be at war in Gaza. We will be fighting in Gaza for the entire year.”

And so to matters less heart-wrenching, but no less important to me.

In the Eye of the Beholder

A week and a half ago, I took Tao to ‘the circus’. This was billed as a Ukrainian circus appearing on the stage of our local cultural centre in Maale Adumim in a performance dedicated to the memory of a local soldier who had been killed in Gaza. Quite apart from being on the side of justice in two current armed conflicts, and involving no animal acts, we thought that this was something Tao would really enjoy, and I would just about be able to tolerate.

In the event, the noise from the audience was far less than I had feared. Indeed, I could hardly hear the audience of children. Sadly, this was because the volume of the music that played throughout the performance was deafening. Tao didn’t make many comments during the performance, but I was unable to hear any of the few he did make.

The performance was very interesting, not least because of the difference between Tao’s experience and mine. What I watched was a rather sad affair: two Ukrainian circus people – a man and a woman – had been brought over, and augmented by half-a-dozen Israeli amateur gymnasts.

The Ukrainian woman performed a fairly good act balancing on a growing tower of chairs (although she failed to conceal the fact that each chair solidly locked into the one below it, rendering the act considerably less death-defying). She followed this with a graceful act balancing and spiralling on a silk skein suspended from the stage flies. The Ukrainian man performed a very good high-wire act, executing a perfect back somersault, and crossing the wire with his partner on his shoulders.

Apart from that, there was an inordinate amount of strutting and posturing by the Israelis, a few floor exercises, some bouncing on giant tyres and on Oscar-Pistorius-inspired blades attached to their ankles, and some general padding out of the afternoon.

Woven less than artfully around these acts, and ostensibly holding them together, was a devilish plot. A personification of evil (who provided the comic relief), was battling the rest of the cast (who, in a very demanding suspension of disbelief, we were required to believe were superheroes) for world supremacy. The villain’s avowed aim was to destroy the world, which would mean the elimination of fun and happiness but also, as he fiendishly pointed out, the elimination of school.

At the end of the performance, the superheroes were triumphant, trapping the villain in a net and hoisting him above the stage until he repented his evil ways, and left the audience with a message to spread love and joy.

While I was marvelling at the amateurishness of all this, Tao was never less than absorbed and more than once spellbound. At some point I decided to stop watching the action on stage and instead watch Tao. I then got much more out of the show, with the result that we both had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. As a bonus, by the time we returned home, I had almost completely regained my hearing.

I was a little surprised that the performance included an intermission, until I realised that this was just a marketing ploy. The foyer of the cultural centre was given over to the sale of merchandise. On offer were water guns, equipped with laser sights and looking chillingly realistic. Of course, in a country where every child at the moment sees assault rifles in their homes, streets, shopping malls and synagogues, authenticity is significant. Well, I had no intention of buying an assault rifle, even a water-firing one. So we kept looking.

Also on offer were rotor hand-held fans, laser-pointers and suchlike, all looking rather tatty and all on the theme of Santa Claus. Well, I had no intention of buying any of that, either. So we kept looking. Tao, I have to say, was very patient and accepted without any fuss that we weren’t buying anything we had seen so far.

It was at this point that we discovered a small pile of bubble-blowing guns. The downside was that they required a battery and played music. The upside was that the volume of the music was soft, and each gun came with not one but two bottles of bubble-mixture. Fortunately, Tao thought a bubble-blowing gun was a wonderful idea as well; the price was a half of what I had expected, and so we made our purchase.

Sadly, once we were home, Tao demonstrated that, in the imagination of a four-year-old, a rainbow-coloured bubble gun can be conjured into being as destructive as any far more realistic assault rifle. Still, once his parents had insisted that the slipperiness of the bubble-mixture spill meant that this was an outdoor toy, we were all well satisfied.

While Tao was at live theatre, Ollie was engaged in a puppet show, and Raphael was learning all about the seasons at gan.

Week 13: Sunday

I was just reflecting on the fact that it no longer seems practical to measure the passage of the war in days. This, in itself, is unusual for Israel when marking the passage of time during wars, but, as we approach the three-month mark, nothing points to a conclusion being reached any time soon. Today’s local news seems to be probing this passage of time from any number of directions.

First, the Government today decided to further postpone the local and municipal elections from the end of January to the end of February. With large numbers of candidates for mayor and for council seats currently serving in the forces, and with potentially many more than a hundred thousand reservist voters still serving on January 31, it is widely felt that a fair election campaign, and a large and informed voter turnout, would prove impossible.

In addition, the academic year in higher education officially began today, having already been postponed. It is impossible to see how the close to 30% of students who are currently serving in the forces can be expected to make up the time they will inevitably lose; even if remote-learning and other provisions are made, it is unrealistic to expect women and men fighting a war to be able to give any thought to their academic studies. On the other hand, the country cannot afford economically to ‘lose’ an entire academic year’s cohort. There is, I fear, no fair and practical solution.

Meanwhile, the fragile coalition seems to be showing signs of cracking over, among other things, the issue of whether the question of what ‘the day after’ looks like is a ‘military’ question for the smaller war cabinet that includes representatives of parties that have joined the Government for the period of the war, or a ‘civil’ question for the larger security cabinet that includes the Likud’s right-wing partners in the Government.

These issues are, of course, playing out against the background of hundreds of thousands still displaced and with no prospect of returning to their homes in the coming weeks, with all of the domestic and national emotional and economic strain that this brings.

And above and beyond all of this is the still horrifyingly large number of abductees and prisoners of war held in Gaza, whose release seems no nearer this week than last.

Surrounded by all of this, with an extraordinary dissonance that I am finding it almost impossible to cope with, we have been enjoying the first week of Micha’el and the family staying with us. They arrived in the small hours of Sunday night, and after a day and a half Esther and the family came for a couple of days. Rather than attempt to write at length about my very mixed thoughts and feelings in this most surreal of weeks, I thought I would leave you this week with a photo montage.

Day 79: Sunday

Two of my readers last week asked me to drop them from the list of recipients, because “What started out as an interesting blog posting highlights of Michael’s experiences in a new country has now become political …. the news is distressing enough without adding to it.” I’m not sure that ‘political’ is the word that I would choose for what these posts have largely been over the last couple of months, but that is nit-picking. I accept the charge by-and-large, and it has set me musing about this whole blogging business, not for the first time.

The fact is, of course, that Penamacorrespondent has not been an accurate title for a very long time now, and the blurb on the Background page of the blog, proclaiming that ‘This blog is the story of our retirement adventure’ is only intermittently accurate. The simple truth is that this blog is a distillation of whatever swims most powerfully into my head in the twenty minutes after I sit down at the laptop on a Sunday or Monday every week. There have been weeks when I knew what I wanted to write about well in advance. Some of those have been recent weeks, and others have been weeks when we actually were in Portugal. However, more often than not, I start writing and hope that a theme will emerge. This is, as you may have suspected, starting to feel like one of those weeks. It’s not that the war is any less real or immediate, but rather that I do not feel that this is a week where there were dramatic developments on any front. I don’t feel I have anything new to add to the debate.

For us personally, it’s been a funny old week. Bernice has been opening more and more doors of her own personal Advent calendar. I’d better explain that quickly.

Micha’el, Tslil, Tao and Ollie should be arriving on our doorstep, God willing, around 4:00AM Monday morning, for a three-week stay. (Don’t worry – I’ll update you at the end of this post.) So, we have been excitedly counting down to December 25. For Bernice, rather than the calm before the storm, this has meant a co-ordinated campaign, mapped out meticulously in a series of to-do lists strategically deposited around the kitchen; a campaign of borrowing mattresses, bimbas (which are ride-on toys – we have to have at least two, and preferably three – to avoid tensions when Raphael joins us), high-chairs and so on; buying the one or two items of toddler and child equipment we haven’t yet acquired; organizing the children’s books; finding increasingly fiendish hiding places for the presents; cleaning bedrooms, washing windows, making up beds; leafing through menus; stocking up on nappies, favoured snacks and suchlike.

I cunningly managed to avoid almost all of this heavy lifting, by scheduling to give a talk in shul on Shabbat eight days ago and a talk to the local English-speaking seniors group last Tuesday. This meant that I was locked in the office researching, creating a PowerPoint presentation and polishing my notes until Tuesday. I conveniently came down with a cold then, which has actually become quite chesty, so I have been severely restricted. I did manage, on Wednesday and Thursday, to lay down supplies of my baking that would, in other circumstances, see Bernice and myself through the winter. If I’m lucky, they may last the expanded family a week: granola, rye bread with caraway seeds, platzels and beigels, seeded spelt-flour crackers.

This Shabbat I made it to shul on Friday evening, and we actually had two couples as guests for dinner. The attraction of a winter Shabbat Friday night is that you can chat for a while before dinner, eat a very leisurely meal, shmooze for hours afterwards, and then discover, when your guests leave, that it’s still only 9:30. I felt very congested through Friday night, and slept on some four-and-a-half hours later than usual on Shabbat morning. It’s fair to say that Bernice and I both spent Shabbat recharging our batteries. Today, not wanting to risk infecting Raphael, who has his own catalogue of childhood ailments without my help, thank you very much, I have stayed at home, leaving Bernice to spend the day in Zichron and explain to a devastated Raphael why Grandpa is not there. At least, we anticipated he might be devastated. Since it is now three hours after Bernice collected him from gan and he still hasn’t asked to video call me, I’m guessing maybe he’s putting on a brave face.

In Bernice’s absence, I spent the morning adding to our digital photoframe all of the pictures from the last 14 months, having been talking for the last few weeks about how under-represented Ollie is on the display, and how he is sure to be really upset by that. With any luck, he won’t read this post, and will never know how last-minute the redressing of the balance was.

And so, without even a feeble attempt at any kind of segue, to today’s trivia question. Who wrote the classic horror story The Monkey’s Paw? If you answered ‘Edgar Allan Poe’, you can give yourself a bonus point…but only because you fell into my trap and gave the wrong answer. The correct answer is ‘W W Jacobs’. (If it’s not Poe, it’s always Jacobs.) The real question is: Why do so many of us mistakenly attribute it to Poe? I know that I did, and at least two friends who I regard as men with impeccable educational and cultural credentials did as well, so what is going on here?

I spent a little time sniffing around online and discovered the following. First, Barnes & Noble, who, one would have hoped, know something about literature, have an excellent page advertising for sale an eBook of a radio script of the story, in which the text is headed ‘The Monkey’s Paw, by Edgar Allan Poe, Dennis Rhodus (created by)’ which doesn’t seem to me to be very coherent, but actually means that Rhodus ‘created’ the radio script. This text stands opposite a facsimile of the book cover, which proudly proclaims: ‘The Monkey’s Paw by W W Jacobs’.

Next, Amazon offers a Modern Library edition of an anthology entitled: ‘The Raven and The Monkey’s Paw: Classics of Horror and Suspense.’ The first author listed is Poe, which might lead to confusion.

It is ironic that this story, which is far and away Jacobs’ best-known work, should be misattributed by, I suspect, so many, to Poe, whose prolific work is so well-known that he would scarcely notice one story more or less. It hardly seems fair.

Jacobs’ other claim to fame is that he was a jury member in the mock trial of John Jasper for the murder of Edwin Drood, the character in Dickens’ last and unfinished novel The Mystery of Edwin Drood. This was something of a celebrity mock trial, organized by the Dickens Fellowship and held in the Covent Garden Assize Court in London in 1914, with G K Chesterton presiding as the judge, and George Bernard Shaw acting as foreman of the jury. As I was tumbling down the Google rabbit-hole of this story, I noticed, incidentally, that the charge sheet states: “John Jasper, feloniously, wilfully, and of his malice aforethought did kill and murder one EDWIN DROOD on the 24^th day of December in the year…one thousand eight hundred and sixty.”

I cannot help observing that I am writing these words exactly 163 years after this murder took place, to the very day! I find that coincidence no less remarkable for the fact that the murder didn’t actually take place, since the victim, and, indeed, the defendant, are both fictitious characters, and, as if that were not enough, the ‘facts’ of the murder are not even stated in the fiction in which they appear, so that the murder is only speculatively fictional. It may not even not have really happened.

Forgive me for these ramblings. I shall put them down to nasal and bronchial congestion and stop here to make another of my excellent hot toddies. Come to think of it, these ramblings may have something to do with the toddies. Perhaps this time I’ll step up the lemon juice and honey and ease off on the brandy….and perhaps not.

Promised update: As you can see below, Raphael stoically accepted my absence yesterday. (I can’t reasonably expect to be able to compete with a banana.) Tao and Ollie arrived with their parents, on time, and were sufficiently recovered by lunchtime today (Monday) to test drive the trike and the bimba.