Last but not least, Bruria writes, Noah has just finished his first six weeks of army service. Judith remembers the first time she met Noah. He was home from school with a fever, and Bruria, whom she’d met only a few months before, was spoon-feeding him warm milk with honey. He was an angelic-looking seven-year-old with silky blond curls, blue eyes, round flushed cheeks, and a heart-shaped mouth. More recently, for the two years before he went into the army, Noah was head of Youth for Peace Now, Jerusalem branch. About six months ago he had his four seconds of fame on CNN: they filmed him at a peace rally, holding a huge placard saying in English, Hebrew, and Arabic: END THE OCCUPATION — NOW! Now, though, he’s in the Tank Corps in the occupied territories — terrified of being shot at, and only slightly less terrified of shooting at others. Bruria wrote that a few weeks ago, on his first day on patrol, Noah was confronted by a group of what the Canadian media calls Palestinian “children,” but in fact were teenage boys his own age, some just a year or two younger than him — sixteen or seventeen. They were throwing rocks and rusty metal pipes at him and his friend Doron, and they were both terrified, but Doron actually shat his pants. When Noah came home a few days later for Shabbat, he just locked himself in his room and wouldn’t come out. The next day he joined them for lunch, but hardly said a word. Now, after a few weeks, he seems to be getting used to it.
But what does that mean,“getting used to it”? wrote Bruria. Getting used to being shot at, and to shooting other people? This is insane. Aside from all the obvious things, which I won’t — can’t — even name, I worry about what this is doing to him inside. To his heart and soul.
Anyway, she concluded her email, we hope for the best. Shana tova, Judith — a good, sweet year. I hope it’s much better than the last one for you, and for all of Israel. Love, Bruria
Music is blaring in the car. Judith forgot the tape was even on — it just drifted into background music. But now she hears “Hallelujah,” the song that made Israel the winner of the Eurovision song competition in 1979. Back then, when the Europeans still liked us.
Again the traffic has stopped moving. This sure is Canada, she thinks: everyone just sitting in their stalled cars in polite silence. If this were Israel, there’d be dozens of horns honking, louder than a hundred Canada geese. She gives a tiny honk, just something symbolic, which doesn’t make any difference to the traffic, but makes her feel better. The traffic begins moving, and soon she arrives at Bobby’s house. He’s standing on the porch, suntanned and handsome in a golf shirt, neatly pressed shorts with two perfect creases, and deck shoes. A bit preppy for her taste, but she can’t help noticing how good-looking he is: she always forgets this when they’re apart.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, getting out of the car. “The traffic was horrendous.”
“I was getting worried, you took so long.”
“It was rush hour — next time I’ll know to leave earlier. What are you doing out here?”
“I live here.”
“No, seriously.”
“Waiting for you.” Judith, nearing the porch steps now, gives him a skeptical look. “It’s true. I was putting out the garbage and saw your car coming down the street. So I figured I’d just wait and surprise you.”
“That’s nice,” she says, and gives him a quick kiss. Bobby puts his arm around her as they go into the house.
“So how was it?” he asks.
“Great!” She takes the sunglasses off the top of her head and shakes out her hair. She’s flushed and radiant, and Bobby gapes at her.
“Wow!” he says. “I haven’t seen you this happy in ages.” Then, slightly resentfully, as if Dunhill were his rival: “What was so great about it?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her back to him as she lays her sunglasses and purse on the room divider. Turning around to face him, she’s aware of a feeling of reluctance, like she is not quite ready for him yet. He’s so demanding. Always challenging her. “Mostly it’s just good to be part of something again,” she says. “The people seem very nice, too. And some of them are doing interesting things.”
“Like what?”
Bobby is leading the way into the living room, and she glances warily at his back as she follows close behind. They don’t see eye to eye politically, and Bobby views social workers as a bunch of bleeding hearts. She hopes tonight they’re not going to have another one of their arguments. Sitting with him on the black leather couch, she tells him about the profs and students she met today, the unexpectedly splendid tree-lined campus, and the smoky, noisy Lion’s Den, smelling sourly of beer. Bobby sniggers appreciatively at her description of the identity politics at Dunhill, and laughs at “Gay Lesbian Bacon and Tomato.” But when she mentions the school’s “mission,” and its focus on anti-oppression, he looks testy.
Ignoring this, she continues: “They genuinely care about social justice at Dunhill. They may not all be, as you’d say, rocket scientists” — he stares back at her stonily, refusing to smile — “but they strike me as people with ideals.”
“Ideals?” he cries. “Is this what you call that left-wing crap? I can’t believe you’re buying into that anti-oppression bullshit. All it is, is, ‘I’m a victim, you’re a victim,’ and you’re way too smart to fall for that.”
She feels her anger rising. “I’m not falling for anything,” she says. “And stop being simplistic. You know as well as I do, that isn’t all it’s about.”
“Yes, it is.” His handsome hazel eyes flash. “That’s exactly what it’s about: the Moral Superiority of the Victim. Anyone who’s not a victim — who’s at all successful — is an ‘oppressor.’ According to these people I’m supposed to feel guilty and apologetic because I’m a lawyer earning a half-decent salary, but I don’t. I’ve worked for it — nobody handed it to me on a silver platter.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she says impatiently. “No one’s saying poor people are morally better than rich ones. Just that they’ve been socially disadvantaged, ‘oppressed’ if you will, and deserve a fairer share of the pie.”
“Ah, but that’s the question: Do they, Judith? Do they? Why do you lefties assume whenever people are poor, or have miserable fucked-up lives, that it’s always society’s fault? Maybe sometimes it is. But mostly these people have fucked up their own lives, and shouldn’t blame this on anyone else. Let me finish.” He holds up his hand to stop her from interrupting. “People aren’t always at the bottom of the social heap just because of your ‘structural oppressions.’ Some people don’t work hard. Some are dumber at birth. People aren’t all equal at the starting line.”
“That’s exactly the point. But never mind — forget it.” Judith crosses her arms across her chest. She’s getting angry, but is trying to control her temper. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. We’ve been through this a hundred times, and you never understand.”
“I never understand because it doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense because you’re not trying to understand.”
They glare at each other from opposite sides of the couch. Then Bobby sighs.
“Okay, Judith,” he says quietly. “Try once more. Explain what you see in this that I can’t. Because if this is where your head
