I came to Israel because I thought the new state was all about getting it right: Zionist thinkers and political leaders were brimming with cosmic ambition. They seemed intent on showing the world what it means to create a country that is at once a secure state and a refuge, a welcoming new home for strangers. To my adolescent eyes it seemed clear that such an experiment would necessarily entail establishing the best modes of social, political and economic organization. Secular Jews in Israel would insist on such things, driven by the prevailing idea that Jewish morality itself needed to find secular expression. The concept that drew me in, along with hundreds of thousands of Jews and non-Jews alike, was the possibility that we could show the world what it means to found a country upon this morality, which Judaism had long ago introduced to the world.
This was the intense, and I’d argue virtuous, spirit that permeated Israel at the time. Which is not to suggest that when I arrived in Tel Aviv in the late summer of 1969 everything was perfect. It was, in fact, far removed from the rather blurry image that I had packed into my duffle bag when I left my parents’ home in Toronto. But it was also a good approximation, a believable beginning. There was, to my chagrin, not a single decent snooker table, not a single croissant or movie theatre in all the land. And yet this experiment in creating a state spilled forth sufficient promise to keep us all there, noses to the grindstone, or in my case for the next three years, eyes to the sights of a rifle, as I did my stint in an elite unit of the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF).
Every scholar and artist, every social activist and politician, seemed bent on looking in on Israel’s grand experiment, seeing for himself what exactly was happening there, trying and failing to define precisely where it was that this country thought it was headed. For the next few years—until October of 1973 and the Yom Kippur War—this idealistic spirit of experimentation was everywhere. It was present in the twinkling eye of our grandparents, in the cold, witty pragmatism of my parents’ generation, and in the innocence of my own generation, who had not experienced and were not privy to the real story of the great conflict between “our” version of the war of independence and the “Naqba,” or Catastrophe, which was how the Palestinians remembered things.