London

Amir Ben-David,
Editor, Time Out Tel Aviv
The 1999 film ‘Yana’s Friends’ features one of the best scenes in Israeli cinema of the past decade: a Russian immigrant and her Israeli lover make love, both clad in gas masks, while on the soundtrack passionate groaning mixes with the shrieking siren forewarning of missiles on their way to Israel. The Israeli audience identified with this scene to such an extent that, in some movie theatres, ardent handclapping was sounded upon its ending. Sex in war is of course a familiar, even trite, motif – representing the passion to live as death is nearing – but in this scene it seems Israelis identified something else: themselves, and this is why they clapped their hands. ‘Yana’s Friends’ takes place during the first Gulf War in 1991. Feature continues

That war caused many of us to experience the sensation engraved in our cultural DNA for the first time: of the innocent victim who, through no fault of its own, is harassed by a cruel hoodlum and threatened with destruction. In the last few decades we’ve been accused of being the neighbourhood’s cruel hoodlum so many times that the passivity enforced on us in the Gulf War was accompanied by a real catharsis that drew out a desire to d live – accurately conceptualised in that siren-soundtracked sex scene.

The September 11 tragedy added another releasing feeling: that of common fate. It doesn’t sound good, but along with the grief over
the disaster and its victims, many Israelis felt that finally the world would begin to understand what they were going through. And the world – at least the empire in the lead – indeed began to understand. September 11 2001 became a key date in the history of Israel: Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, until then a leader outcast internationally, regained legitimacy, allowing him to embark on the military operation ‘Protective Shield’, which was well integrated into President Bush’s war on world terror. Hamas, the Islamic Jihad and Hizbollah, the three major organisations fighting Israel, were decreed ‘terror organisations’ in Washington, a declaration that allowed Israel to exacerbate its war against them, as well as destroy their leaders – notably by killing Hamas head Sheikh Ahmad Yassin and confining Yasser Arafat in Ramallah – and all with American backing. The war and newfound international legitimacy allowed Sharon to build up the separation wall on the one hand and, on the other, to take the boldest step of his political life – to withdraw from Gaza, while courageously confronting his most avid followers. This chain of events altered the region’s physical infrastructure, the map of Israel, the odds between the parties and the way the regional conflict was perceived.

Tel Aviv underwent another psychological change: suddenly feeling closer to New York and London. Even before September 11 2001, Tel Aviv was up-to-date, hip and well connected to the rhythm of time. But at the same time it was envious of the pleasant complacency enjoyed by cultural centres distant from conflict hubs and felt that those who didn’t have to hide at home in fear while sirens sounded outside couldn’t understand it.

After September 11 we began to feel that we were understood a little better. Embarrassingly, this gives us some kind of sad comfort.