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I was aware that I didn’t have enough information to make a solid judgement about the Situation In The Middle East, and I was determined to observe objectively. Then I was invaded by a group of Hassidic Jews who filled the seats all around me. The 747 had just left the ground when the one on my left made a pre-emptive strike on the armrest. He must have known I was about to put my own forces there. I resigned myself to having neither armrest for the flight and shrugged it off (figuratively; I didn’t have room to make the gesture literal.)
But then he slouched sideways and sent foot soldiers into my leg space as well. My fear of being labelled anti-Semitic gave me pause and before I said anything the seatback on my northern border reclined, and clasped hands flopped over the headrest. When my unseen invader encountered the book I was holding in front of me (Thomas Friedman’s From Beirut to Jerusalem) he actually probed at it with stubby fingers and only reluctantly withdrew to the top of the page, maintaining a grubby-fingernailed settlement so small I scarce noticed it save when I needed to turn pages.
It went on. When my napkin protruded slightly from my tray table (not into his territory, but in our neutral “buffer” zone) he firmly and immediately tapped it back onto the tray. My incredulous look was met with a blank stare and an absentminded snort (he had a very productive and public cold). For the rest of the flight, the Israeli delegation elbowed, shouted, and shared bodily functions with me. Even the flight attendant got into the act, interrupting another American and reaching across her to recline her seat rather than explaining how before brusquely stomping away. Despite my political leanings, I was tempted to consider pushing one or two Israelis into the sea myself, and this was before I was even over the Mediterranean.
As funny as it is and as maddening as it was, the behavior of my Israeli comrades wasn’t deliberately rude. It’s simply part of a clash of cultures. Plenty of evidence is provided by the fact that I repeatedly said nothing or relied on eye contact—typical American passive-aggressive communication—while all around me Israelis were shoving back and shouting back to make their desires and opinions clear.
In Israel, I would quickly discover, self-restraint is the only social faux pas. After all, if you don’t speak up for yourself, who is going to speak up for you? And what people could possibly have learned this more thoroughly than the Jews?
If they lack knowledge of lubricating social graces, they at least possess an equally blunt and accessible facility with joy. As we circled Ben Gurion, the tension in the air intensified. Snatches of spontaneous singing in Hebrew could occasionally be heard, and eventually coalesced into a song. Everyone on the plane except me seemed to know the lyrics to the Hatikvah, Israel’s national anthem, and would add their voice or their hands to the rhythm more and more consistently. By the time we were on approach the entire plane was singing and at the first bump of the wheels the passengers exploded with laughter and applause. People were hugging each other across the aisles and while only older people were actually crying most everyone was flushed and smiling.
I shouldered my bag and headed out into the baggage claim area. A circle of teenage boys had already formed, clapping and stomping. The linoleum tile and overhead flourescents were identical to those in any airport in the world but only in Tel Aviv would people streaming off a plane drop their bags and link their arms in a circle with people who in New York would be complete strangers. Only in Israel would a 747 full of people spontaneously sing and dance in a circle in an airport lobby at one o’clock in the morning.
Another plane full of Jews had just landed in the promised land.