The Faces of Israel

by Riley Blake (United States of America)

Making a local connection Israel

January 2020: I boarded the plane at 2:15 in the morning. My bag was packed light with the only pair of shoes I needed fastened tight against my already swollen feet. In 14 hours I'd be landing in Israel, surrounded by conflict at a time where war was on the brink of eruption. "This is normal," an IDF soldier said in reluctance on my first night at a Kibbutz, forty miles from the Syrian-Israeli border. "Normal-ish." Qasem Soleimani, the Iranian general, had been killed the previous week by U.S. forces and Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu was standing by the United States. With my tickets purchased and the need for journalistic experience, I was arriving at Ben Gurion airport two days post-assassination at the reluctance of anyone closely related. "This is the real Israel," Korin, a life-long Israeli citizen said as she sipped on the ironically named Americano. "We are not violent people and we don't want war. We don't want to fight with the Palestinians anymore." Korin spoke for the Israeli people--not herself. During this time, tensions were high. IDF security had been doubled with threats of attacks from the North and recent attempts on Netanyahu's life only smoldering in recent memories. "This to most Israeli's is not about land anymore--[people] are frightened for their lives." "From what?" Korin paused, looking out over the crowded street, "From the unknown." While speaking for her people, the separation withinside the borders of Israel was staggeringly apparent. Korin spoke for her people. The Jewish people. The Arab-Israeli's on the other hand, were often disregarded as lesser-than. In a cafe in Jerusalem, I met with an Arab man who had lived his entire life in Israel. "I don't dislike the Jewish people. I have great respect for them. But they have made me feel like a foreigner in my own home. When I was a young man attending school, they [would] remove me from the public bus. 'This man is dangerous,' they'd say. So I'd get off and get on another bus, and then the same thing would happen again. And why? Because my skin is darker? I was born here, the same as they were." In a culturally divided state, the country of Israel remained surprising. "Here at the Dead Sea, we may not believe the same as our neighbors, but we can bathe with them," Gal, recently released from IDF service, remarked as he floated in the sacred water. "I don't care if you're Jewish, Muslim, Christian--if I was to decide, I'd forget it all. It only causes trouble." "Trouble how?" I asked, water lifting me to my back. Gal shrugged. "We all have similar beliefs. For the Jews, Jesus hasn't come yet. For the Arab's, God spoke through Muhammed. It always comes back to God. If you believe in something that is peaceful, why is there so much fighting?" My time in Israel was met with backlash from acquaintances. Christians, Muslims, Mormons--all disappointed I would visit the Jewish state. To many, even traversing where other Jews have was shameful. But Gal's words had stuck with me. Even as an atheist, our religions are built on the same foundations. There is nothing shameful--only similar. On my last few days in Israel, after perusing the crowded markets of Jerusalem, I came to know an IDF soldier named Eden who had recently been released of service. Eden was a tall man, heavyset, and bearded. Eden smoked more cigarettes than words he spoke. But when Eden's mouth opened, it was impossible to miss a word. "I was in Gaza," Eden began, cigarette burning, "--my [unit] had been told to lookout. Men were attacking shops. Stabbing civilians." Eden paused, taking a deep breath of the night air. "So, one day I'm on patrol and I get word that a man nearby has a knife. All of a sudden, he comes around the corner of a building and comes running at me--and I shot him. I had no choice." Tears began pouring down Eden's cheeks. "This is what it's come to. And it's not fair."