So where does the little Jewish boy who doesn’t want to be a Jew belong?

by danaeelon

By Lisa Goldman

Photographs   Philip Touitou



On Saturday mornings in Tel Aviv, the cafes are full of customers. Sun lovers crowd the beaches. Saturday is, of course, the Jewish Sabbath; and Tel Aviv is Israel’s most Jewish city. But it is easier to find a kosher restaurant in Brooklyn than in the crown jewel of the Zionist project (which is how Tel Aviv is sometimes described), and the few synagogues are usually modest affairs, tucked back from the street. Tel Aviv is secular.

Jerusalem, on the other hand, is quiet and subdued on the Jewish Sabbath and the holy days. That is, Jewish-majority West Jerusalem is quiet. But east or west, this is a city associated with religion. Whereas in Tel Aviv one is hard-pressed to find a kosher restaurant, the reverse is true in Jerusalem. Non-kosher restaurants are tucked away, out of sight, and one can hardly walk 10 minutes without coming across a synagogue or a chapel – not to mention a church or a mosque.

On Saturdays, the most common sight in Jerusalem is that of men dressed in traditional Hasidic garb, or in the black suits and black fedoras of the non-Hasidic Orthodox, as they walk to and from their synagogues for morning and afternoon prayers.

In Tel Aviv, Hasidic men dressed in their traditional holy day garb — a fur hat and a belted, knee length black satin coat — are an incongruous sight. But that is exactly what one sees on Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Boulevard, the heart of the city’s most fashionable neighborhood. Whether walking briskly to and from synagogue in the morning or strolling languidly with their families during the afternoon, they are oblivious to the sleepy-eyed hipsters in flip flops who saunter along the boulevard with a coffee in one hand and a dog leash in the other.

In Tel Aviv the Hasidim rarely interact with their secular neighbors — not even to exchange courtesies. Nor are they hostile. By contrast, in Jerusalem tensions between the religious majority and the secular minority are an ongoing social problem. In some majority-religious neighborhoods, secular people are cursed and even physically attacked if they drive their cars through the Sabbath-quiet streets.

Hasidic Jews base their identity on their religious faith, its attendant practices and their Hasidic lifestyle. It is a portable identity that has almost nothing to do with their surroundings.

Secular Jews of Israel will tell you they are Jewish because their mothers are Jewish — and because they are native Hebrew speakers who served in the army, carry Israeli passports and are connected to the place they live in via family and community. That is not a portable identity. It is a synergy of religion (halacha, or Jewish religious law, rules that Jewish-ness is matrilineal) and nationalism.

Hasidic Jews have a very ambivalent relationship with Israel. They identify with the biblical Land of Israel, but not with the modern State of Israel. For secular Israelis, their identity is based on a combination of the two (religion and nationalism) with an emphasis on the latter — the modern state and its institutions.

If you want to see the starkest illustration of this difference between secular and religious, stand outside a Hasidic school, mid-morning on Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror, when the two-minute siren wails. All over the country, traffic comes to a complete halt. Even on the inter-urban highways, people get out of their cars to stand at attention. The hipsters in their flip-flops stand up at the cafes. Secular schoolchildren stand rigidly at attention in their classrooms or in their schoolyards. But the Hasidic schools are quiet. The teachers keep their pupils in their classroom, because Hasidim don’t stand for the siren. They think the practice is idolatrous, because it smacks of worshiping the state before God. But they don’t want to anger the secular Jews by seeming disrespectful. So they stay out of sight.

At the Hand in Hand School in Jerusalem, Arab and Jewish children learn about the narratives and tragedies of both peoples, and they are taught to respect both. This is a unique experiment in Israeli education, and it is controversial. Right wing extremists torched part of the school a couple of years ago to express their displeasure over Jews and Arabs attending school together in an atmosphere of mutual respect.

On Memorial Day at Hand in Hand, all the children stand for the siren; afterward, they can choose whether or not to attend the memorial ceremony. In P.S. Jerusalem, two seven year-old boys, one Arab and the other Jewish, best friends, choose to attend together. The camera lingers on their profiles as they sit side-by-side and watch intently while some older children sing a sad song about war and loss.

In subsequent scenes, the Jewish boy says he does not identify as a Jewish, but refuses to explain why — though there are hints to the reasons for his ambivalence scattered throughout the film. The little boy has seen and commented on Jewish settlers who take over the homes of evicted Palestinians in East Jerusalem. He knows that Jews become soldiers in Israel, and he has said he does not want to be a soldier. We never see him observing any Jewish religious rituals, either at home or at school. His family is secular, but also leftist and opposed to nationalist ideology in any form.

So where does the little Jewish boy who doesn’t want to be a Jew belong? What makes him Jewish? Why would he not want to identify as a Jew? These are questions that both the secular Jews of Tel Aviv and their Hasidic neighbors would probably find puzzling. They know who they are.

But for a child raised on universal ideas of social justice and human rights, living in a place where these ideals and rights are contingent on political ideology and military policy can pose existential questions that most adults would find daunting. So imagine the confusion of a seven year-old.


Notes 2: The Identity Racket

by danaeelon

Photographs by Philip Touitou

Three eighty-year-old olive trees are supported by three steel columns, fifteen meters above the ground. This environmental sculpture, called The Olive Park, on the outskirts of Kibbutz Ramat Rachel sits in what was once no mans land,  on the border of the green line with the West Bank.
To its right is a lucrative field of organic cherry trees belonging to the nearby kibbutz and maintained by foreign workers from Thailand. Between the cherry trees  and the Olive Park, a narrow road leads to the Palestinian village of Sur Baher on whose lands the cherry trees are now planted.

The park  is deserted.  I have always been amazed by this major public space placed ironically in one of the most contentious areas of the city.  Only five years ago, these  olive trees had the mesmerizing view of the single mine-field left by the municipality in place since 1967.  If one wonders how the Olive Trees survive, they are connected to an internal drip nozzle irrigation system.  I searched on-line for what the artist had in mind and found the following quote “The work deals with concepts of rootedness and disconnection that mark the complex relation of our civilization with the earth …Olive trees, ancient symbol of strength, fertility and peace, continue their life in a transplanted and disconnected state.” ( Ran Morin,  Environmental Sculpture.)

I discovered the park about ten years ago,  I had a motor bike at the time, and a particular hobby was to ride through unexplored areas of Jerusalem.  I was attracted to the seemingly afloat trees from afar, a dramatic view of the desert behind them. It was a hot summer day, and rather late in the afternoon.  I drove my scooter on to the dirt road leading to the pillars of concrete. I reached them, and looked around, listening to the crickets and watching the small  lizards racing about.  I felt I was in the opening chapter of  Camus’  “The Stranger”.  Then, in the distance behind me, under the Olive Trees I saw a young man. Just like in the book.  I must have been standing there for a few minutes when  the young man came up behind me.  The encounter did not feel particularly friendly, but, as I was studying Arabic at the time, I could think of nothing else to do but try speaking it,  Maybe  out of embarrassment or having nothing better to say.


P.S Jerusalem RIDM Montreal Premiere!

by danaeelon

RIDM Screening in Montreal. Please come out Montreal friends. We will all be present at the premiere and hope to have an interesting Q@A! Hope to see you there.

Here is the screening information:

17 NOV

21 NOV



Jewish Week Review and Interview

by danaeelon

Danae Elon honors her father by violating one of his final requests. She grew up as the only child of Amos and Beth Elon. Her father was the distinguished Israeli journalist and author of many books including “The Israelis: Founders and Sons,” published in 1970, the year Danae was born. A prominent intellectual and outspoken critic of the occupation, he grew disillusioned, and in 2002 left Israel for Italy, never to return. And he pleaded with his daughter to never go back either. He died in Tuscany in 2009.

Continue Reading…

Huffington Post review of P.S Jerusalem by Marcia G. Yerman

by danaeelon

P.S. Jerusalem: Danae Elon Returns Home

03/13/2017 06:19 pm ET

As an American Jew trying to deal with the stress of Trumpland, I can only imagine the psychological ramifications of living in Israel. As that country’s drift to the right preceded America’s, so did the heated rhetoric. We saw the American version in Trump’s campaign. Ironically, Yuval Rabin pointed to the similarities in an August 2016 editorial.

Danae Elon’s new documentary, “P.S. Jerusalem,” offers a bird’s-eye view of a society at war externally and internally. It is a three-year visual diary. Danae records her move from Brooklyn, New York back to the city of her childhood, Jerusalem.

P.S Jerusalem opening at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas in NY March 17

by danaeelon