On the Face

According to Israeli law, citizens are allowed to make as much noise as they want on Independence Day.

So I was informed by the police, when I called - at 4.15 a.m. - to complain about the noise from a rooftop party taking place one street away. I had closed all my windows (despite the perfect spring weather) and pulled the quilt up over my ears, but the hosts of the independence day party had clearly invested in some serious stereo equipment: the bass of the deep house or trance or whatever you call that electronic noise emanating from their super-sonic amplifiers was making my windows vibrate and my head pound.

I tend to turn into a female version of the Incredible Hulk when I am confronted with extreme rudeness and a total lack of basic civility. Not to mention appalling taste in music. It’s best to stay out of my way until I either calm down or achieve JUSTICE.

So I grabbed the essential 21st century tool - my mobile phone - and went out to investigate.

On the the door of the building, at 17 Feierberg Street, the hosts had taped the following notice:

Translation:

Dear Neighbours,

Today, Independence Day, there will be a party in apartment 17.

The party will continue until late and it will be noisy.

We regret the temporary inconvenience.

Thank you for understanding,

Idan and Sam
Apartment 17

(the following morning, someone scrawled: “Please clean up.”)

***

Okay, Idan and Sam, here’s the thing: If you had made a noisy party that affected only the people in your building, and they were all cool with that, and you actually made an effort to be quiet after - say - 2.00 a.m., and the next day you went around to all your neighbours with some kind of symbolic gift (a bottle of wine, flowers, or something similar), then fine.

Instead, you just announced - dictator style - that you were going to make as much noise as you felt like making and you really didn’t care how miserable you made your neighbours. I am assuming you didn’t ask for their permission - let alone inquire whether there were any exhausted mothers trying to calm their screaming babies at 3 a.m.

But besides that, the noise you made was not confined to your building. The bass from the electronic shit you played until 4.30 a.m. was bouncing off the walls of this whole neighbourhood for a 150 meter radius. Apparently you just decided that you had the right to prevent hundreds of people from sleeping that night. Who cares if they are tired, or they have plans that involve getting up early in the morning, or they have little kids? Your party is much, much more important. Right?! Of course right!

It is true that you were not breaking any laws. But there is this thing called common decency - a.k.a. civilized behaviour. I gather from the median age of the people at your party that you are in your late 20s or early 30s. Given that you are already earning enough to afford a flashy pad in a renovated building in one of Tel Aviv’s most expensive neighbourhoods, I’m assuming you have an education. Pity there’s no required university class called Basic Good Manners 101.

Idan and Sam of 17 Feierberg Street, Apt. 17, Tel Aviv: you are inconsiderate, selfish dicks. And if anyone reading this blog knows Idan and Sam, I encourage you to pass on my message.

For those who don’t read Hebrew, the second half of this post’s title means, roughly, “that’s what there is.” It’s the kind of phrase that parents are wont to use when their offspring say they don’t like what they’ve been given for dinner. Lately, I’ve been using it when journalists ask what I think of the state of the state (of Israel) 60 years after its founding.

This is the cover of this week’s “City Mouse,” a weekly culture and entertainment magazine that is distributed in Tel Aviv with Haaretz newspaper. David Ben-Gurion and his sour-looking wife, Paula, look out the window of their Tel Aviv residence (now a museum) at Tel Aviv hipsters celebrating Independence Day armed with cocktails, silly string in a tin and squeaky plastic hammers. “So,” Israel’s first prime minister asks his wife, “Was it worth it?”

The Israeli media seems to be torn between celebrating the big 6-0 (part-y! And don’t forget to buy our newspaper on the holiday eve, ’cause we’ve included tons of special supplements with lots of gossip!) and reminding us of how far we have strayed from the values of the state’s founders. Occasionally, we are served up “rare archival footage” of black-and-white proto-Israelis in embroidered Russian peasant blouses, grasping one another’s hands as they dance in joyful circles. The message is that we should mourn the lost group spirit and hate ourselves for becoming a bunch of materialistic individualists. No one mentions the austerity, the unemployment, the controlled economy and the lack of air-conditioning, but I’m assuming that we are not meant to miss those things.

Meanwhile, the foreign media has been busy informing us that Israel is - more or less, but mostly more - DOOMED. Depending on the editorial agenda of the media outlet (or the personal agenda of the writer), this message is conveyed in tones that range from sober concern to barely-disguised glee. Apparently, the age of the nation-state is totally passe - for the Jews, that is. Everyone else is allowed to live in atavistic bliss.

Here at my neighbourhood cafe, where the espresso is strong and the WiFi runs true, Ido-the-barman just unfolded the nylon (made-in-China) Israeli flag that came with today’s newspaper and jokingly draped it over the shoulders of Selim, the Palestinian-Israeli from Jaffa who reigns over the tuna salads and quiches. Selim handed the flag back to Ido and they both laughed knowingly - because they know that a Star of David and the stripes of the tallit are not symbols that speak to a Muslim. They did not, however, launch into a discussion of whether or not the state’s symbols should be more inclusive of all its citizens.

Israel is a flawed, young state with tons of problems. It is also a flawed, young state that has a lot of good stuff going for it. If it weren’t, I would not live here. I am not religious and I am not a refugee from political or economic persecution. I might be a refugee from Canadian weather, but that’s another story.

If you live in Jerusalem and you spend most of your time at the Knesset, the prime minister’s office, the West Bank and Gaza, and it is your job to report about the problems (because who’s interested in good news, anyway?) it’s easy to feel as though you are living in a cuckoo’s nest. Trust me, I’ve been there. In fact, I still go there far too often, and it’s definitely not a good place to be. Tel Aviv-Hebron-Tel Aviv in 8 hours or less can make your fuses pop. If I were doing the Jerusalem-Hebron trip on a regular basis, I’d probably be on Prozac.

When the political problems get to me, I take a break and spend some time in the healing confines of Tel Aviv - which the great Hebrew poet and translator Shaul Tchernichovsky (1875-1943) described as the best place to be a Jew. These days it’s more of a multi-ethnic town, and it’s got its fair share of urban problems, but it’s a lovely place nonetheless.

If we are going to talk about Zionism (and mostly I don’t, because “isms” make me nervous), then Tel Aviv is, for me, the great Zionist success story. I don’t feel any particular emotion when I look at Jerusalem’s Western Wall. I would certainly never put a note in its cracks - makes me feel as though I’m performing a voodoo ritual. I love to visit the Hurva Synagogue, because the story of the arch is so fascinating, but I do not feel a desire to pray there.

But I have been known to get a little misty when I look at Tel Aviv’s Bauhaus architecture and tree-lined boulevards; at the posters advertising dozens of plays, concerts and club events; the theaters and the publishing houses and the art galleries, the stock exchange and the fashionable boutiques. Tel Aviv is the city where the first school with a curriculum taught entirely in modern Hebrew was established. It is where all three of Israel’s major daily newspapers were founded and still exist today, in their original locations. It is the home of the national opera, the national symphony orchestra and more than half-a-dozen theaters. It’s a place where homosexual couples and ultra-Orthodox families live peacefully in the same neighbourhood - even in the same building.

Tel Aviv is also a noisy city with a lot of air pollution. There’s dog shit everywhere. Rents are insanely high. And it is not uncommon to hear of landlords that find excuses to avoid renting to Arabs in Tel Aviv, too.

Yup, good stuff and bad stuff. Tomorrow night we mark 60 years since the establishment of the state. It might not be what Ben-Gurion had in mind, but that’s what there is.

While waiting for the Lebanese Princess to finish her morning routine (she’s not really a princess, but I enjoy teasing her), I wondered if the drawer under the vanity contained a Qur’an instead of a Bible. So I pulled it open to see and found…

I did not intend to write about Yom Hashoah this year. Sometimes you feel you’ve said all there is to say. And in the case of the Holocaust, I am really tired of seeing the memories kicked around in the name of political ideology. I cringe when visiting heads of state are taken to Yad Vashem rather than schools for gifted children, places like Neve Shalom and innovative hi-tech companies; I am appalled when I hear that (non-Israeli) Jewish teenagers who don’t know the difference between Genesis and Judges, can’t speak Hebrew and have never heard about the 500 year history of the Jews in Spain are nonetheless able to recite names of concentration camps; and I am disgusted when I read comparisons between the Palestinian-Israeli armed conflict and the death camps. Lately, a lot of people have made me feel like yelling, “Shut up and have some respect, moron.” (Bert has a more intelligent response, here). But I was raised in Canada, so I am polite. Usually.

There’s no denying that we Jews are still grappling with a collective trauma that is visited unto the third generation - and probably beyond. Today, for example, I read about a man who walked into a Tel Aviv tattoo parlor to have his father’s concentration camp number copied onto his own forearm. And right now I’m reading Daniel Mendelsohn’s The Lost, which is reviewed here.

Last year my mother sent over “my library” - 15 boxes of books that I’d collected over the decade I lived in New York and then left behind when I went off gallivanting around the world. As I unpacked them eight years later, it was almost embarrassing to see how many of those books were novels and historical accounts about the Holocaust. Wait, didn’t I have a whole bunch of books on ancient Rome, existentialist philosophy, Baroque music and contemporary architecture? Um, apparently not so much. There I was, thinking that I was this secular, worldly, urban type, but my boxes of books told the truth: From Judtith Kerr’s When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit to Tom Segev’s The Seventh Million, I was just as obsessed and bent over under the burden of memory as the next Jew.

Yesterday afternoon on Rothschild Boulevard I saw another piece of installation art that attempts to address this issue of collective memory. (I’m hoping the artist will replace the turf at some point!).

It is called “Broken Jew: Memory as a Genetic Scar.”

The anonymous artist left the following explanation tied to the railing with a yellow ribbon - to match the yellow star, a replica of the one German and Austrian Jews were forced by the Nazis to wear. Translation below.

BROKEN JEW

(Memory as a Genetic Scar)

Plaster orthopedic mould for the rehabilitation of back problems as a reflection of a society with post-traumatic stress disorder.

The heavy weight of memory on our spine.

A wall can make life difficult, sometimes. This past Friday morning, as weekend strollers on Tel Aviv’s peaceful, tree-lined Rothschild Boulevard were on their way to cafes, yoga class, and shopping, many were surprised to find their path blocked by what looked like a concrete wall. Actually, it looked like a section of the oft-photographed wall that forms large parts of the separation barrier in places like Abu Dis and Qalandiya.

According to 37 year-old artist Ehud Segev (the bearded guy wearing a canvas hat, sitting on the bench in the foreground), about 98 percent of passersby stopped to express their support for his installation art-cum-political statement.  Mauran Paz (the one holding the bicycle), said that a few parents pushing kids in Bugaboos were angry at the inconvenience of having to lift the pram around the wall. To which Ehud responded that they were absolutely right to be upset: a wall did indeed make life difficult.

Others stopped to use the chalk and spray paint provided by Ehud to decorate the wall.

Around lunchtime, a couple of guys approached Ehud and told him they were more concerned about the well-being of Israelis than of Palestinians.

“I actually agree with them,” said Ehud in an ambiguous response that is open to interpretation. “But in general I am against walls. They always fall, in the end. In the meantime, they just create disconnects and misunderstandings between people.”

And how, I asked, do you respond to those who point out that the separation barrier is often referred to as a security barrier - i.e., that its purpose is to save lives by preventing terrorists from entering Israel?

“I am an artist, so it’s not my job to respond to people who say the wall prevents terror attacks,” he answered. “But I do think there is something very cowardly about building a wall. It’s like sitting in a reinforced room in your house all day, wearing a helmet and bullet proof vest. Who wants to live like that?”

Then, almost as a non-sequitur, he volunteered , “I think the solution to the conflict is for every Israeli to learn Arabic in school from day one. A lot of misunderstandings could be avoided that way.”

By 1.30 p.m. the police ordered Ehud, who had put the installation up around 8 a.m, to take the wall down. “I wasn’t upset,” he said calmly. “Actually, I was surprised it lasted as long as it did.”

Scroll down for update.

This engraved tray was photographed at a shop in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, by a bemused friend (and fellow blogger) who happens to live there. For those who don’t read Hebrew, the word spells “matzah.”

So far there is no word on whether or not the actual bread of affliction is available in the kingdom.* Last year, however, Haaretz’s Yoav Stern reported that the Arab public of Israel are avid consumers of matzah during Passover.

Quote from the article:

“A journalist associated with the Islamic Movement in Israel told Haaretz that he also bought matza. ‘The kids can’t get enough of it,’ he gleefully reported. ‘They eat it like crackers. But it also represents a sense of folklore for us. Maybe we like it more than Jews do because no one’s forcing us to eat nothing but matza all day long,’ he said in explanation.”

And so, with that little bit of reportage that, I hope, will make you go “hmmmm…..,” I wish you all a very joyful Passover - a.k.a. Holiday of Freedom, a.k.a., Holiday of Spring, a.k.a…..You get the idea.

(And yes, I really am going to post about my trip to Istanbul. I’m just a bit slow these days.)

*UPDATE: My Jeddah-based Zionist spy correspondent writes that matzah is, indeed, available at the local supermarkets. It is certified kosher by a beit din (rabbinical court) in London. I am at a loss for cynical words at the moment. Please help me out with your comments.

“…anything!” coaxed my sister.

It’s not for want of material that I took such a long, unplanned break. I traveled - to London, Stockholm and Istanbul. I met lots of people, had many fascinating encounters and collected blog-worthy stories (that I am thinking would also work very well in a film script ).

I also moved apartments - three times in as many months - and became yet another victim of Tel Aviv’s ultra-sleazy, uber-Darwinian real estate market. I am thinking of designing and marketing a T-shirt that has a red slash line through the word “landlord.”

I finally finished writing the second edition of City Guide Tel Aviv, to be published next month.

Oh yes, and I also gave up my pack-a-day cigarette habit. Cold turkey! Biggest accomplishment of my life. I swear.

Most of all - and here we have a little bit of uncharacteristic true confessions (well, there is that claim that one’s blog is like one’s home; so do come in and gather ’round, dear readers) - I have been a woman on the verge for several months. You know how life sometimes gets to you, and you feel as though you are always about to have an anxiety attack, you can’t sleep properly and you can’t see the difference between a major crisis and a small problem? When you forget to return phone calls, send emails and pick up packages at the post office? When you miss deadlines and can’t work up the self-discipline to organize your monthly bills for the accountant? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please hug yourself, whisper a prayer to your deity or spiritual entity of choice, and skip to the next paragraph.

Anyways, I am feeling better now. It helps to have really, really good friends.

Last week I met one of those friends for the first time. We’d been sharing our personal lives online for about two years, but we’d never had an opportunity to meet face-to-face. We both work hard, we live in different countries, and - oh yes, one more factor: the nationalities…

So we decided to meet here:

And we had a fabulous, adventure-filled long weekend holiday together. Details of said adventures will be in my next post.

Saleh Bakri, the 30 year-old actor who won the Ofir Prize (Israeli Oscar) for Best Supporting Actor for his portrayal of Khaled, the jazz and skirt enthusiast, in The Band’s Visit, has been chosen sexiest man of the year by Motek (”Sweety”), an Israeli woman’s magazine that targets 20-something urban college graduates.

The Motek announcement came about one month after Time Out Tel Aviv published a lengthy interview with the actor (page 38), who recently played Hamlet (in Hebrew) at Tel Aviv’s Tmuna Theater. You can see Bakri in this clip from The Band’s Visit, courtesy of YouTube, where you can also watch the trailer.

Here’s the Motek cover, with the words “Ya Habibi!” (or, as far too many Israelis pronounce it, “Ya Khabeebee”) plastered across his chest:

While googling around for more photos of Mr. Bakri, I discovered two things: there are very few; and apparently the lack was noticed by a young, female Tel Aviv University student and blogger (it’s actually a group blog, written by two women who both go by the initial “N” and a man; all are university students in their early 20’s). She wrote a post about him that had me snorting with laughter, so I decided to translate it - although I was hard pressed to do justice to her witty writing style.

****

The Man Who Made My Year

by N. / posted September 9, 2007

God almighty.

That’s what I muttered, and continued to mutter, after I saw the photo of Saleh Bakri in last weekend’s 7 Nights [one of Yedioth Aharonoth's weekend magazines - LG]. And when I peeked at his face half-an-hour later, I couldn’t help mumbling the same words again. And again. And God almighty, I don’t even believe in God.

Photo of the article on Bakri taken by N.

Saleh, the son of actor Mohammed Bakri (the one who made “Jenin, Jenin“), plays one of the roles in The Band’s Visit - which is why Yedioth decided to do an article on him, which is how he came into my life.

Recently I discovered that I am attracted to the Levantine type. It started with the squirrel and its Arab roots*, and continued with Channel 10’s Zvi Yehezkeli, the man who can do anything. And suddenly I’ve got the real thing right in front of me. Not another Jewish guy whose grandparents were born in Morocco or Persia, and not even another “Arab-Israeli” (which, according to Bakri, is a demeaning, misleading, political-Zionist expression ), but a real Palestinian!

But apparently it’s not just the Arab chic that does it for me, because the other N, who’s usually attracted to pale Brits, declared that Bakri was utter perfection.

Ouf! Ouf! I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of adolescent crush. I can’t go on like this. The close-cropped curls, the chiseled cheekbones and jaw line, the unshaven bristles, the chest hair that peeks through the neckline of his shirt. And the eyes. Oh my, the eyes. That penetrating, tormented gaze. Saleh, I want to have your babies. I want to distribute your wonderful genes all over the world.

A photo I took last year of some Tel Aviv graffiti. I dunno - it just seems kind of…appropriate…here.

The thing I don’t get is Yedioth Aharonoth’s bizarre decision to publish a huge article plus cover about Michael Lewis**, a guy whose personality is chiefly defined by the fact that he’s got six-pack abs. This Lewis, who looks as though he just discovered his wee-wee, is endlessly photographed as he stares vacantly at the camera while striking Paris Hilton-like poses. It looks as though 18 stylists and 15 hairdressers worked on him before each photo. Bottom line: the guy is a male bimbo. The money quote from the article about him is, “When it’s over Lewis sits on a packing case, looking glum because they photographed him from his bad side again.”

Michael Lewis

How can you compare that retarded pile of muscles to an amazing, refined creation like Bakri, whose interview begins with his story about how he helped his neighbor, an elderly Holocaust survivor, put drops in her eyes?? Clearly, our national sense of priorities has been seriously undermined - and not just because of cutbacks to the budget for the Arab sector. It’s even difficult to find photos of Bakri on the Internet.

*I’m assuming this is a private joke, ’cause I have no idea what she means with the reference to the squirrel and its Arab roots.

**One of the most famous models in Israel, and a huge star with the teeny boppers.

****

Over the past couple of years a new generation of Arab-Israeli (or 1948 Palestinian) actors has entered Hebrew prime time. Kais Nashef, who co-starred in Paradise Now, has a major role in Parashat Hashavua (The Weekly Portion) alongside Clara Khoury, who plays his girlfriend. Khoury is currently filming another prime time television show - this time for Channel 2.

Clara Khoury

Kais Nashef

Youssef Sweid, who co-starred in The Bubble (and had a smaller role in Walk on Water), plays Jalal, a sexy soccer player, in the hit telenovella HaAlufa (The Championship). Sweid is number 16 on Motek’s list of the 100 sexiest men in Israel.

Youssef (Joe) Sweid

And then there was Avoda Aravit, the hit Channel 2 prime time comedy/satire that was written by Sayed Kashua and starred Clara Khoury, Norman Issa and Mira Awad. Avoda Aravit was the first Israeli prime time TV series to star Arab actors, with dialogue mostly in Arabic.

Norman Issa

Mira Awad

Wikipedia sums up the plot thus: “The show is about a young Arab couple, Amjad and Bushra, and their young daughter, who live in an Arab village on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Amjad is a journalist working for a Hebrew newspaper (much like Haaretz) who desperately seeks to assimilate into the prevailing Israeli Jewish cultural milieu with mixed and hilarious results. The show holds a mirror up to the racism and ignorance on both sides of the ethnic divide and has been compared with All in the Family.”

Avoda Aravit received excellent reviews in the Hebrew press, and tons of positive publicity in the international media. But, according to this article in Haaretz, it was attacked by prominent Israel-Arab journalists, actors and politicians. Mohammed Bakri, father of Saleh, accused Kashua of treason. Others accused him of creating “pet Arab” characters who would be palatable to Jewish Israelis. Given that he became famous in Israel via his Hebrew-speaking roles, I don’t know where Mohammed Bakri gets off accusing Kashua of treason.

Channel 10’s Lucy Aharish, the first Arab news presenter on Hebrew television, did a piece on the mainstream success of young Arab artists for last Friday’s news magazine show. The link is here. It does not work in Firefox and there are no English subtitles, either, but Arabic speakers will be able to understand some of it.

Aharish starts out by stating that Arab Israelis are all over the prime time media - as actors, journalists and writers. She brings Kais Nashef, Youssef Sweid, Mira Awad and Clara Khoury together to discuss their success and to ask them what they think about the criticism directed against them from certain prominent members of the Arab sector.

Lucy Aharish

One of those critics is Juliano Mer (Number 15 on Motek’s list, but with a 20 year-old photo). The son of a Jewish mother and an Arab father, Juliano has been working as a Hebrew-speaking actor for years; lately, he has turned most of his attention to activism on behalf of Palestinian causes. He tells Aharish that he disapproves of these actors who behave as the Jews want them to behave, and who give the false impression that Arabs are on the same footing as Jews in terms of rights and benefits in Israeli society. Mer achieved his fame and success as a Hebrew-speaking actor - which didn’t stop him from signing the international artists’ petition for a culture boycott of Israel. He only became politically active after he achieved his fame, but he tells these young actors that they should devote themselves to political activism now (assuming they want to be politically active), rather than enjoying the fleshpots of Tel Aviv.

Mer and Bakri really pissed me off. I think they pissed Lucy Aharish off, too, because at the end she sums up by saying, basically, that she and her friends are just a group of young people who are enjoying their well-deserved success. Or, as Raviv Druker says, “Let them get ahead, for heaven’s sake!”

A photo I took on the Gaza-Israel border last summer. An Israeli farm is in the foreground; behind it is the border wall; and beyond the wall is Gaza.

A few days ago, a friend of mine who lives in Gaza called me to chat. We last met in late 2005, shortly before Gaza was closed to Israeli citizens - even to journalists who hold foreign passports. After Erez was closed my friend, who used to work as a reporter for a Palestinian media outlet that paid him a near-pittance, leveraged his fluent Hebrew and excellent professional reputation to get a job reporting from Gaza for an Israeli media outlet. He was one of the first reporters on the scene when the Rafah border fence was blown up. “I have to admit I was happy,” he said. “I walked into Egypt just so I could breathe a little. I didn’t even buy anything. I just wanted to feel free.” You can traverse Gaza at its longest point in about an hour, and he hadn’t been able to leave in more than two years.

My friend and I don’t even bother ending our conversations with jokes about getting together soon. They’re not funny anymore.

Today’s Haaretz has an article about two men, one from Gaza and one from Sderot, who met and became friends about 18 months ago, when it was still possible for Gazans to obtain permission to visit Israel. Now they maintain their relationship via an extraordinary blog called Life Must Go On in Sderot and Gaza.

The men are unwilling to reveal their identities (read the article to find out why), so each has adopted a blogger name. Peace Man is a 30 year-old bachelor schoolteacher from a Gaza refugee camp; and Hope Man is a 40 year-old married man who lives in Sderot and works in high-tech. In alternating posts, they describe their experiences in simple, personal prose that leaves the stereotypes in the dust.

Peace Man is not an Angry Young Militant, or a Desperate Impoverished Farmer Whose Crops Are Stuck at the Checkpoint.

And Hope Man is not an Inarticulate Unemployed Resident of Sderot Who Wants the Army to Invade Gaza.

In their own words:

This blog is written by 2 friends. One lives in Sajaia refugee camp in Gaza and the other lives in Sderot, a small town near Gaza on the Israeli side. There is ongoing violence between Israel and Gaza which has intensified greatly since October 2000. Many have been killed and many have been injured. The media coverage on both sides has been extremely biased. Our Blog is written by 2 real people living and communicating on both sides of the border.

I’m absolutely delighted to see that Haaretz is finally giving intelligent coverage to the local blogosphere - especially after its abysmal coverage of blogging during the Second Lebanon War - and hope that this article is just the first of many to come.

I hope, too, that Peace Man and Hope Man succeed just a little in undermining the cliches, preconceptions, fears and stereotypes that dominate the coverage of Gaza and Sderot these days. And that soon they will be able to resume their face-to-face meetings.

London’s Jewish Book Week takes place this year from 23 February - 2 March, and I’m going to be participating in two events.

On 27 February I’ll join photojournalist Judah Passow in a discussion, moderated by BBC journalist Robin Lustig, called Rethinking the Media.

There is no such thing as unbiased information but how does the system work? What is omitted and why? During the Lebanon war of 2006, Lisa Goldman managed to keep communication going with Lebanese bloggers, a fact which attracted the attention of the international media. In fact, this was the first live-blogged war. It was also the first war during which citizens of enemy states could engage in direct, real-time communication. And, of course, it was the first occasion on which bloggers exposed the errors made by mainstream media outlets. Award-winning photographer Judah Passow, whose pictures of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict are to be published as a book, Shattered Dreams, knows how images are chosen and made to speak volumes. They discuss with Robin Lustig how information is processed and presented to us.

Details are here.

And on Friday 29th February I’m giving a morning workshop called The Art of Blogging. Details here.

Despite its name, the London Jewish Book Week is not all about Jews. For example: Sayed Kashua, a Palestinian citizen of Israel / Israeli Arab / 1948 Palestinian / choose your term who writes critically acclaimed novels (and, most recently, a hit television series) in Hebrew, will be there, together with mystery writer Matt Beynon Rees, as will Zadie Smith and Adam Thirlwell and many other non-tribal types.

To my readers in London - especially those with whom I’ve corresponded in my typically erratic fashion: I hope to see you there.