The men behind the wheel

In his latest article, Jerusalemite and former stockbroker, Seth Freedman, provides a snapshot of life as a British oleh (immigrant) in Israel. On The Guardian's Comment is Free, he illuminates the mundane details of day-to-day Israeli existence that fail to light up the headlines. One thing Israel isn’t so famous for is its’ traffic. No one walks anywhere, the car is king. So it’s a 24-7 roadblock. It’s even more dangerous to be a cyclist in Israel than it is in London. As for public transport, the Tel Aviv municipality has been talking about its’ fabled urban tram/tube/light railway for even longer than the governors at Bristol City Council. So the taxi, or monit, is often the default option. And besides, a fiver will buy a British tourist a grand tour of the White City. The only down side, aside from the constant traffic jams, are the men behind the wheel. In Trading Places, Seth compares his fortunes with Israeli cabbies to bigoted Greater Londoners back home:

“We climbed into a taxi, manned by the type of driver whom we all know (but don't love) from the black cabs of London town …he offered us some of his expert advice about - surprise, surprise - the ‘Arab problem’. Whereas I used to treat the casual racism of London cabbies as almost benign and insincere, when I hear the same thing here, I immediately pay close attention and scan the rhetoric for deeper meaning. Because, to me, the "bloody immigrants" ranting of an Ilford 50-year-old is nowhere near as potent as the declaration of a post-army sabra…”

Having grown up in Ilford's urban sprawl, I know where he’s coming from. You’ve got a better chance negotiating a cut price fare in a Hackney Carriage than you have with race relations. Just ignore them and be on your way, grateful that you’ll never have to palm their greasy hands with silver again. But the same rationale doesn’t apply to the Israeli cabbie who declares, "You can't trust any Arab. They're all out to kill us - believe me, I know". According to Seth, “These people live, breathe, and take up arms for, the cause - and now, as an Israeli myself, they think it's incumbent on me to do the same. But I don't want to. At least, not 24 hours a day. I didn't grow up like this…"

My experience of bigoted cabbies has been limited to London, with the exception of an Asian driver in Bristol who was dead sure that the ‘root cause’ of the India-Pakistan and Israeli-Palestinian conflicts falls squarely with the British. Alas, my house is located somewhere on the road between Kashmir and Kiryat Arba, so my history lesson came to a premature halt. Nevertheless, I know all too well the person described by Seth, not to mention the sinking feeling when I hear ‘Arab mentality’ and ‘the liberals’ thrown into conversation.

In How to cure a fanatic, Amos Oz recounts the experience of his friend, the Israeli writer Sammy Michael, whose chauffeur shared with him ‘the usual lecture in how urgent it is for us Jews to kill all the Arabs’. Instead of getting angry at his driver, Sammy listened to him and asked, “And who do you think should kill all the Arabs?” “Us! The Israeli Jews! There is no choice. Just look at what they are doing to us every day,” replied the chauffeur. “But who exactly do you think should carry out the job?,” asked Sammy. The driver told him that the work should be fairly divided, so everyone can take part in the killing. Executing the final move in his game, Sammy told his driver to imagine knocking from door to door in an apartment in his home town, Haifa, asking “Excuse me, sir, or excuse me, madam, do you happen to be an Arab?”. If the answer is yes, you shoot them. “Just as you turn to go home”, Sammy said to the driver, “you hear a baby crying. Would you go back and shoot this baby? Yes or no?” After a moment of silence the chauffeur replied, “You know, you are a very cruel man.”

According to Amos Oz, what people like Seth's and Sammy’s chauffeurs lack in imagination, they make up for in sentimentality. The last time I found myself in an environment where racism was acceptable was a decade ago at high school. Maybe I’ve lived a sheltered life since then. Or maybe my ears have become fine tuned of late, a consequence of the upsurge in the name-calling and line-blurring aimed at Jews. As one of the ‘Zionists’ so reviled by the chattering classes, I steer well clear from what has become of the ‘left’ in Britain. But I may find myself falling into the latter pigeonhole when I’m back in the Promised Land this summer.

Israel is a take-it-or-leave-it kinda place. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth playing Sammy Michael’s game next time you have a wayward driver. I may even try to inject a little imagination along the way myself. You never know what might come of it.