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Heeb Issue #9 : FeaturesBetween Us
A True Story
(excerpted from original article)
I thought the Jewish community would want to hear my story, but they wanted the aliyah story, the brave soldier boy story, the now-I’m-religious story. Not this one. “He was…Jewish? He wasn’t Arab? It happened in Jerusalem?” “Rape? That’s not rape, it’s simply a bad experience. What are you trying to do, ruin his life?” “Why are you making this film? Israel has enough problems!” This last remark in particular stung, as it was from a female rabbi. Another rabbi I spoke with sexually harassed me when I told him my story, taking great delight in discussing which of my body parts had been violated.
I didn’t hear these kinds of comments from the Israelis I told. A shrug of the shoulders, a smirk, a look of disappointment, but certainly no idealized notions of what Jews do and don’t do in Israel. The mythic hero is gone in the land of milk and honey: Israelis know that Jewish men rape Jewish women.
I hung onto to the bad memories of Jerusalem, hoping they would erase any lingering love I felt for it. I reminded myself of the putrid rot of Old City alleys, the black smoke from the buses on Jaffa Street, the endless rains of wintertime. But no matter how hard I tried, I also remembered the quiet mornings when sunlight poured into my kitchen on Havazalet Street. I missed the towers of fruit at the market, zatar sprinkled on my bread, and fresh pomegranate juice. I missed having long, intense conversations on Tel-Aviv balconies, and riding beat up scooters to the beach. I missed the teetering old ladies and the quiet you only hear in Jerusalem. I learned that after a rape many women lose a sense of safety, intimacy and trust. I had lost Israel. If I didn’t go back, I’d be letting him take something very special away from me.
It was raining when I landed at Ben Gurion. An American-Jewish woman with her head covered was swaying her baby side to side saying “_Geshem_ . Hashem sent rain for Israel.” Clutching my rented cell phone and my notebook full of phone numbers, I knew I needed to face him and ask him why he did it. I realized that like the characters in my film, my journey could only take place in Jerusalem.
Between Us is an hour long documentary-in-progress directed and produced by Nancy Schwartzman. To learn more please visit www.nancyschwartzman.com.
I thought the Jewish community would want to hear my story, but they wanted the aliyah story, the brave soldier boy story, the now-I’m-religious story. Not this one. “He was…Jewish? He wasn’t Arab? It happened in Jerusalem?” “Rape? That’s not rape, it’s simply a bad experience. What are you trying to do, ruin his life?” “Why are you making this film? Israel has enough problems!” This last remark in particular stung, as it was from a female rabbi. Another rabbi I spoke with sexually harassed me when I told him my story, taking great delight in discussing which of my body parts had been violated.
I didn’t hear these kinds of comments from the Israelis I told. A shrug of the shoulders, a smirk, a look of disappointment, but certainly no idealized notions of what Jews do and don’t do in Israel. The mythic hero is gone in the land of milk and honey: Israelis know that Jewish men rape Jewish women.
I hung onto to the bad memories of Jerusalem, hoping they would erase any lingering love I felt for it. I reminded myself of the putrid rot of Old City alleys, the black smoke from the buses on Jaffa Street, the endless rains of wintertime. But no matter how hard I tried, I also remembered the quiet mornings when sunlight poured into my kitchen on Havazalet Street. I missed the towers of fruit at the market, zatar sprinkled on my bread, and fresh pomegranate juice. I missed having long, intense conversations on Tel-Aviv balconies, and riding beat up scooters to the beach. I missed the teetering old ladies and the quiet you only hear in Jerusalem. I learned that after a rape many women lose a sense of safety, intimacy and trust. I had lost Israel. If I didn’t go back, I’d be letting him take something very special away from me.
It was raining when I landed at Ben Gurion. An American-Jewish woman with her head covered was swaying her baby side to side saying “_Geshem_ . Hashem sent rain for Israel.” Clutching my rented cell phone and my notebook full of phone numbers, I knew I needed to face him and ask him why he did it. I realized that like the characters in my film, my journey could only take place in Jerusalem.
Between Us is an hour long documentary-in-progress directed and produced by Nancy Schwartzman. To learn more please visit www.nancyschwartzman.com.
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