(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
«So you're from Norway? Oslo! Who do you think Jerusalem belongs to; us or the muslims? ”I don't answer, just look at him as he puts the water bottle in a plastic bag. The newsagent is staring back. “I believe in sharing. And I don't need a bag, ”I say lowly. "We were here first!" He replies aggressively. I lower my gaze, my heart rate increases, my body trembles.
There have been five relaxing days in Tel Aviv, the Israeli bubble on the Mediterranean. The town has just over 400 000 residents, and is known for its party culture and sunny beach. Every year, the city said to never sleep receives about 200 million tourists. And I have slipped into well-being, surprisingly easy. Despite all the times I've been in the area for the past decade, I've barely set foot in Israel. It's Palestine I'm on my way to when I land at Ben Gurion Airport. Israelis mean soldiers and interrogation, violence and harassment, occupation and war. Heartbeat and mild paranoia have ravaged my body every time I've been forced to deal with "them". Because despite the conflict of self-doubt not to divide the world into "us" and "them," the Israelis have made themselves "them."
But the transition from late summer in Oslo to fiery blue skies in Tel Aviv has been terribly pleasant. I was not even sent for questioning at the airport passport check this time; I stressed that I was going to visit friends in Tel Aviv, and the names of those friends obviously had the right tone in the border guard's ears. "Enjoy your stay in Israel."
It's been a year since I was here last, and the occupied reality on the West Bank 60 kilometers east seems distant, almost unlikely. Not to forget the tensions in Jerusalem, and the realities hidden behind the concrete walls around Gaza.
Until now. "I don't need a bag," I repeat, higher this time, taking the water bottle out of the plastic before putting the bag back on the counter. And almost escape from the room. "It belongs to us!" He cries to my back.
The victim narrative. Earlier this evening I was at dinner with the aforementioned friends living in Tel Aviv. Artist activists Eitan and Eléonore Bronstein are working for an international boycott of Israel, and are trying their best to correct, or at least challenge, the Israeli self-narrative through the project. De-Colonizer. But right now, the center of the world is an eleven-day-old boy, lying sprawled in a bed in their bedroom. Becoming a parent in Israel presents you with choices that have major consequences for your child's future. On the birth certificate, you must state religion and nationality, among other things. They chose to leave both points unanswered; their son must be a free citizen of the world. It is a beautiful choice. But does it really matter if they live in Israel? Already in kindergarten, the indoctrination of a victim mentality begins; the children learn that the whole world is looking for them. In some kindergartens, they have even put Jewish stars on their children and frightened them with the Holocaust, but this caused some parents to murmur. Throughout the school system, this narrative is consolidated, and the training to become good citizens culminates in the conscription in the IDF – two years for girls and three for boys.
Another friend and anti-Zionist activist, Ronnie Barkan, joins the company. He founded the organization «Boycot from Within». Ronnie has learned to live with threats and the stamp "self-hating Jew". He has moved to Europe and is only on a short visit to his family. Israel has no real political opposition to what exists, and the few peace movements that exist are liberal Zionist, according to Ronnie. "Change will not come from within, Israel must be pushed, boycotted by the world community!"
During dinner, the conversation occasionally balances on a thin line. We touch on topics that are vulnerable to talk about, especially in this corner of the world: identity, understanding of reality and self-narratives. Where you were born defines you – whether you like it or not. Although the other three at the table sincerely work for the right of Palestinians to exist with equal rights as themselves, they feel that Palestinian society does not recognize their efforts. "We need to talk about this openly," says Eitan. We all agree on this, we are comrades-in-arms, it should be irrelevant where one is born. At the same time – is it really that weird? I ask. The Palestinians are under occupation, they live at the mercy of Israelis. Do we have the right to expect them not to be skeptical? Of course we must be rational, but the strong emotions associated with the conflict make even a mild Norwegian tremble with repressed rage in the face of Israelis.
Instincts. It's September, late at night, and the streets I walk on my way home are dark and almost empty. But the surroundings are vague shadows: I am lost in irritation and shame over my awkwardness towards the kiosk clerk. Everything I do should have said… An electric bicycle crashes past me from behind. It also came on a bit abruptly. The taxi driver who drove me from the airport to the city center warned me against these bikes. He said that there are ridiculously many accidents because of them. They drive on the footpath, are almost silent, and have such a high speed that people, especially the elderly, do not have time to jump away.
Electric bicycles are the new IT object for Tel Aviv people. «We Israelis have a tendency to be hooked on things. But these bikes are a nice change; they're good for the environment. It's important to take care of our environment, "he smiles into the gossip mirror. The taxi driver is in his mid-fifties, polite, and his name is Shlomi. Next to him in the front seat is a book, and the question of what he reads opens for a long and eager monologue in English-Hebrew about The Willpower Instinct – How Self-control Works by the American psychologist Kelly McGonigal. How to train the willpower to override your innate instinct? Isn't that what you learn in the military here – overriding your human instincts? I think in the back seat, but say nothing. He goes on to say that in addition to electric bicycles, there is a great trend among Israelis to have mental trainers during the day. "But few people are willing to commit to it, they just want a quick fix and move on with their lives." I just sit and listen to him. The idea that Israelis probably have good use for mental trainers to be able to live with themselves after all the violence and harassment they commit against the Palestinian people, I do not share highly. I cowardly, afraid that the light, pleasant tone in the car will suddenly become heavy and unpleasant.
History Falsification. For tourists, Tel Aviv is a lovely place to be. Sun, sand, sea and shopping. And lots of museums and galleries. One of the more curious ones listed in the city's tourist guide is the IDF History Museum. The IDF stands for the Israeli Defense Force. According to them, Israel has no offensive force. Since I am working on an art project that deals with Norwegian arms sales to Israel, I become curious and visit the place.
They search my bag and deprive me of my passport at the ticket counter, give me a map and an audio guide, and wish me good fun. I catch my breath, look down at the map and press play. With an American accent, the male voice tells me a story about "The Land of Israel" which collides violently with everything I have learned from history from this edge of the world. The Palestinians do not exist until they suddenly appear in the middle of "the holy and peaceful Yom Kippur in 1967, Palestinian terrorists wanted to destroy the land of Israel". I get both dizzy and nauseous. It's like being in a twilight zone; everything I have learned is distorted and wrapped in lies. And surrounded by weapons and vehicles that have taken part in all the wars and attacks – vehicles and weapons with blood and human life etched into the metal – it overflows.
The IDF History Museum supplies history forgery. It is serious, and it matters to all of us, as human beings, when someone robs the truth and distorts it. As I receive my passport on the way out, the ticket agent asks what I think. Once again I look down. "I really do not know how to answer that," I reply dully, and tumble away dazed.
The helicopters. It strikes me that there is a parallel between the blockbuster The Matrix and Israeli society. Being in Tel Aviv is like being in a setting. Talking to Israelis on the street is like talking to someone who is in a staged reality. Some must give Israelis the red pill, the one that causes the veil to fall. Someone has to smash the wall of lies that surround them. And this some are all of us talking to an Israeli. From now on it is not allowed to cowardly.
In the bright blue sky above the tanned bodies that lie directly under the umbrellas on the beach, a military helicopter flies south. About a quarter of an hour later, another follows. Both with a steady course in the direction of Gaza.
The next day I talk on the phone with Atef Abu Saif, a friend and author living in the Gaza Strip. «Yes, there was some bombing last night, but not so much. It was like a piece of contemporary music. But I'm fine. We're fine. Do not worry habibti. »
