Israel: from the air & on the ground

The helicopter turns over Jerusalem toward the Mediterranean. The pilot speaks a few hurried sentences in Hebrew. The guide answers, equally hurried. I lose interest in the exchange; Hebrew is a language that, spoken conversationally, always sounds intense and emotive to non-speakers. (“Are those men fighting?” I would ask. “No, just talking about the weather,” would be the reply.)

I am flying low over one of the holiest, most historically-loaded cities on earth, with a group of journalists touring the region’s security issues.

I squint. To the left, the close-quartered buildings of Gaza City come into focus. To the right are the twin stacks of the power plant on the southern edge of Ashkelon, Israel.

It’s November 21, 2008. If you have even minimal knowledge of Arab-Israeli issues, you understand the pilot’s potential concern. If I had spoken Hebrew, as one passenger did who would translate on the ground, I would have known the pilot was hesitant to fly so close to Gaza. Our guide, however, wanted us to observe the short distance between two neighbours, one who has a habit of lobbing unguided Qassam rockets over the fence (indeed, one on the very morning of our flight), and another who sits in relative quiet until very guided retaliation.

When I tell people I went to Israel, the most common question is “Were you ever scared?” “No,” I reply, honestly, “I wasn’t.” Even riding in a helicopter as someone afraid to fly, my eyes were determined to wrest control from my nerves. The Mediterranean is indeed a jewel, the fields and houses to the east look sleepy. Even the blocks of Gaza City and the spires of the nuclear reactor seven kilometres away from the border on the Israeli side — well within Qassam rocket range — look benign in sunlight, nestled next to the beach.

In 28 days this will be a war zone.

We turned quickly; booting up the Mediterranean back toward Tel Aviv. Having satisfied the guide, the pilot is not lingering.

It’s a great story: “I flew in an Israeli helicopter near Gaza less than a month before the war.”

But in hindsight, I realize the drama serves the audience more than the reality.
In Israel, people go about their business whether times are peaceful or not. Most Israelis have lived through at least one intifada, suicide bombings, rocket attacks, plus the constant threat of obliteration from a close neighbour. Yet, according to the World Health Organization, suicide rates are significantly lower than they are in the U.S. or Canada. The beach cafés in Tel Aviv are full. Less than eight years ago, at the height of the Second Intifada, riding the bus to get a coffee was a doubly precarious task.

The idea is to take what control you can. There is collective resilience in patterns of shared tragedy that I don’t think native North Americans can be expected to understand.

And in Palestine? Everyone seems to have a view, which probably means that no one really knows. For every expert argument I heard, an equally convincing rebuttal followed.
One anecdote. I’ll leave it to those who know far more than I (or presume to know more) to judge its representativeness.

It’s two days after my helicopter tour, and I’m visiting the Save a Child’s Heart project in Holon, Israel. The Wolfson Medical Centre-based project provides life-saving heart surgery to children from developing countries. This includes children from countries with which Israel has no diplomatic relations. In fact, almost half of the more than 2,100 children treated have come from Arab counties and territories, including Gaza.

At the hospital, I meet a woman from Gaza City. Her 15-month-old son had had successful heart surgery a month earlier. Although his lips and the bags under his eyes are still tinged blue, the profound relief in the mother’s eyes is apparent. Through an Israeli program, her child had been saved. I try to ask her a few questions about how she feels to be in Israel as a Palestinian. My questions couldn’t have been more off base. Naturally, this was not a political issue for her. A mother instead sees her son’s future life, and will take any opportunity to ensure he can live it, borders, wars, and collective history be damned.

One view from the air; another at ground level. Both look hopeful; whether or not they are is a question with which I still grapple.

For more adventures in Israel, read Justine’s take on one of the most controversial structures in the Holy Land, The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, here.