ZOGGING OUT

Eretz Yisroel 2022 (Part 1 of Lord knows which chapter)

Disclaimer: this is part of a chapter completely out of order, but fuck it. Enjoy.

The phosphorus yolk hung high on the horizon over the Mediterranean Sea as my husband and I reclined on a colossal green flotation device. We both sizzled under its rays, I browning and bronzing, transmogrifying into an Ethiopian, while my husband turned a shade of lobster red, his vampiric skin inflamed and tender.

"Wow, you burn fast," I observed, stating the obvious. "We should probably head back to shore soonish."

My husband's eyes were closed as he said, "I'm too lazy, and you are too," prompting me to shut my eyes as well. The sea gently lapped against the sides of our buoyant oasis, lulling us into a near slumber. I could feel myself beginning to fry under the blistering heat. The glass and steel Azrieli towers created a mirage, reflecting light and heat like a magnifying glass, intensifying the sun's rays onto my skin, which was slathered in tanning oil. Determined not to open my eyes, I focused on the sensation of every pore opening under the heat, accompanied by the cacophony of seagulls soaring overhead and the warm breeze carrying the scent of salt, banana, and coconut oil.

"We could relocate here. We could make aliyah now that you’ve completed your conversion," my husband interjected, disrupting my wandering thoughts.

"What?" I opened one eye, squinting against the sun's glare. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I could easily secure a position as a dean at the IDC Herzliya," he reasoned.

"Your Hebrew is abysmal. Our Hebrew is abysmal. Mine is likely fresher and better than yours," I remarked.

This visibly unsettled my husband, as he knew I had a better grasp of Hebrew than he did, despite my accent betraying my unfortunate Arabness with every resh, ayn, and gimmel.

"I could just go to ulpan," he countered. "Also, the IDC Herzliya caters to a lot of American olim."

"Where would we live in this scenario?" I inquired. "Herzliya? Florentin? Bat Yam?"

"Probably Herzliya," my husband replied, now squinting his eyes.

"Are you sure you'd like living in Israel?" I pressed, well aware of the many olim who return to their countries of origin once they experience the challenges of life in Israel—the high cost of living compared to wages, the difficulty of dealing with Israelis, the realization that Israel is not exactly a Western country, and the stress-induced rudeness of some people.

Not to mention, the Israelis mostly went full retard when it came to the Plague. 

You would expect that people accustomed to facing real threats would shrug off the flu and just smoke Phillip Morris cigarettes. However, they let their authoritarian tendencies and police state mentality take over. The only ones who maintained any semblance of sanity during the so-called Plague were the Haredim. They lived in cramped tenements in Bnei Brak and Mea Shearim, prayed together, attended each other's weddings and shivas, and managed to avoid succumbing to the hysteria.

"We'd get used to it," my husband lifted his head slightly.

"Are you sure about that? Living here for months at a time is different from visiting. It's a whole different experience, especially in Israel," I replied, aware that I had spent more time in Israel than my husband, and for consecutive months.

"We'd have a great life here, babe. I could land a high-paying job, and with the connections I'd make, thanks to my dad's contacts, I could even consider running for office," he said, a wide grin stretching across his face as he squinted.

"Oh, here we go again. Why do you want to run for office, after presumably snagging a sinecure, especially in a foreign country with a parliamentary system you probably know nothing about?" I shook my head, exasperated. "Can you even name a few parties in the Knesset?"

"Labor?....Likud?...."

"Alright, any other parties or coalitions you're aware of? Give me a few names," I pressed.

"Why are you interrogating me?"

"Oh, come on, this isn't some intense quiz. Just imagine if Ayelet Shaked was grilling you right now, crushing your balls, pulverizing your nuts."

"My dad met her once and mentioned she was attractive."

"I remember that story from our dinner in Bal Harbour. She's undeniably attractive, if not intimidating. That fashy perfume campaign ad was hilarious. But let's get back to the point, list some parties, babe," I encouraged, steering the conversation back to the original question.

"Fashy perfume campaign ad? What? Anyway, Likud… Labor… Blue and White?" my husband hesitated after listing a few parties, "I really admire that Benny Gantz guy. I'd like to follow his path."

"Really? So Benny Gantz, who undoubtedly knows a lot about his country, especially compared to you? The same Benny Gantz who only gained traction only because he wasn't Netanyahu? And then, the same Benny Gantz who reneged on his initial promise to not join a Netanyahu-led government, which was seen as a betrayal by some of his supporters who believed he would uphold his pledge? So you aspire to be like that tepid and indecisive Benny Gantz?"

"Why are you so invested in this topic? You never even read that book I gave you when we first started dating," my husband mentioned the book about Golda Meir he had gifted me when I first moved to Toronto. Frumpy liberal American Zionesses would gravitate towards this book if they lacked the courage to dive into Ayn Rand, as I could discern upon cracking it open.

"I'm not that invested in the topic anymore. I used to be, but I can't keep caring about these things. It's too painful to dwell on far-flung parts of the world. I tell activist types that it’s sheer infantile grandiosity to think you can change a place you've never even set foot in. It's even arrogant if you have been there! It's classic American hubris to believe you can just waltz into any country and change things, even if Israel practically feels like the fifty-first state, albeit one that receives four billion in aid, which is peanuts," I explained, frustration creeping into my voice.

"But Israel is your fallback country," my husband interjected, "And you know so much about it, and you're so opinionated, like Golda Meir."

"Please, never compare me to Golda Meir. I'm not her—I’m a cat that wants to laze around, and Israel isn't my safety net. I don't have a country. I don't have a home. What drives someone to want to run for office in a country they didn't grow up in and don't fully understand?"

"Well, you clearly understand it-"

"That's probably why I don't have this delusional desire to do what you want to do, to run for office in a land filled with Semitic desert squabblers," I abruptly cut him off.

"Hey, you're one of those people! And with your stature, eloquence, and erudition, you'd make an excellent partner in this venture. You could be the 'Former Arab' - a beacon of hope, and we could forge connections and live prosperously," my husband enthused.

"I'm sorry, but I have no interest in being a political pawn," I stated firmly.

"You're being unreasonable. The locals would adore you and your background. You fit right in with half the folks here," my husband countered.

"Yeah, I may look Oriental, Mizrahi, whatever you want to call it. I might seem rugged, swarthy, and potentially violent like them, but I don’t want to be one of them, and I don’t want to be like the Arabs either.  Furthermore, I’m not truly Arab; I’m Arabized. Arabic has been imposed upon me, influencing the way I intonate and enunciate words, and I wish it weren’t so. I refuse to be instrumentalized to tarnish another population that shares some similarities with me but is not entirely the same, like the Fellaheens and Egyptian Bedouins that have a Gazan identity. Moreover, do you realize the level of criticism we would face for our marriage? Every aspect of our union, my conversion, and my legitimacy would be scrutinized mercilessly. Israel is a pressure cooker and a disaster waiting to happen. The situation is wholly untenable."

"What are you even talking about? You’re really cynical, and don’t have faith in others," he told me.

"When I joined the Tribe, I did so because that version of God made sense and the community was something I relished and the rituals were corporeal and grounding. I want to just live my life without people infringing on it. I’m a simple creature, but that doesn’t make me a simpleton. And what’s with talk of leveraging politics for living prosperously? They pinned Netanyahu on relatively silly charges for champagne, cigars, and jewelry. That’s nothing, especially because you don’t really drink, smoke, and are never iced out. You’re not going to get a G6. It’s not large-scale insider trading with weapons’ manufacturers. The connections are probably not what you’re imagining. How do you plan on really integrating and gaining the admiration of gruff Israelis?" I asked my spouse, looking at his pallid, bony frame, the antithesis of what I’d imagine a sabra to look like, and I was beginning to feel nauseous from the heat boring down on me, or perhaps the distasteful nature of this conversation.

"You lack faith in me. I attended Hebrew Day School; this knowledge lies dormant within me. I could pick it up again quickly," he insisted.

"Fine, name three prime ministers besides Netanyahu, Ben Gurion, and Meir," I challenged.

"Stop testing me!" he snapped.

"Your father, after eye surgery, with that eye patch, who does he remind you of?" I prompted.

"Uhhhh, I know this one, ummm…." he struggled to recall.

"Moshe Dayan. Well, he was the Minister of Defence, but whatever." I interjected.

"Let’s head back to shore," my spouse suggested, and relief washed over me at the thought.

I refused to be a mere political pawn, whether in Canada, Israel, or anywhere else on the globe. Simply existing was my creed, yet confessing such aspirations, particularly to those with political ambitions, was considered a transgression. If you tell someone in this fake world that you just want to live and don't have a "pitch" or "mission statement" that's seen as grave sacrilege.

Now, I found myself at a juncture where I no longer desired to be solely defined by my husband's side. Reflections of X pervaded my thoughts because he once shared his experience of spending two years in Israel and eventually ending his relationship with an Israeli girlfriend because he couldn’t envision a life there. It seemed that X and I shared a similar perspective.

We returned to the beach, and I couldn't help but notice the stunning individuals, Tel Aviv beauties with slightly outdated early aughts-style belly button piercings and an air of vitality, basking in the sun as they engaged in paddleball and beach volleyball. At first glance, they appeared flawless, but upon closer inspection, their artificial enhancements were revealed—vulgar Daffy Duck lip fillers and rigid botox hindering their natural expressions. With my short hair, I felt distinctly unsexy in comparison. After about forty-five minutes, my husband and I retreated to the hotel to shower and join his father and brother for dinner.

During Miami and Key West, I hadn't communicated with X, and I was considering seeking therapy. In the privacy of my personal notes, I penned my emotions with a touch of aphoristic, wistful femininity, expressing my discontent and sense of malaise. I crafted my words to be intentionally vague, hoping to evade scrutiny should they ever be discovered. Given the breach of trust I had already committed against my spouse, I felt apprehensive about his potential invasion of my privacy.

Before I stepped into the shower, my brother-in-law knocked on our room door, and my husband ushered him in to devise their evening plans. As they discussed, I examined my afro in the mirror, noticing its wiry, dense texture, like if Thin Lizzy was an underweight girl. After my brother-in-law departed, I eagerly stripped down for my shower, bidding him a polite goodbye before indulging in my customary long, hot cleanse. Exiting the shower, I was met with my husband's visibly distressed expression, signaling a brewing storm.

"What's wrong now?" I queried, hands raised in surrender, towel wrapped snugly around my body, damp hair framing my face. "What's the matter?" I pressed, sensing trouble.

My husband picked up my glowing stela, his tone accusatory. "What's the meaning of this?"

"What the fuck? You went through my stuff again," I exclaimed, hurrying towards him with wet hair dripping. The atmosphere turned colder, a sense of unease settling in as this kangaroo court of an interaction unfolded. I tried to grab the stela from his hands, but he forcefully pushed me away and began to read my notes aloud:

<I think I’m certifiably insane.

I want to lose weight

so I can disappear.

I don’t want to be here

Or anywhere.

I want to die.

I feel so alone

And so vile

And so mediocre

And unsightly.

Why does my stomach churn?

Why do I want to vomit?

Why do I have a loss of appetite?

Why do I feel this ever pressing need to shit my heart out?

Why do I always feel like I’m about to go to the principal’s office?

    Our paths shall cross; we’ll be inextricably bound. We’ll last against all odds.>

"You’re still hung up on this guy!" he accused.

"Stop rifling through my personal notes," I retorted, glaring at him, "I never mention anyone by name. I can’t even have my own private thoughts. It’s absurd. I can’t even have a moment to myself without you snooping around."

"If you write something down, it implies you want it to be found."

"That’s not true. A diary is a way to express thoughts without the fear of judgment. You violate my privacy by reading my notes. You don’t respect my need for personal space. My notes are just a reflection of my innermost thoughts."

"I deserve to understand your true feelings about us."

"To an extent, yes, but isn’t it messed up that you're trying to control my thoughts?"

"I'm not controlling your thoughts! These are your actual feelings about our marriage!" He accused.

"You'd get upset if I flirted with someone in a dream. It's the same logic," I argued.

"Yeah, well, we all know you dream about that X guy. You two are 'inextricably bound' and you'll 'last against all odds' while I'm the 'principal' keeping you apart," my husband taunted, "Just go to him already. Stop torturing me and leave me alone."

"I’m attempting to sort out my thoughts! I'm trying to gather myself for both of us, but you won't even let me organize my darker thoughts in one place. I'm damned either way," I began to tear up.

"Well, that's why you need therapy to change your mindset."

"Are you going to demand a report on my reflections in therapy to check for 'wrongthink'?" I asked him, "Why isn’t a journal sufficient? It’s not official enough? It’s not accredited enough for you?"

I got dressed in a little black dress and slingback stilettos, and took the shaft up to the very top floor of the Hilton before my husband and in-laws did. I needed to decompress. I liked the rooftop of this hotel. It offered panoramic views of the Mediterranean Sea, and golden hour light bathed the space. Patrons, mostly from the Modern Orthodox Anglosphere diaspora, poured in. As I glanced around, the sight of these families appeared picture-perfect. I couldn't help but imagine their seemingly flawless marriages and unwavering commitment to family life, not to mention resoluteness in their identity. Meanwhile, my marriage seemed to echo death's knell, while I desired to belong to the same genetic bottleneck as these Anglo-Ashkos.

I am inbred, but not in the way I'd like.

I attempted to shake off my thoughts by pouring myself a flute of prosecco. As I sipped, I noticed two distinguished middle-aged men, their knit kippot perched atop their heads, seated at a nearby table overlooking the sea. They glanced in my direction, prompting one of them, the more attractive of the pair, to shyly avert his gaze and acknowledge his spouse—a well-dressed woman in a modest floral dress, Golden Goose sneakers, and an expensive sheitel—who had just arrived with an infant in her pram.

I wandered off, pondering whether couples like them ever desired more from their marriage.

Seated on a tasteful beige fabric couch, I sipped my prosecco while gazing out at the vista. The waves rhythmically lapped against the shore, gradually receding to reveal pebbles as the tide ebbed. In my state of despondency, I found myself entranced by the shifting hues of the sea—first a gentle cornflower blue, then deepening into cyan, as the waves pulled back with frothy foam. It was as if they were beckoning me to recede from the shore and drift away, never to be seen again.

Then, my husband, father-in-law, and brother-in-law sauntered in. My father-in-law warmly greeted the concierge lady at the rooftop desk, exchanging small talk that I couldn't help but overhear—she was Israeli, after all, and as loud as they come. It seemed like everyone knew him, I observed.

Approaching me, my father-in-law remarked, "You look nice. How are you?"

"I'm doing well," I replied with a forced smile, silently hoping that my husband hadn't divulged the contents of my private notes to them, and trying to conceal my growing unease. I glanced briefly at my husband, then shifted my gaze to the ocean vista, feeling a wave of nausea wash over me before quickly looking away.

"The food here is really good," my father-in-law remarked, breaking the tension. "We should grab some and sit outside on the balcony to watch the sunset."

And so, we dined and settled onto the balcony to enjoy the evening.

"You only got dessert," my father-in-law remarked, peering at my plate piled high with pistachio eclairs, hazelnut tarts, and raspberry charlottes.

"She has a sweet tooth, and wants sugary, gratifying things prematurely," my husband chimed in, hinting at something more.

"I'll get some salmon in a bit," I assured them, trying to deflect their concern.

"L’Chaim!" my father-in-law toasted, raising his glass. "To spending time together. I wish your mother was still here to see how you both have grown," he added, addressing his sons.

The sun began its descent, a heated blanket of orange, crimson, gold, and pink. Meanwhile, I remained lost in my thoughts, gazing downward.

Below, the rocky beach extended, waves crashing against the jagged shoreline. The cement promenade snaked along the coast, bustling with cyclists and joggers. Fifteen floors up, I mused. Quite a distance, yet I couldn't help but wonder, is it far enough?

Fifteen floors, then splat. 

Then it would be all over. I’d perish beautifully. 

Or would I find myself mangled, an unlovable cripple unable to escape my anguish? Knowing me, if I were to jump out of a window, I'd probably change my mind between the ninth and sixth floor, but maybe I felt courageous just this once.

Killing yourself is simultaneously one of the most cowardly yet courageous things a man can do. Self-immolation is always romantic even if it is always stupid. People claim it condemns you, but it truly epitomizes sovereign immunity.

Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, it would feel exhilarating to witness the aerial spinning of those primary-colored umbrellas dotting the rocky shoreline, twirling like childhood tops, a reminder of my own childhood, or the absence thereof, laid out before me. I’d have to plummet head first, I thought, for my death to be instantaneous. I read about that somewhere. If I were to plummet to the ground and land on my feet without succumbing to a heart attack, the impact might stretch out, feeling like minutes rather than milliseconds. In that moment, I imagine I would feel and hear everything breaking and popping until unconsciousness mercifully intervened. Unless, of course, my body serves as an airbag upon impact, leaving me lying in absolute agony as my hallucinations merge with reality and people struggle to decide how to react. Most individuals would likely continue their cycling and jogging routines, particularly Israelis, accustomed to the constant specter of death. 

No one would pay attention. No one would take notice. My husband would feel elated…

I am a nobody. I am a loser. I am evil. I am an evil nobody loser. 

"Are you okay? You look really sad," my father-in-law broke my train of thought.

"Oh, I'm fine. I'm just thinking about the future. Please don't mind me. I'll get some salmon. Would you like some?"

"Sure," my father-in-law replied, while my husband observed in silent anguish.

After a while, I strolled back indoors as dusk settled in, craving another glass of prosecco. As I poured myself a refill, my gaze fell upon the maple coffee table topped with fashion magazines. With curiosity, I approached the table, intending to peruse the glossy pages. However, I found myself momentarily frozen, not just due to the chill in the room but also because the top magazine in the pile happened to be an edition of Vogue featuring Imaan Hammam on the cover.

Imaan Hammam. A name synonymous with glamor and fame. A model who had burst onto the scene at the tender age of fourteen. Egyptian, like me, or at least half-Egyptian. Countless times, I had been mistaken for her, the subject of numerous comparisons. Yet, unlike her meteoric rise since the tender, supple, nubile age of fourteen, my own journey into the industry had only started at the age of twenty-two. And now, due to the hysteria of the so-called Plague, the opportunity for recognition, for a Vogue cover shoot like that of my doppelganger Imaan Hammam, seemed to slip further away with each passing day.

I just wanted to end it all. I looked out onto the balcony vista again, which was now pitch black. I saw no sea. I could sink into blackness like Scarlett Johansson’s victims in Under the Skin. No one would notice, and no one would care. 

My husband walked into the room, his expression clouded with concern as he glanced at the magazine, then back at me. He understood the weight of the comparisons to Imaan Hammam and how it contributed to my discontent.

"Cheer up. You have so many talents, you could pursue a career in something else," he offered, attempting to console me.

"Did you mention the notes you found to your father?" I asked.

"No," he replied firmly, then cast a disapproving scowl at the two distinguished gentlemen with knit kippot who were engrossed in their chess game nearby.

"What's bothering you now?" I asked.

"Nothing, except your nips are hard, and those two men looked like they wanted to devour you, and they only stopped when I glared at them," he grumbled.

"You're being paranoid," I reassured him, giving his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Yeah, well, you're the reason I'm feeling this way," he told me bitterly. "We’re heading out for a walk on the boardwalk. Want to join us?"

"Let me finish this glass and freshen up, then I’ll join you."

After taking care of that, we both stepped into the elevator to descend to our floor. Another Orthodox man, sporting a classic black kippah atop his shiny bald head, joined us.

"Hello," he greeted me in a mix of Chassidishe ghetto accent and Estuary English, completely disregarding my husband, "Are you a model? Are you from London? You have a really long neck. I’m a jeweler. You should model my jewelry."

He handed me his card, and I offered a polite smile. My husband was seething as we exited the elevator, his ears turning red.

"I was just being polite," I defended myself.

"It’s just frustrating!" my husband exclaimed, snatching the jeweler’s business card from my hand, "You should be with a man like that and wear the Graff Pink Diamond Ring or Winston Blue Diamond Necklace."

"What's your fucking problem? Seriously," I retorted, exasperated, as we entered our room. I applied more hairspray to my hair and walked up to the window overlooking Tel Aviv, its skyline blackness studded with neon rainbows and illuminated apartment windows. Super gay. 

We took the elevator down to stroll the boardwalk of Sodom and Gomorrah. There were handsomely taut and tanned homosexuals greeting each other, occasionally grabbing tuchus. It all seemed appropriately biblical. 

We were strolling by the ports, mainly at the insistence of my father-in-law, who was eager to show us the site where the City of Tel Aviv planned to build the Jewseum. This was intended to be my father-in-law’s crowning achievement, his magnum opus. The design, a collaboration with Frank Gehry, promised to be striking: bold, white, and curvilinear, like the gefilte fish Gehry chowed on during his childhood. It was to be the ultimate Jewseum, distinct from the plethora of Holocaust museums already in existence. Lord knows we had enough of those. 

"We're making progress, and the fundraising has surpassed the critical stage, but the city administration is rife with incompetence, and there's concern about potential clashes with the attendance of another museum," my father-in-law explained.

"Well, let's hope for the best," my brother-in-law remarked.

"You've dedicated years to this project," my husband added.

I envisioned the ire this Jewseum would stoke among the self-proclaimed reactionaries I encountered in the Ocean. They would loathe this institution, I mused. It would serve as a reminder of their inadequacies and their failure to establish their coveted Herwolkien ethnostate. Gehry's architectural style would surely rankle them, given their steadfast adherence to Art Deco and their peasant-like disdain for anything contemporary. I had witnessed their somewhat understandable hate for the Dancing House in Prague firsthand. Truth be told, my admiration for Frank Gehry stemmed from his Santa Monica conservatory kitchen with pistachio cabinets. I wasn't even interested in the last building Gehry had planned to construct—a duo of towers in Toronto on King Street West. My father-in-law was considering buying a simple condo on the second-to-top floor as an investment and a pied-à-terre. I doubted whether Gehry was still actively involved in his projects, as he was old as shit, suspecting that young architects in his firm were the true masterminds behind the designs, with Gehry merely lending his name and brand to the projects. 

In any case, a museum celebrating Jewish achievements, flaunting them for all to see, even if skirting around the topic of the Shoah, would be perceived as anathema by many. I chuckled inwardly, reflecting on my dual existence in both the Ocean and on the Land.

I thought about the potential exhibits and how they would never include figures like Zev Zelenko, my favorite Jew at the time alongside Chaim Ben Pesach, who should have been a stand-up comedian despite my disdain for stand-up comedy. Zelenko, who passed away a month before I stood at that port, had cured hundreds of people with a simple yet effective protocol of hydroxychloroquine, zinc sulfate, and azithromycin.

I thought about the Jewish regression to the mean and assimilation, considering the types of Jews who would be showcased in the ultimate Jewseum of the future. Would it feature figures like Ben Shapiro, Bari Weiss, the Safdie Brothers, or perhaps another A24 Vetements wigger? What about Doja Cat or Costin Alamariu? And should there be an entire wing dedicated to mischlings in the museum? Maybe even a separate museum solely for mischlings? People like X, perhaps. Was it truly going to be the century of the mischling?

Would there be a Spinoza exhibit despite his cherem? Or what about others that wanted to free themselves from the manacles of this ontology and risked it all, even for a cherem, even to be accused of Sabbateanism? What about Uriel da Costa or Menasseh ben Israel? 

It's fascinating how Jewish historiography has gone from Rambam to Woody Allen to Ben Shapiro to Doja Cat, who I respect by the way.

Then, my brother-in-law and father-in-law retired for the night, leaving me alone with my husband. We walked in silence, morosely, narrowly avoiding collisions with yeshiva bochers racing on electric scooters, their tzitzit fluttering in the wind. 

As we strolled past the lively club-goers, I couldn't help but notice the contrast between my dress, which felt sexy in the hotel's atmosphere compared to the Orthodox guests, and the more revealing attire of the crowd on the Tel Aviv boardwalk.

"Have I wasted my youth?" I pondered aloud to my husband.

"You can always leave," he replied casually, and we continued our walk back to the hotel, the air thick with awkwardness. My feet ached, so I kicked off my heels and walked barefoot.

In the hotel lobby, we ordered tea. As I poured the steaming lemon ginger tea, my husband posed a hypothetical question, "If X appeared here right now, would you leave me and go with him?"

I hesitated, my thoughts drifting to the recent invasion of privacy when my husband rifled through my notes. With a loud slurp, I confessed, "Umm, I don’t know. I think I’d consider it, but ultimately fear would hold me back."

"You'd choose him over me," my spouse lamented, wringing his hands. "How did it come to this?"

"This is a pointless question," I retorted, growing frustrated. "He's not going to magically appear. He doesn't want to."

"What do you want?" my husband pressed.

"Shouldn't you already know?"

The truth is, I yearned to merge my soul with a man's, someone who wouldn't bow down to dybbukim. I craved the intimacy of another, to have him inside me, but equally, I longed to penetrate him. I wanted to feel small, insignificant even, like a mere kidney stone, shrinking until I could slip into the man's urethra, an irritating presence. I wanted the laser's precision to fragment me into smaller pieces, to be expelled into oblivion, flushed away without a trace, whether clockwise or counterclockwise—it didn't matter. Just to vanish, forever unseen.

The next morning, we set off to visit my husband’s aunt in Bat Yam, a warm-hearted woman named Rachel. It had been years since my last visit to Bat Yam, and the changes were striking. Even the local arsim, sporting cutoff jean shorts, gold Cuban links, and knockoff Dolce and Gabbana T-shirts, were parading along the boardwalk with three pomeranians in tow. Development seemed to be everywhere, with people snapping up condos priced at a minimum of three million shekels, only to find their waterfront views obscured by yet another construction project.

Rachel and Ofir's condo was fortunate to remain unobstructed by new developments. I vividly recall our arrival one Friday morning, just before the commencement of Shabbat, and the warm embrace of Rachel's greeting. Her scent, orange blossom water and dried roses, instantly transported me back to my childhood among Egyptian aunties.

As I slipped into my bikini, a van outside on the street blasted "Shalom Aleichem" from its speakers, the sound whirring against the backdrop of a Golden Spiral ramp leading into an underground garage. The music, with its Phrygian mode and distinctive half-step intervals, was almost polyphonic as tenors and baritones belted out the melody. I opened the blinds and looked past the grilled window, feeling trapped like a prisoner. On a ledge beneath the balcony awning, two pigeons nuzzled each other, their gentle cooing in stark contrast to my desire to die. In that moment, I inexplicably felt the weight of why I was never meant to live in Israel.

My husband and I made our way to the beach, where I couldn't help but notice that the people here lacked the attractiveness and charm of those on the beaches of Tel Aviv. However, amidst the crowd, I spotted a woman with a butterface but the largest Khazar milkers I'd ever seen. 

The landscape was marred by one tacky development after another. While these developments signaled economic growth, they lacked taste and sophistication. One particular condominium complex, wrapped with gold accents, seemed more suited to the skyline of Astana, Kazakhstan. Perhaps this was a result of the market influence from post-Soviet arrivals.

After a melancholic stroll, my spouse and I joined Rachel and Ofir for dinner, accompanied by my husband's Iraqi aunts from Ashkelon and Ashdod. Their presence was marked by the familiar scent of dried roses and orange blossom water, just like Rachel and my Egyptian aunties.

As we savored our meal, we recited the Birkat Hamazon, followed by evening prayers. To my surprise, my husband's aunties expressed admiration for my Hebrew reading skills, marveling at my speed and even commenting, "You sound Arab!"

As much as I appreciated the compliments, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at being told that I sounded Arab. It reminded me of my husband's family's history, how just two or three generations ago, they spoke Arabic before being forced to flee Baghdad during the Farhud and seeking refuge in Bombay, only to speak the Queen’s English. 

I would unfortunately always sound Arab and carry the marks of dhimmitude. 

It doesn’t matter if I’m Batya.

It doesn’t matter if I rescue infant Moses from the Nile. 

I’ll always be left behind in Egypt.  

Despite the warmth and kindness shown to me by these Likudniks and Shasniks, I couldn't shake the awareness that my blood ties to some of the people of Gaza, the fellaheen, might paint a different picture. It's a logical realization: given the ongoing tensions and conflicts, especially the aunties' firsthand experiences of enduring countless rocket attacks in Ashkelon, it's understandable that they might perceive someone like me as the enemy.

"If we don't kill them, then they'll slaughter us." Unfortunately, their words rang true. 

Leaving everything behind to join a group of people perceived as genocidal—a label that, unfortunately, may have some merit due to overkill and hostile neighbors—was a decision that set me apart from much of the world. I found myself in a nation disconnected from the illusion of peace heralded by the "End of History," an affront to the Messianic concept of Human Rights. Israel, often viewed as a satellite of the Global American Empire, received significant financial support, only to funnel much of it back to America. 

I encountered a society where homosexuality was not uncommon, but where individuals like Rachel still referred to autogynephiles as "transvestites."

"Are you guys going to go to Pride?" Rachel asked. "Lots of transvestites there. They are funny to look at."

I couldn't help but snicker at her comment, though it also reminded me of the peculiarities of Pride events in Israel. Even the pride flags here hadn't been updated to include the pink and blue symbolism of pharmaceutical castration.

Who am I to cast judgment on autogynephiles when I myself feel like a confused shtetl louse, an intrusive presence? I'm just as bewildered as these baroque homosexuals, albeit in different ways—existentially, spiritually. 

If I'm being completely honest with you, my dearest former friend A, I feel like I have no stake in this conflict. Every time I found myself in Israel, I longed to escape from my background and the religion I had adopted, wanting to vanish into the vastness of the Mesoamerican landscape. Yet, when the Mesoamerican land mass felt suffocating, I found myself desiring to wander as an enigma elsewhere. Perhaps I could retreat to Antarctica, I mused. Or maybe I could venture into Tartaria, disappearing into the abyss of Tartarus, never to be seen again.

Mesoamerica is Ancient Mesopotamia.

I don't want to be defined by labels—Arab, brown, Semitic, Jewish, African. Instead, I long to be translucent, impenetrable—a blank canvas upon which the world cannot impose its judgments or expectations.