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Charles Salmon was a Fulbrighter to Israel, lecturing and conducting
research on communications and public health. The following is
excerpted from his book, Into the Fire: A Post-9/11 American in
Tel Aviv (Michigan State University Press, Fall 2003).
My course has been a very positive experience, and I have learned
a lot about the country and its people from class discussions.
The single most unexpected finding is the high degree of fatalism
and low degree of political efficacy on the part of my students,
made even more surprising by the fact that Tel Aviv University
students in general tend to be older and more worldly than most
American students. They disagree with many of the policies of
the government, resent many of the restrictions imposed by the
religious [factions], deeply lament what is happening with the
Palestinians, and loathe the rampant corruption. Nevertheless,
when I ask what they plan to do, they uniformly shrug their shoulders
and say that nothing can be done. Although Israelis generally
describe themselves as assertive, if not aggressive, the students
I encounter appear to completely lack confidence in their ability
to influence policy in the political sphere. They may be extremely
knowledgeable about current affairs, but they simply don't believe
they have any control or power over what happens in their country.
A week ago, I asked students a series of questions about their
perceptions of the violence and their expectations for the future.
"What lies ahead in your own lives?" I asked. The dual
threats of drowning in taxes and suffering from violence constituted
the most common response. "How do you cope with the violence?"
They told me that they go to cafés and basically just try
to ignore it. But always in the back of their mind is the thought
that they may have to transform suddenly from citizen to soldier
in the blink of an eye. "How many of you," I asked,
"plan to leave Israel because of the violence?" Although
every student has traveled or plans to travel out of the country,
none admitted to harboring thoughts of leaving for good. Was social
desirability or small-group conformity a factor in their responses?
Perhaps, although Israelis have incredible allegiance to their
country, as well as a keen ability to accept the bad with the
good. Next I asked, "How many of you would not bring children
into this world of violence?" This question, as
I expected, elicited a strong and immediate negative reaction;
I might as well have asked them if they planned to stop breathing.
Family is a cornerstone of the Jewish heritage, and nothing could
ever stand in the way of that. In my final question, I asked if
they expected their children's lives to be better than their own.
Interestingly, none did, though several thought that their grandchildren's
or great-grandchildren's lives might improve. Basically, they've
given up hope for anyone born before a firm peace agreement is
in place, though they believe that children born after the hoped-for
peace have a chance of avoiding the shackles of resentment and
hatred.
For the last class session of the semester, I made a deal with
the students: I'd supply the pizza if they'd bring beverages of
their choice. As has usually been the case here, a couple of minor
last-minute glitches surfaced, not the least of which was Domino's
(yes, it's here, too) inability to deliver on campus. So a colleague
and staff member patiently waited with 200 shekels in hand down
by nearby gate number 5, picked up the pizzas and breadsticks,
and then raced them to my fourth-floor classroom. The arrival
of the food prompted a buzz of excitement as well as the click
and pop of beer bottles and soda cans opening around the room.
It was their day for questions, and they wanted to know all about
my perceptions of Israel. Was I scared to come to Israel back
in September? Did I consider it a third-world country? Did it
seem more like America or a European country? What did Americans
REALLY think of Israel and
Israelis? Did we feel sympathy for them? Would I ever come back?
While their questions were both thought-provoking and revealing
about the country's preoccupation with its image, I wasn't prepared
for what was to come next. One of the students pulled a brightly
wrapped package from her bag and told me that the members of the
class had chipped in to purchase me a gift. When I opened the
package, I was stunned; inside was an elegant pen on which they
had engraved the
words: "To Professor Charles Salmon, With Appreciation."
Accompanying the pen was a beautiful ceramic Hamsa, a symbol of
good luck, and a token, they assured me, that would protect me
from any vampires roaming around Michigan. The gifts took me completely
by surprise, and will remain among my most treasured belongings.
Eventually our pleasant conversation about images of Israel ended,
and as the students arose from their desks and chairs, one of
them, an officer in the reserve, came up to the front of the room,
shook my hand, thanked me for coming to the country, and wished
me luck. Suddenly, one by one, all the students came up to the
front and either shook my hand or waved good-bye. I told them
to be safe, and wished them good fortune in their futures. It
was very personal and very emotional. At that moment the intenseness
and fragility of life here was evident; I was feeling a powerful
bond with strangers who, over the course of 14 weeks of coexisting
in an environment of terrorism, bombings and shootings, had become
my friends. Our paths had crossed serendipitously, and now we
were about to head our separate ways in a volatile and unpredictable
world.
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