The Place of the Mediterranean in Modern Israeli Identity (Jewish Identities in a Changing World)

The Place of the Mediterranean in Modern Israeli Identity

Jewish Identities in a Changing World General Editors

Eliezer Ben-Rafael and Yosef Gorny

VOLUME 11

The Place of the Mediterranean in Modern Israeli Identity By

Alexandra Nocke

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009

Cover Image: Tel Aviv, 2006, Alexandra Nocke. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Nocke, Alexandra. The Place of the Mediterranean in modern Israeli identity / Alexandra Nocke. p. cm. — ( Jewish identities in a changing world ; vol. 11) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17324-8 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. National characteristics, Israeli. 2. Israel—Civilization—Mediterranean influences. 3. Mediterranean Region—Civilization. 4. Israel—Intellectual life. I. Title. II. Series. DS113.3.N63 2009 303.48'2569401822—dc22

2009002162

ISSN 1570-7997 ISBN 978 90 04 17324 8 Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

To Tilda Aviva who makes my world go round

CONTENTS List of Illustrations ...................................................................... Foreword (by David Ohana) ...................................................... Acknowledgements .....................................................................

ix xiii xix

Prologue: Israel and I ................................................................. Toward the Sea: An Approach ..................................................

1 5

Chapter One Introduction: Point of Departure ............................................... 1. Longing to Find a Place .................................................... a) The Israeli Place ........................................................... b) The Popularity of Yam Tikhoniut ............................... 2. State of Research and Sources .......................................... a) The Annales and Fernand Braudel: A French Historiographical Revolution ....................... b) Orientalism: The Mental Map of the Orient .............. c) How to Capture Yam Tikhoniut? ................................

36 40 41

Chapter Two Tracing Yam Tikhoniut in Contemporary Israel ...................... 1. Yam Tikhoniut in Academic Discussions ......................... 2. Art and Popular Culture ................................................... a) Music and the Emergence of Locality ......................... b) Literature ....................................................................... c) Visual Arts ..................................................................... 3. Lived Yam Tikhoniut ........................................................ a) Climate .......................................................................... b) Architecture ................................................................... c) Cuisine ........................................................................... d) Advertisement ...............................................................

45 46 54 56 77 89 97 105 108 120 129

Chapter Three Mapping Yam Tikhoniut ........................................................... 1. Personal Yam Tikhoniut: “It is home, the origin of my parents and the air that I breathe” ...........................................

15 17 20 25 33

137 139

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2. Locality Model: “Hold on to what there is” .......................... 142 3. Synthesis Model: “A cultural bridge enhancing political dialogue” ............................................................................... 150 4. Socioeconomic Model: “To turn points of friction into points of partnership” ....................................................................... 157 5. Critical Voices ................................................................... 159 a) Romanticized Model: “An invention by outside observers and imposed on Israeli society” ............................... 160 b) Escapism: “A Mediterranean Pleasure Cruise” .................... 162 c) Fear of Levantinization: “We will be lost within a terrible Levantine dunghill ” ................................................. 165 d) Diluted Mizrahiut: “Polishing up the Mizrahi Image” ....... 167 e) Yam Tikhoniut as Anti-Americanism? “Resistance to global ‘McDonaldization’ ” ................................................. 169 Conclusion .................................................................................. 172 Chapter Four Perceptions of the Mediterranean Region ................................. 1. Real and Imagined Places: Mediterranean, Orient, and Levant 2. Zionism and Its Perceptions of the ‘East’ ......................... 3. Zionism Reconsidered ....................................................... 4. Looking Back: Revival of the Past .................................... a) The Canaanite Movement ............................................ b) Regional Parallels: The Phoenicians ............................ c) Jaqueline Kahanoff ....................................................... 5. Political Locus: The Barcelona Process .............................. Conclusion ..................................................................................

175 177 184 194 198 200 208 217 224 236

Mediterraneanism is Taking Shape—An Outlook ....................

239

Appendix ..................................................................................... Remarks on Transliteration, Translation, and Quotation .... Table of Interview Partners ...................................................

251 251 251

Glossary ....................................................................................... Bibliography ................................................................................ Index ........................................................................................... Plates .........................................................................................

261 265 275 281

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Fig. 1 Shabbat on the Tel Aviv waterfront promenade, 1966, Micha Bar-Am Courtesy of Micha Bar-Am Fig. 2 General view of the women’s bathing area: dressing-rooms and the casino ‘Galei Aviv’ in the background, 1927, Shimon Korbman By special permission of the Administrator General, the State of Israel, as the executor of the Shimon Korbman estate & the Eretz-Israel Museum, Tel Aviv Fig. 3 Self-portrait with water pipe at the shores of Tel Aviv, 1920s, Shimon Korbman By special permission of the Administrator General, the State of Israel, as the executor of the Shimon Korbman estate & the Eretz-Israel Museum, Tel Aviv Fig. 4 Lifeguards at Frishman-beach, 1949, Rudi Weissenstein Rudi Weissenstein, Prior Photohouse, 30 Allenby St., Tel Aviv, Israel Fig. 5 Tel Aviv Beach, July 1949, Paul Goldman Collection Spencer M. Partrich Fig. 6 Seashore in Tel Aviv, 1931, Nahum Gutman Courtesy of the Gutman Museum of Art, Tel Aviv Fig. 7 Beach promenade on a Saturday afternoon, 1950s, Boris Carmi The Boris Carmi Archive and the copyrights of his photographs in this publication are owned by Meitar Collection Ltd.

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Fig. 8 Tel Aviv, seen from Jaffa, 1953, Boris Carmi The Boris Carmi Archive and the copyrights of his photographs in this publication are owned by Meitar Collection Ltd. Fig. 9 Lottery of Achusat Bayit housing plots, Tel Aviv, 1909, Avraham Soskin Avraham Soskin Collection, Eretz-Israel Museum, Tel Aviv Fig. 10 Conference flyer ‘Spatial Identity’ with a portrait of Jacqueline Kahanoff, 2001 Courtesy of David Ohana, conference organizer Fig. 11 Conference flyer ‘Mediterranean Idea,’ 2001 Courtesy of Irad Malkin, conference organizer Fig. 12 Tea Packs CD cover ‘Neshika la-Dod,’ designed by Aya Ben-Ron, 1997 Courtesy of Anana Ltd. Fig. 13 Tea Packs CD cover ‘Disco Menayak’, designed by Rami Levinson, 1999 Courtesy of Anana Ltd. Fig. 14 Advertising campaign by the satellite TV provider Yes for the Brisa channel, 2000 Courtesy of Yes Satellite TVs Fig. 15 Screenshot from the Brisa broadcast of ‘Lishpokh et ha-lev,’ 2000 Courtesy of Yes Satellite TV Fig. 16 Pinwheel Vendor, (1923–1925), Reuven Rubin Courtesy of Carmela Rubin, Rubin Museum Tel Aviv

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Fig. 17 This is our Place in the Mediterranean, 1999, Yehudith Bach Courtesy of the Bach family, Israel Fig. 18 Refreshing tissue, Bruno’s Restaurant, 2002 Courtesy of Bruno managment Fig. 19 The Aviv—the City that never stops, poster designed by David Tartakover for the Israeli Ministry of Tourism, 1992 Courtesy of David Tartakover, Tel-Aviv Fig. 20 Screenshot from the Brisa broadcast of ‘Ba-Mitbah im-Margol,’ 2000 Courtesy of Yes Satellite TV Fig. 21 Postcard stand in Tel Aviv, Shlomo Arad, 2008 Courtesy of Shlomo Arad Fig. 22 Table mat at a seaside restaurant in Jaffa, 2001 Author’s private collection, Berlin Fig. 23 Restaurant in Tel Aviv, 2005 Author’s photograph, author’s private collection, Berlin Fig. 24 Advertisement for Mediterranean Koos-Koos, 1999, by the company Osem Reproduced with permission of Osem Food Industries/Nestle Israel Fig. 25 Potato chip bag ‘Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni,’ Israel, 2003 Courtesy of Elite, Israel

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Fig. 26 Potato chip bag ‘Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni,’ Israel, 2003 (backside, detail enlarged) Courtesy of Elite, Israel Fig. 27 Potato chip bag ‘Mediterráneas,’ Sweden, 2003 Courtesy of Lay’s Fig. 28 Potato chips bag ‘Mediterráneas,’ Greece, 2004 Courtesy of Lay’s Fig. 29 Chart showing Stef Wertheimer’s vision for the Mediterranean Courtesy of Stef Wertheimer, Iscar

FOREWORD Societies in their early stages pass through a dynamic phase of molding their cultural identity. This process has always provided a fascinating scientific basis for sociological, anthropological and cultural research. Alexandra Nocke identifies Israel as a Mediterranean society-in-themaking. In this detailed and comprehensive work she reviews the origins of Israel’s Mediterranean identity, starting with its Zionist ideological origins, and taking us up to the present, as Israel struggles with what it means to be a post-ideological Mediterranean country. How do Israelis define their collective identity in the region? Do they belong to the Middle East? to Europe? to the global village? Or perhaps they do not have to choose between the local and the global? Many of them could easily identify with a Mediterranean consciousness and represent a complex synthesis of east and west. The establishment and consolidation of a coherent and distinctive Israeli identity has been a remarkable historical feat. It would have been virtually impossible without the ability to harness such potent ‘myths’ as the in-gathering of the exiles, the up-building of Zion as a model society, the creation of a new Hebrew or “Jewish” type and an over-arching vision of national redemption. Even without the devastating blow of the Holocaust and the wall of Arab-Muslim hostility that confronted the new Israeli state, the challenge of constructing a collective identity in Israel would have been formidable. To convert an urban-based diasporic people whose cohesion had already been significantly eroded by cultural assimilation into a “normal” nation rooted in its own land with Hebrew as its language was a huge task even under the most favorable circumstances. The ideological synthesis of socialist Zionism and the myths that shaped Israeli society in its early years reflected many of these imperatives, constraints and challenges. The emphasis on national security, unity, rootedness, pioneering settlement and military virtues as well as the priority given to the ideology of the “melting pot,” seemed appropriate to the pressing imperatives of survival under adverse conditions. Israelis can promote a geopolitical and cultural dialogue that will involve the eastern and the southern shores of the Mediterranean.

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The conflict between the Palestinians and Israelis today is part of a situation in which the Mediterranean region is engulfed in national, political, ethnic, and religious conflicts that have contributed to a destabilization not only in the area but even in Europe and beyond. Against this backdrop, the Mediterranean option can play a key cultural and political role in re-stabilizing this tense environment and creating a new geo-strategic alignment. The idea of the Mediterranean as a cultural-political entity that holds together a multiplicity of ethnic, religious-cultural and economic units predates late twentieth-century proposals and programs of the type issuing from Brussels, Barcelona, Malta or Paris. Earlier ideas of the Mediterranean were informed by realities of trade, conquest, migration and subtler geographical affinities that were conducive to a regional unity though never to uniformity or to political unification. Whether or not this collective regional identity was disturbed (as is argued in Henri Pirenne’s famous thesis) by the Moslem conquest is an important historiographical issue for investigation. But, whether as the result of this conquest, of early modern imperialism, or of other social forces—both prior to and following the Enlightenment in Europe—it clear that the older idea of the Mediterranean gave way to a more parochial, nationalist mare nostrum conception. In contrast with other contentious images such as the Zionist-Crusader analogy, “Mediterraneanism” has the reputation of being a source of dialogue between the East and West. It is true that the annals of the Mediterranean Basin record an ongoing conflict for political hegemony, cultural control and economic imperialism. Yet, despite these historical confrontations, the Mediterranean includes both the Levant and the West, and out of this synthesis it created a space which did not give rise to a hegemonic and all-inclusive culture with a single, homogenous character. Instead it created a variety of historical models of cultural meetings and intellectual exchanges. The Mediterranean, without being a homogenous cultural unit, has historically been a region with an intense mixture of Eastern and Western cultures. Shelomo Dov Goitein claimed that Jews were Mediterranean people—open, free, mobile, not isolated in their corner of Southern Asia but dwelling in countries which inherited classical culture and assimilated it to Islamic culture. In his monumental five-volume study, A Mediterranean Society, Goitein described the medieval Jewish society living within the Mediterranean geographical and cultural framework.

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Nocke’s work on Israeli society can be read as a modern adaptation of the Goitein thesis. Nocke’s book is an excellent illustration of the most recent and influential study, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, by Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell. Their book sees the Mediterranean as a network of “micro” regions, each of them representing a Mediterranean microcosm. In this context, Nocke displays a sharp insight into the tensions between Jerusalem on the mountain and Tel Aviv on the shore, characterized as a “micro” region as well as a case study for the Horden and Purcell thesis. The cultural survey that Nocke conducts of the contemporary visual arts, popular music, literature, architecture, etc., in Israel reveals the young Israeli society as a vividly Mediterranean one. Professor Goitein’s notion of a Mediterranean society, depicting the collective identity and structure of Jewish existence during the middle Ages, described Mediterranean life without proposing a political program or a recommendation. Similarly, Fernand Braudel’s study of 16th century Mediterranean life as a single cultural, geographic and economic unit represented a bold historiographic innovation that did not constitute a political recommendation either. Nevertheless, Braudel’s analysis has created a changed perception of the Mediterranean which has been used increasingly since the 1980’s by political leaders and regional visionaries as the basis of a program of socio-cultural change not envisioned by either of these scholars. The Mediterranean dialogue has three facets: creating a new agenda that will confront the most threatening dangers currently at hand; revealing and examining the common heritage of the peoples of the region; and creating new channels of communication based on their reciprocal influences and interactions. The time has come to examine and evaluate the Mediterranean option for Israel, an Israeli geopolitical and cultural policy for peace in the Middle East. The Mediterranean cultural discourse seeks to detach the region from conflict and to fashion a broader cultural framework in which Israelis and their Arab neighbors are not alone with each other, but work together in a broader context and partnership. In other words, it is an attempt to create a dialogue that has a different perspective and focus. Such a broad perspective, with its strategic orientation, has been missing from the scholarly literature on the Mediterranean basin. The contribution of Alexandra Nocke is to take the emerging Mediterranean identity of the Israelis—a multi-cultural, heterogenic,

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mixed society, situated between east and west—as a point of departure. What lessons can be learned from examining its characteristics? Can this Mediterranean model be projected onto the entire region in order to develop strategies for evolving a unified but polycentric Mediterranean civil society? The idea that Israel is a Mediterranean society in the making has been encouraged by three historical processes. The first process was the frequent fluctuations in the peace process between Israel and its neighbors in the last decade, and the state of confrontation culminating in the current conflict with the Palestinians that erupted in October 2000. The conflict raised questions concerning the dynamics of Israeli collective identity and what may be called the “Israeli spatial identity”. Many Israelis have thus started to think in terms of “Mediterraneanism” rather than in terms of “Middle Eastern” culture. Such thinking was assisted by Israeli accessibility to the southern and eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea—i.e., Turkey and the Maghreb in the 1990s. The second process was the transition of Israeli society from a mobilized and ideological society to a civil, sectorial society, one that is in constant search for its own identity while it tries to maintain an internal dialogue among its various sociological components, and, in addition, an external dialogue with other people and cultures in the Mediterranean geopolitical region. The ideology of the “new man” gave way to the old-new idea of a non-ideological Mediterranean melting pot blending together immigrants from east and west, from the Christian countries and the Muslim countries. Zionism sprang up against the background of the rise of nationalism, the spread of secularism and the dominance of Eurocentricity. One of the chief cultural ambitions of the Zionist movement was to create a “new man”. But this ideological myth, when finally fulfilled, was applied to a nation which was made up of people of flesh and blood: people who, for sixty years now, have constituted a society on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea. Their new identity is not ideologically based; it is constructed out of geography and culture. The third process was the revolutionary opportunity for dialogue in the Oslo Accords (1993), the Barcelona Process (1995) and Nicolas Sarkozy’s Union of the Mediterranean (2008). The Oslo Accords were in principle based on two parallel channels: the immediate bilateral channel which focused on resolving the disputes of the past and ending the war between Israel and its Arab neighbors; and the multilateral channel. The latter provided a basis for (and strengthened) the bilateral

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channel by creating a safety net together with other actors and by developing common interests and coping with common problems such as water supply, economic growth, disarmament and environmental issues. The new initiative of the French president Sarkozy, based on a plan for the political, economic and cultural union of the states bordering the Mediterranean, was launched at the Paris Conference on July 14, 2008. The invitation to Israel to participate in the Mediterranean Union represents another chance of dialogue between Israel and its Arab neighbors, this time under the Mediterranean umbrella. Until the past few years, the Mediterranean option had almost disappeared from the debate surrounding Israeliness. Hebrew literary historiographies, for example, which are widely considered to be exercises in canonization, defined the boundaries of a virtual ‘republic of letters’, a formulation that contributed greatly to the shaping of Israeli society. The writers, poets, and essayists within this virtual territory were given their due share of attention, and those who were excluded from it were regarded as “others”. The voice of many of these others— such as Arabs and Israeli Jews of oriental descent—was not heard directly but only via the citizens of the said “republic”. The citizens spoke, and the “others” were heard. The Mediterraneans, however, were not even recognized as “others”, but were instead excluded from the discourse altogether. Any dominant or hegemonic culture invariably generates some form of “other”, a necessary contrast or opposition by which it defines itself. It also results in a disappearance or an absence. A classic example of this historiographical absence is the author and essayist Jacqueline Kahanoff (1917–1979) and her relation to the Mediterranean option. Kahanoff played an active role in the debate on Israel’s Mediterranean identity. As a precursor or as an intellectual personality, she may still become a yardstick for an understanding of the different forms of identity in Israel’s culture-in-the-making, of questions of East and West and the intermediate areas, and of the place of Israel in the Mediterranean geo-cultural space. Could it be that we needed Kahanoff then and Nocke today in order to learn how to transform masculine Zionism into a Mediterranean Israeliness which is pluralistic and moderate? In the book Jewish Topographies, Visions of Space, Traditions of Space (2008), which Nocke co-edited, the following questions were raised: How have the Jews experienced their environments and how have they related to specific places? How do Jewish spaces emerge, how are they used and contested? In Yam Tikhoniut: the Place of the Mediterranean in Modern

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Israeli Identity, Nocke goes even further and asks what the Israeli space is. In so doing, she focuses on the Israeli “places” and sheds light on the Israeli-Mediterranean habitus. Indeed, when Alexandra Nocke came from the banks of the Rhine to the Eastern Mediterranean in order to investigate the living reality of the Mediterranean Israeli society for her doctoral dissertation, cosupervised by the Historian Irad Malkin, she wrote: “My thesis is that the life between these two worlds (East and West) in the Mediterranean region offers many opportunities for Israel to become integrated into the Middle East without being cut off from the West. The Mediterranean option, which still appears unfocussed today, is based on common cultural roots, on consensus instead of divergence, on dialogue instead of cultural conflict. As a foreign observer of Israel’s quest for identity and consensus, I believe that Israel’s future is linked to the Mediterranean dimension that embraces the East and the West, while offering a chance for acculturation and dialogue and mutual nurturing.” The Mediterranean option offers a dialogue, not a cultural war. It proposes a voyage, a slow and reflective voyage, a journey between shores and not a cultural war in which, as in all wars, there are only losers. It is a journey within the space of our own consciousness, to our cultural and intellectual origins, to the landscape of our own sea. It is a journey, not a flight from our im mediate neighborhood, the Arabs and the Palestinians. We are traveling to the space where everything was born: western and eastern civilization, monotheism and Hellenism, the polis and the Renaissance, the Old and the New Testament. The Mediterranean option for Israeli society represents a philosophical challenge, a socio-cultural identity and a political program. Nocke’s pioneering book takes us on this journey. David Ohana Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Writing this book has been a rewarding challenge. It came into being in a wide variety of places, among them Germany, Israel, Iceland, and the United States. I would have never been able to accomplish this work without the support of many individuals who accompanied me at the different stages of my research, as well as institutions that provided co-financing and assisted me generously in other ways as well. During the years when the work on this project took place, I received help from many friends and scholars—I wish to thank them all for their contributions to this project by giving me moral support and academic advice. First and foremost, I am indebted to the editors of this series, Yosef Gorny, Segal Professor of the History of European Jewry and Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Weinberg Professor of Sociology, both of Tel Aviv University, who integrated my work on Yam Tikhoniut into their approach to Contemporary Jewish Identities in a Changing World. I am thankful for their encouragement and the thoughtful suggestions they made for this volume’s final revisions. I am especially grateful for the support I received from two of my teachers, who also supervised my doctoral dissertation, on which this book is based: Julius H. Schoeps, director of the Moses Mendelssohn Center at Potsdam University, who was always encouraging and provided me with an inspiring academic framework that enabled me to concentrate fully on my academic work; and Irad Malkin, Maxwell Cummings Family Chair for Mediterranean History and Cultures at Tel Aviv University, whose advice accompanied me throughout the years and was a source of continuous inspiration. At Tel Aviv University he warmly welcomed me to the Center for Mediterranean Civilizations Project and made sure that I had a pleasant working environment, making my year of research (2000/2001), which was kindly supported by a grant from the Israeli Foreign Ministry, as fruitful as possible. The Potsdam-based research group Makom: Place and Places in Judaism. The Meaning and Construction of Place References in European Jewish Culture from the Enlightenment to the Present, financed by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG—German Research Foundation), provided me with a generous scholarship and was for several years my academic home. This study was very much nurtured by the intellectual exchange within the Makom

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research group of dedicated scholars, and I offer my thanks to all of them. In addition, I would like to thank the Ben-Gurion Research Center at Ben-Gurion University in Sde Boker (Israel) for their invitation and their warm hospitality during my research stay from January to May 2003. The interaction with distinguished scholars there, in combination with the beautiful landscape, was inspiring and helped me to formulate my thoughts and ideas. I would especially like to thank Michael Feige and David Ohana at the Center for their continuous support, inspiration and friendship, as well as Tuvia Friling for his wonderful notion that I actually go to the desert in order to write. However, it was Joachim Schlör, Chair for Jewish/non-Jewish Relations at the University of Southampton, who offered the initial (and ongoing) encouragement to embark upon this journey and search for the manifestations of the Mediterranean in modern Israel. I am thankful for his continuous support and was always inspired by his deep dedication to the quest for all the little pieces that eventually form the whole picture. At crucial junctures along the way many colleagues and friends have read different sections of the manuscript at various stages of its development and have given me valuable comments and suggestions. I am especially indebted to Julia Brauch and Anna Lipphardt, with whom I traveled on the “Jewish Topographies Road.” They were both a source of inspiration, practical, and moral support: Anna with her creative mind and sharp analytical thinking, Julia with her thoughtfulness, bright critique, and remarkable ability to master the nerve-racking final steps of formatting a manuscript. Also, I would like to thank Ines Sonder and Stephan Stetter for their insightful comments and their encouragement. I am thankful to my wonderful Israeli friends, who opened many doors for me and provided me with a second home during the times I stayed in Israel. I am especially grateful to Nava Semel, who is a continuous source of inspiration, to Yoram Kaniuk for taking me on journeys through time while sitting in Café Tamar, and Shlomo Shwa, who strolled with me through the streets of his beloved Tel Aviv. My warm thanks also to David Tartakover, Shlomo Arad, and Micha Bar-Am, who provided me not only with great advice when it came to the visual representations of the Meditarranean, but also with valuable material from their rich personal archives. Also, during my stays in Israel I received many insights on Friday nights, when I was kindly

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invited to join the table of Rachel and Uri Avnery and their friends in a small café on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv. The lively discussions there with intellectuals from Tel Aviv’s cultural sphere have helped me to frame my writing and thinking. Further, I would like to thank Carmela Rubin, Yaacov Shavit, Sasson Somekh, Gili Gofer, and Margalith Shacham for providing me with contacts, valuable research material and images, as well as Bernhard Hillenkamp, for giving me insight into his fascinating world in Beirut. In addition, I am indebted to my numerous interview partners, who kindly agreed to share their thoughts with me. Many thanks also to all those individuals and institutions who granted permission to print their images. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Paula Ross of Words by Design, Berlin, who proofread the manuscript prior to its submission. Her thoroughness, keen eye, insightful comments, and power of judgment far exceeded the task she was assigned. Special thanks go to Ari Philipp as well as to Esti Simmons who helped me to move about freely in the Hebrew, English and German world of languages. Further, I would like to thank all participants of the Potsdam-based research group Makom, who supported me along the way, especially Mimi Lipis, Barbara Rösch, and Jens Neumann for reading earlier drafts of this study and for making many useful remarks. I am grateful for having had the opportunity to immerse myself in this research on Yam Tikhoniut, walk the seaside promenade in Tel Aviv, sit in coffee houses, and trace Israel’s Lived Yam Tikhoniut. Along the way, I met wonderful people and heard many captivating stories that have remained with me ever since. My greatest thanks however are due to the people closest to me. Without their love and understanding I would not have been able to complete this project: my husband Olaf Aue, who patiently waited for me to return from my manifold field trips and always ensured the right balance in my life, as well as Karin and Wolfgang Nocke, who are always at my side and support me in every conceivable way. Alexandra Nocke Berlin, June 2008

PROLOGUE: ISRAEL AND I To use a phrase coined by Fernand Braudel—I came from the lands ‘beyond the olive trees,’ to trace the Mediterranean topos and its forms of appearance. As an outside observer, growing up and living far away from the sea, I am exploring the public discourse on the Mediterranean in Israel and trying to explicate the multidimensional debate taking place in Israel’s present. This debate is embedded in the discussion concerning Israeli identity and national ethos and deals with an alternative concept for society. So one could call this a ‘participant observation of an outsider from within’ that comes alive in the multiplicity of descriptions and comments that will be linked with each other in this study. The past is omnipresent in Israel and the traumatic memories of the Holocaust are one of the core elements of Israel’s identity. Yet, despite the load of the past (or precisely for this reason) I encountered an extreme sense of the present in Israel and was fascinated by a certain kind of energy and dynamism that infuses every aspect of life. Thus, in this study I will explicitly focus on domestic issues concerning both the present and the future of the state. In doing so, I wish to illuminate an innerIsraeli discussion related to daily life, which when compared to the media coverage of subjects related to the Holocaust or the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, is clearly not adequately represented. Thus, I hope to contribute to a better understanding of such domestic issues as identity formation that take place within the complex Israeli society. During my field studies I generally observed the desire among my dialogue partners to talk about Israel without the constant presence of the easily irritable subject of German-Jewish or German-Israeli relations, which encouraged me in my approach. Based on my observations, the fact that I am German seemed of minor importance: the main reactions I encountered were curiosity and sympathy, my national identity aside. During my stays in Israel I lived in Tel Aviv, the icon of Israeli Yam Tikhoniut. Tel Aviv became the home base for my explorations; for this reason many examples I discuss in this study are located there. Over the years the city witnessed a transformation of my naïve fascination with the complex structure of the Israeli narrative to a scholarly project intent on capturing an Israeli phenomenon through the eyes of an outsider. From a series of sometimes unfocused wanderings through the streets of Tel Aviv —and therefore through the different personal stories embedded in the city itself—this project on Mediterraneanism arose. Walks and strolls, and numerous other observations, experiences, and discussions I had with my Israeli friends and colleagues over the years, became an integral part of the following analysis and influenced my perception of the Israeli Makom. Much like the influence that Tel Aviv can have on a visitor, as Joachim Schlör has described, it

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also affected my observations: “(. . .) this city has a special way of engaging all the senses: it heightens our seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling and touching, and also our imagination.”1 I am deeply indepted to Schlör’s sensual approach, as the perceptions of my object of study have also been enhanced and inspired by the human and personal stories I encountered. Back in Berlin, with an enormous amount of unorganized material, including 74 interviews, I first defined my own position within the following analysis: in this endeavor to observe Israel’s public discourse on Yam Tikhoniut I will first try to structure and comment on the current discussion. All of the diverse opinions and evaluations involved in the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in Israel are compiled in this analysis. The interviews conducted during my field studies in Israel form the main reference point of this study. These primary sources were either incorporated as direct quotations in my analysis, or were evaluated and used as background information material. All original quotations and paraphrases, which are not directly followed by a footnote giving the reference to the source, originate from interviews conducted during my field research between 2000 and 2005 in Israel. Even in the process of choosing my interview partners, a passionate, often agitated discussion over Yam Tikhoniut’s various characteristics could be observed. There is no consensus on defining the crucial terms in this discussion, and expressions like Mizrahiut,2 Orientalism, Arabness, Mediterraneanism, or Levantinism are sometimes combined or even confused with each other. The only constant factor is that the Mediterranean concept is still in its formative period. Each of my interview partners represents a piece of a mosaic, the whole of which I hope this book will eventually

Joachim Schlör, Tel Aviv: From Dream to City (London: Reaktion Books, 1999), 9. The term ‘Mizrahi’ meaning ‘East’ (Mizrahiut: Easternness, today meaning Jewish oriental culture) generally denominates those Israeli Jews, the Mizrahim, who arrived from North Africa (especially Morocco) and the Arab states of the Middle East (e.g., Yemen, Ethiopia, Iraq, Syria). Leftist Mizrahi intellectuals coined the term in the 1980s and it has since entered the public discourse in Israel and continues to be used as a category of identity. Today the term basically refers to everything ‘not-Ashkenazi’ among the diverse ethnic groups in Israel, and is in fact very imprecise. Nevertheless, while using the term ‘Mizrahi’ in my study I am aware, that it indicates complex and multilayered ethnicities and individual identities, whose examination is beyond the scope of this analysis. Mizrahiut is oriental Israeliness and implies a position of ethnicity. Alternatively, the term Sephardi (Sepharad is the traditional Hebrew name for Spain, Sepharadi meaning Hispanic) is often used in Israeli public discourse to indicate the non-Ashkenazi population. I have refrained from using the term Sepharadi since it technically refers to the large Jewish communities who trace their lineage back to the Spanish/Iberian population and spread throughout North Africa, the Balkans, Turkey etc. Bernhard Lewis called this group of non-European Jews ‘The Jews of Islam’. See Bernard Lewis, The Jews of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984). Jews from central and East European communities are commonly called ‘Ashkenazi’ (Ashkenaz is the Hebrew name for medieval Germany). 1 2

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reveal. The approach I have taken is one of building bridges between the different statements offered in the interviews, sorting them thematically, establishing different categories based on these themes, and then commenting on the different contributions. By doing so, my main focus will be to explore the reasons behind the fierceness and intensity of this debate, one that is often personal, sometimes politically motivated, or simply economically driven. Let me briefly turn to the circumstances under which this book was written. Political and security issues are an integral part of Israeli existence. They are the subjects of radio news broadcasts, and political discussions, stories and reports in the weekend newspapers, including their popular supplements. In other words, they are interwoven in everyday life, and therefore, also accompanied my fieldwork in Israel. However, the escalation of violence during my one-year stay in 2000–2001, and during my follow-up visits in 2002 and 2003, influenced my fieldwork less than one might have expected. In fact, continuing my research stay despite the increase in violence—and the outbreak of the Second Gulf War in March 2003—garnered warm responses from most of my interview partners. Some mentioned that the opportunity to discuss the ‘beautiful Mediterranean and its conciliatory potential’ was an appreciated change from the monothematic public discourse on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Yet, the deteriorating security situation, the heightened levels of fear, distrust, and hopelessness could not of course fail to deeply affect the atmosphere in which I was conducting my research as well as the ‘spirit’ of those I was close to and those with whom I talked. Escapism, fatigue, bitterness, and weariness were very apparent, resulting in increasing disillusionment and disappointment. This volume must be read within the context of these vicious cycles of violence and counterviolence. Because of the constant and rapid changes in Israeli politics, I have not engaged in any detailed analysis of present-day events. Rather, I have adopted the perspective of the longue durée as I examine the manifestations of the emerging Mediterranean Idea that are at the heart of this study. I argue that until recently the engagement with the political and strategic entity ‘Middle East’ has been vital for Israel because the Israeli-Palestinian conflict revolves around this specific geographical unit. However, Yam Tikhoniut—the Mediterranean Option—to be analyzed here, allows us to take a step back from this perception of realpolitik and offers other perspectives on Israel’s present and future. It also suggests new approaches to the question of Israel’s political and cutural locus and provides alternatives that could eventually lead to the end of Israel’s isolation in the region. The Mediterranean Option allows Israel to perceive itself in the context of a larger regional framework that at the same time takes aspects of cultural alignment and identity formation into consideration. Even though Mediterranean regionalism is in vogue both inside and outside of Israel (in fact, awareness and popularity of the concept can be found throughout the Western world), the critical role it can play in guiding, shaping, and influencing the path to Israel’s future cannot be overestimated.

TOWARD THE SEA: AN APPROACH Deep blue water. On a clear day the plane approaches Israel and suddenly the coastline appears, hazy at the horizon. Still too far away, it is hard to spot any familiar sights along the coast. From up here, Israel looks like one long narrow strip along an extended shoreline, a country with a high coast-to-land ratio, cutoff from its hinterland. In those minutes during the landing approach, the stories of those who came long before in order to stay for good become visible to the mind’s eye. Countless immigrants approached the land by air or by water, and the first sight of Erez Israel, be it the Carmel mountains near Haifa, the port of Jaffa, or later the port in North Tel Aviv, produced excitement and anxiousness simultaneously: the vision of the ‘promised land’ and the actual place, Israel, were about to merge. The harbor was a gateway to a new life. Immigrants left their native lands behind and were about to arrive in an unfamiliar place, one that was supposed to become their new home. Now, the coastline becomes more differentiated and the old harbor of Tel Aviv, Sha’ar Zion, the gate to Zion, the desired destination of each journey across the Mediterranean, can be spotted. Today, the old Tel Aviv port is undergoing a process of gentrification. Attractive new boardwalks and paved paths run along the seaside, and trendy seafood restaurants occupy formerly dilapidated warehouses, offering seating next to the old port basin. Yet, the black and white photos lining the hallway leading to the restrooms in the restaurant Yama show heavily-laden camels and dockworkers discharging loads off ships, a reminder of times past. The camels carry heavy building materials to be used in constructing the nearby Reading Power Station, a steam-driven turbine built in 1938. A prominent Tel Aviv landmark, today it serves in part as an art exhibition space. As the point of touchdown draws closer, the circular Kikar ha-Medinah and Dizengoff Street, running in a neat parallel to the sea, become visible. It seems that Tel Aviv, with its coffeehouses and its wonderful people, with its countless stories, eager to be told and written down, is waiting for some focused attention. Looking back at Israel’s modern history, the sea has played a less important role when compared to the land. One demonstration of this can be found in renowned Israeli graphic designer David Tartakover’s, impressive collection of picture postcards from the 1920s to the 1970s.

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In these images, it is striking that the sea, if it is present at all, only appears in the margins. The focus of the photographs is on the actual sites, with the Mediterranean, when it is visible, functioning only as background. Some of the postcards depict sites that became symbols of Tel Aviv over the years, for example, the Reading Power Station, the Mugrabi and the Eden cinemas, the Gymnasia Herzlyia, the Hotel Gat Rimon, and Tel Aviv’s city hall. Each of these sites was significant during a specific period of Tel Aviv’s development and demonstrated the city’s openness, Westerness, and modernity. Explaining the absence of the sea, Tartakover remarks: “They had no relation to the sea—although they came through the sea to Palestine. My intuition is that the sea is a traumatic place for them.” What is the meaning of the Mediterranean for the Israeli consciousness?1 First and foremost, the sea was once an important passageway to Israel. Most Jewish immigration to pre-state Israel took place via its waters. In a poem by Chaim Guri, we find the line Between me and my father—the sea, which addresses the dichotomy between the two different worlds, the Diaspora and a newly invented Hebrewness or Israeliness. “ ‘Between me and my father—the sea,’ I wrote as I turned 35. He was born in Russia. I, in Tel Aviv. But I was born in the ‘first Hebrew city’ for my father and my mother had immigrated to the country on the ship Ruslan that began the third Aliya in 1919.”2 After the Second World War, the sea remained the passageway of escape from the ‘continent of murder’ for Holocaust survivors. The so-called illegal immigration during British Mandatory Palestine comes alive in the impressive memories of the commander of those immigration ships, Yossi Harel. Writer Yoram Kaniuk gathered Harel’s recollections into a book, The Commander of the Exodus, which poetically tells the story of the emergence of the state of Israel. There has been much academic and public discussion about the relationship between ‘Tel Avivers’ and the sea, which has played many different roles in the city’s urban development. When Tel Aviv was founded in 1909 north of Jaffa, the first district, called Achusat Bayit, 1 For a longer discussion of this question, see Alexandra Nocke, “Looking at the Sea: An Exploration into the Representations of the Sea,” in Back to the Sea, ed. Sigal Barnir and Yael Moria-Klain (Venice: Israeli Pavilion 9th Biennale of Architecture Venice, 2004), 40–50. 2 Chaim Guri, quoted in Avraham Shapira, “Spiritual Rootlessness and Circumscription on the ‘Here and Now’ in the Sabra World View,” Israel Affairs 4, no. 3 & 4 (1998): 124.

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was surrounded by vast sand dunes and emptiness. In the years that followed, the town expanded and the general direction was ‘through the sand dunes to the sea,’ as Joachim Schlör has shown. Quoting Arthur Ruppin, the founder of the housing association Achusat Bayit from 1912: Present-day Tel Aviv cannot be imagined without its sea-shore. But the Tel Aviv of the early years was separated from the sea by a strip of Arab land almost a kilometre wide. That land consisted of sand dunes. If you crossed it on foot to reach the sea, you sank up to your ankles in sand. Tel Aviv residents therefore preferred to make a long detour via Jaffa to get to the beach. It was clear to me that Tel Aviv absolutely must expand as far as the shore (. . .).3

Tel Aviv has long since reached those shores, but the controversy over the city’s inner link to the sea remains very much alive, with architects, urban planners, historians, and journalists actively participating. There are those who believe, like a line in a popular song written by Meir Ariel, Im ha-gav la yam, im ha-rosh le sham (With the back facing the sea, the head turned yonder), that Tel Aviv was built ‘with its back to the sea’ because the sea was alien and threatening to Jews from the Shtetls of Eastern Europe. This notion has been captured in a photograph by Micha Bar-Am, which shows two elderly men dressed in suits, who based on their looks, obviously came from Europe, the ‘land beyond the olive trees’ (fig. 1). Connoisseur of all things Tel Aviv, the historian Shlomo Shwa, who combines his expertise and love for the city in a unique way, pointed out the fact that in the north-south expansion of the city the main streets are set up parallel to the shore, as if there was no waterfront. This particular example of urban design, he explains, illustrates the unease and even intimidation that some new immigrants felt in connection with the immense stretches of water which, coming from countries like Poland or Germany, were alien to them. Because it symbolized the unknown, some scholars argue further that there is a natural suspicion, even anxiety toward the sea. In wandering the seaside promenade today we still find concrete manifestations of the assertion that ‘Tel Aviv was built with its back to the sea.’ Monstrous hotel high-rises not only block the seaview, but prevent the sea breeze from entering the city, resulting in heat accumulation and stifling inland streets during the summer.

3

Arthur Ruppin, quoted in Schlör, Tel Aviv, 58.

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Fig. 1: Shabbat on the Tel Aviv waterfront promenade, 1966, Micha Bar-Am

On the other hand, given Israel’s long-standing encirclement by hostile Arab countries, the Mediterranean was also perceived as the only gateway to the rest of the Western world. A line written by the poet Nathan Alterman alludes to the perception of the sea as a passageway to other places: “A national home without the sea/is like a house without a doorway.”4 But which role did the Mediterranean play as a site for outdoor and leisure activities during the city’s formative years? If we look at some early art and photographic documents of the Tel Aviv seashore, we can learn a lot about the way the citizens of Tel Aviv adopted the beach as their central gathering place. And here there is no evidence of anxiety, rather quite the contrary. As early as the 1920s, photographs by German-born photographer Walter Zadek (1900–1983) show people in bathing suits sunbathing on deck chairs. In 1927, images by the photographer Shimon Korbman (1887–1978) show active beach life. 4 Natan Alterman, Yom ha-yam ba-ta’arukhah: Sefer rishon (Day of the sea at the fair: First book) (Ha-Kibbutz ha-meuhad). Quoted after manuscript, kindly obtained from Yaacov Shavit, “Tel Aviv al ha-yam ha-Tikhon: Be’in ir hof le’ir namal (Tel Aviv on the shore of the Mediterranean: between coastal city and harbour city)” (unpublished paper, Tel Aviv 2000), 4.

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People are seen swimming, strolling, and sunbathing at the northern Tel Aviv shore (fig. 2). In the distant background we see the Arabic city of Jaffa’s characteristic skyline, almost detached from the scene in the foreground. In a self-portrait from the 1920s Korbman presents himself in front of Jaffa (fig. 3). Sitting on a small stool on the sand next to the sea, he faces the camera, dressed in his white tropical summer suit, an Arabic water pipe—Nargila—in his hand. In this image the longing that Korbman shared with many other immigrants at the time becomes apparent: to preserve aspects of a Western cultural heritage, but at the same time to display the behavior of a local and blend in in order to feel at home in the old-new land. The photographs of Rudi Weissenstein (1910–1992) convey the feeling of the beach on a hot summer day in 1949. Weissenstein photographed lifeguards dressed in fashionable bathing costumes and standing on a watchtower at Frishman Beach, with a busy scene in the background and people swimming in the waves (fig. 4). In other Weissenstein photographs, as well as by other photographers of the time, we see the beach filled with rows of deck chairs, crowds of people standing in the water, playing in the sand, or just relaxing, like in this photograph by Paul Goldman (1900–1986) (fig. 5). The artist Nahum Gutman (1898–1980), who drew everyday life scenes of the city and its

Fig. 2: General view of the women’s bathing area: dressing-rooms and the casino ‘Galei Aviv’ in the background, 1927, Shimon Korbman

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Fig. 3: Self-portrait with water pipe at the shores of Tel Aviv, 1920s, Shimon Korbman

Fig. 4: Lifeguards at Frishman-beach, 1949, Rudi Weissenstein

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Fig. 5: Tel Aviv Beach, July 1949, Paul Goldman

beaches in the 1930s, beautifully documents this period of Tel Aviv’s rapid growth. In his work, the beachfront is embraced by all generations as a place in which to enjoy the outdoors and engage in leisure time pursuits. His over-simplified drawings depict children swimming, playing the famous Israeli beach ball game matkot, people relaxing in reclining chairs, smoking cigars, or talking (fig. 6), and in the background, as in Zadek’s photographs, and similarly disconnected from the ‘first Hebrew city,’ camels and the skyline of oriental Jaffa. The Russian-born photographer Boris Carmi (1914–2002) conveys a completely different atmosphere of a seaside promenade, that of a winter’s day in the early 1950s: we see an elderly, well-dressed crowd in suits and hats, strolling with walking sticks, talking, sitting on benches, and looking out over the Mediterranean. He photographed the beach promenade on a Saturday afternoon, with its crowds of Yekkes ( Jews from Germany) who, at the sight of the Mediterranean, were overcome by nostalgia for the lakes around Berlin (fig. 7). However, this image expresses a sense of melancholy and longing for a far away world, and presents a contrapunkt to the joyous beach scenes described above. This contrast is even more pronounced when we look at an image from 1953, Tel Aviv seen from Jaffa, in which Tel Aviv appears on the hazy,

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Fig. 6: Seashore in Tel Aviv, 1931, Nahum Gutman

Fig. 7: Beach promenade on a Saturday afternoon, 1950s, Boris Carmi

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distant horizon. Carmi took this shot on an unusually stormy day, with Tel Aviv’s skyline fading away into an almost surreal distance (fig. 8). For Carmi, these stormy days always triggered a feeling of longing and homesickness, because, as he has remarked, he never really got used to the harsh Mediterranean light.5 From the work of these artists it becomes evident that the beach and the seaside promenade were once popular places for recreation; this remains the case today. In addition it should be mentioned here that in artistic expressions of that time Tel Aviv is often represented as a city that ‘was born out of the sea’ and rose up from the vast sand dunes that flanked those waters. “Elik was born from the sea,” the famous phrase that opens Moshe Shamir’s novel With his own Hands (1951) also reflects this longing for a completely new beginning and captures the spirit of the time: the protagonist is a ‘blank page,’ his identity emerges from the connection to the place (the land of Israel) and is no longer formed by the Diaspora existence. This often-repeated theme can be found, for example, in the famous staged photograph by Abraham Soskin of the city’s founding in 1909. Here a group of people stand in a barren, sandy wasteland drawing lots for the ownership of the plots of Achusat Bayit, the future Tel Aviv. The angle of the photograph is carefully chosen so that neither Jaffa nor the Mediterranean is visible in the background, but locates the horizon on the dunes, as if the scene had taken place in no man’s land. The photograph transmits the message characteristic of the time: a new beginning (Fig. 9).

5

6–9.

Alexandra Nocke, ed., Boris Carmi: Photographs from Israel (Munich: Prestel, 2004),

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Fig. 8: Tel Aviv, seen from Jaffa, 1953, Boris Carmi

Fig. 9: Lottery of Achusat Bayit housing plots, Tel Aviv, 1909, Avraham Soskin

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION: POINT OF DEPARTURE The preliminary events that led to increased attention being paid to the concept of Mediterraneanism, or Yam Tikhoniut,1 will briefly be introduced here. The longing to find a place is a central topos found throughout Jewish history; however, the orientation of the Jews has always been geared toward the land. The place of the sea in the evolving territorial consciousness of Jews was certainly ambivalent and must always be seen vis-à-vis the centrality of territory. After centuries of Diasporic existence, the state of Israel was established in 1948, thus enableing Jews to return to and (re)settle their ‘ancient Jewish homeland.’ Upon the arrival of immigrants to Erez Israel, the discrepancy between imagined place—the idealized heavenly Jerusalem—and the actual place—the realities in the land of Israel—surfaced, resulting in numerous rifts within an already heterogeneous society. As a consequence, public discourse2 over the past decades has repeatedly dealt with the questions of collective identity and belonging, as well as with the search for a shared Israeli culture among a population comprising a wide diversity of immigrants. And the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut under observation here must be seen within that larger context.

1 In the following the Hebrew term ‘Yam Tikhoniut’ (Yam ha-Tikhon means the Mediterranean Sea, literally ‘sea of the middle’) will be used as a synonym for ‘Mediterraneanism’ or ‘Méditerranité’. The revival of ancient Hebrew is credited to the Zionist Eliezer Ben Yehuda, who believed that the Jews should return to their ancient homeland and begin anew to speak their own language. In his first Hebrew dictionary (the first edition was published in 1908), Ben Yehuda gives several references for the Hebrew word tikhon: “du milieu, intérieure, innerer, mittlerer, inner, middle” and continues with the references to Yam ha-Tikhon, which, according to Ben Yehuda, is a translation from various foreign languages (“Mittelmeer, Mittelländisches Meer, Mediterranean [sea], Méditerranée”) into Hebrew. See Eliezer Ben Yehuda, A Complete Dictionary of Ancient and Modern Hebrew (New York: Sagamore Press, 1959), 7735. 2 Even though the discourse on the Mediterranean in Israeli public discussion is being analyzed here, this work is not a ‘discourse analysis’ per se, which would focus on a linguistic analysis as well as on a deconstructive reading and interpretation of text. Using the term discourse in this project refers not only to the spoken language (as in conversations, daily interactions, interviews, etc.), but also to written statements from academia, the media, and literature.

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Identity and the construction of identity have been much contested in modern and postmodern discourses. Identity today is generally understood to be in constant flux, but is at the same time also subject to historical contexts and antecedents. Yet, identity is not something that is simply inherited; it is also transmitted culturally. There has been an outpouring of research and theoretical debates around the concept of identity and the term is used in many different academic frameworks, although its specific meaning varies depending on the particular research context. To quote Stuart Hall, who deploys a concept that accepts that identities are never unified and, in late modern times, increasingly fragmented and fractured; never singular but multiply constructed across different, often intersecting and antagonistic discourses, practices and positions. They are subject to a radical historicization, and are constantly in the process of change and transformation.3

Hall also sees in identity formation the “different ways we are positioned by, and position ourselves within, the narratives of the past.”4 Following along these lines delineated by Hall, who points out the inherently shifting character of the object under observation, the focus of this research is the constitutive role of Mediterranean space and place in the construction of Israeliness, i.e., a specific Israeli identity. In this case, Israeliness refers to a common denominator and a reference point that can validly be applied to all the culturally heterogeneous groups within Israeli society. The subject of Israeli identity continues to attract significant public attention and is a highly-charged subject of both academic and public debates. The question of the content of Israeliness is an ongoing, contested issue in Israeli discourse. While some deny the existence of an essential Israeli cultural identity, others proclaim that Israelis are in the midst of an Israeli cultural renaissance. The late Israeli sociologist Baruch Kimmerling pointed out that contemporary Israeli society is characterized by a trend he described as being a subdivision of Israeli identity, one that consists of many different versions but containing only one soft core.5 The search for this soft core, the ‘glue’ or the common denominator of Israeli identity, constitutes an ongoing

3 Stuart Hall, “Introduction: Who Needs ‘Identity’?,” in Questions of Cultural Identity, ed. Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay, (London: SAGE Publications, 1996), 1. 4 Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, ed. Jonathan Rutherford (London: 1990), 225. 5 Baruch Kimmerling, The Invention and Decline of Israeliness: State, Society, and the Military (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 2.

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debate in Israeli academia. Eliezer Ben-Raffael suggests that Hebrew, which is used by society as a whole, whether as a first or as a second language, possesses a unifying power capable of holding the fissured society together: “(. . .) Hebrew today is a thriving language that serves as a common base for all of society, a medium that makes this society both singular and multicultural at one and the same time.”6 In this project, Kimmerling’s ‘soft core,’ or the smallest common denominator, is called Israeliness, and this analysis aims to track its features using a discursive approach. The Baghdad-born writer Sami Michael describes Israeliness as a broadly shared point of reference, and Arabs are included in his description, a stance that is far from being part of any national consensus in Israel. For Michael, Israeliness is a state of mind: (. . .) something beautiful emerged, that the Israelis have not realized yet. The Ashkenazim and Mizrahim, the religious and secular, the Jews and Arabs in the country have, unconsciously, created something shared, that I call ‘Israeliness’. It is crazy, mad, stupid, but everybody likes it and lives it. That gives hope, despite the many conflicts. (. . .) Israel is a fascinating mixture from many cultures, memories and different pasts.7

1. Longing to Find a Place Where is Israel located? For centuries, Israel existed not at the shores of the Mediterranean, but in Vilna, Toledo, Odessa, Berlin, Chernowitz, or Babylon, and most of all in the hearts of the Jewish people. The longing ‘eastwards’ for ‘heavenly Jerusalem’ was incorporated into Jewish tradition, prayers, and literature for over three thousand years. The dream of ‘returning to Zion,’ the far-away ancient homeland between the desert and the sea, was a spiritual longing. With the rise of Zionism at the end of the nineteenth century, and the international political movement promulgating the return of the Jewish people to their homeland, a new era began. Zionist ideologues dreamed of putting an end to the state of physical and spiritual alienation of the Diaspora by establishing an exemplary society that would be a light to other nations.

Eliezer Ben-Rafael, “Israeli-Jewish Identities,” in Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, ed. Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Yosef Gorny, and Yaacov Ro’i (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 93–117, 17. 7 Gisela Dachs, “Außenseiter aus Überzeugung,” Die Zeit, February 14, 2002. 6

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The Zionist vision of establishing Israel as an ‘old-new-homeland’ on the shores of the Mediterranean brought the Mediterranean back into the center of Jewish consciousness. The Viennese writer and journalist Theodor Herzl confirmed this longing in his epochal book Der Judenstaat (1896), in which he formulated the idea of founding a modern Jewish state in the ancient homeland. His quest was to achieve political sovereignty for Jews, thereby ameliorating the anti-Semitic persecutions and exclusions Jews had suffered throughout the centuries. The challenge of making Israel an integral part of the geographical region has always accompanied Zionist thinking. However, Herzl’s approach to the place, which became the state of Israel in 1948, was purely European, liberal, and secular (for more details, see the subchapter ‘Zionism and its Perceptions of the ‘East’ in this volume). He never envisioned the future Jewish state as being influenced by local Mediterranean or oriental elements, but rather as a copy of nineteenth-century Vienna, a European oasis. The Zionist Movement propagated the immigration (Aliya) to the Land of Israel (Erez Israel ) and formed central motifs like the ‘ingathering of the exiles,’ the ‘absorption of the immigrants,’ and the ‘melting pot,’ which were intended to create a ‘society of equals.’ These Zionist ideals emphasized the role of Israel as a gathering place and safe haven for Jews from all parts of the world, a place that ideally would integrate the diverse Jewish communities, transforming multiple peoples into one, a single Hebrew culture in which ethnic differences would blur. The goal of this early Zionist preoccupation with collective identity was the building of national foundations for a new unity. And while hegemonic Zionist ideology has been challenged from many sides, official Israeli policies are still formulated along the lines of these core values of Zionism. The ideology of secular Zionism required the total reversal of the persecuted and abased Diaspora Jew into the ‘New Jew,’ the Haluz. The people of the bible, who for over two thousand years had been living in the Diaspora’s ghettoes, would now be transformed into a nation of workers and farmers. The idealism and euphoria of the state’s founding years spurred the mostly East European new immigrants on to remarkable achievements: they drained swamps, made the desert bloom, and prepared the way for the many new immigrants that were still to come. In the words of David Ben-Gurion, founder of the state of Israel and its first prime minister:

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By virtue of this miracle of halutziut our people resisted the habits acquired in the Diaspora and uprooted them, resisted political difficulties and overcame them, resisted the incitement and hostility of our neighbors and gained the victory, fought against the poverty and ruination of our country—and rebuilt its ruined places.8

Yet, the Zionist call for a ‘land without people for a people without land’ turned out to be a misleading myth. The immigrants to Erez Israel did not find an empty, European-style country, but rather a place that had for centuries been inhabited by Arabs, and which in climate, landscape, and lifestyle was alien to the newcomers. The idealized image of the envisioned homeland characterized by a unifying culture had little in common with the realities on the ground in Erez Israel at the beginning of the twentieth century. Immigrant diaries and letters recount the feelings of uprootedness and the difficulties encountered by those trying to begin a new life in such a foreign place, and give moving accounts of the hardships and daily problems with which immigrants had to cope in their new homeland. The waves of immigrants, which began with the so-called First Aliya in 1881/1882 following pogroms in Russia, continue into the present and come from all over the world. Most of the immigrants in the first half of the twentieth century reached Erez Israel by ship via the Mediterranean, yet within the Zionist narrative it was not the Mediterranean that was considered significant, but the act of crossing the sea in order to reach the longed for territory. Israel has now entered its seventh decade; it continues to be shaped by the multiplicity of cultures of those who have come to reside within its boundaries. Given the unceasing tide of immigration, and the consequent diversification of Israeli society, questions of Israel’s place in the region and its cultural orientation remain open. The two poles within Israeli culture—to merge into the East and become part of it on the one hand, while simultaneously remaining distinct from it on the other—are still at the center of discussions about the concept of Israeliness.9 Despite the variety of different sources presented here (e.g., interviews, object descriptions, participant observations), a marker common to them David Ben-Gurion, Israel: Years of Challenge (London: Anthony Blond, 1964), 203–204. 9 The secular concept of Israeliness originates from the idea that Jewishness is not only a religious but also a national identity. The Israeliness referred to in the following is a set of attitudes, a state of mind, a mentality, and a cultural entity, each of which is shared by a large group of Israelis. 8

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all became visible throughout this analysis: the emerging culture in Erez Israel and Israel was driven by the urge to express a new locality without being completely cutoff from the Western European cultural repertoire. Throughout the diverse examples presented in this analysis, the ‘tension of belonging’ is a recurrent central theme, and can be found in myriad shapes within the fields of literature, visual arts, and music. a) The Israeli Place Makom is the term central to the discussion of a specific Israeli place. In Hebrew, the word Makom means place and its significance is twofold: on one hand Makom refers to the concrete physical place, and on the other hand it is equivalent with God’s name, and therefore refers to a metaphysical place. After two thousand years of exile and yearning for Zion, the Zionist project gave life to an actual Jewish entity in the ‘old-new homeland.’ Zionist ideology propagated the process of normalization as an ideal for the future Jewish state, and linked this desired state of normality to the concrete land. Since gaining statehood, the metaphysical concept of place, which was valid for two millenia, has been confronted with the actual geographical place, the Israeli state, and Israel as a country has thus been on a nonstop search for a social model that works. The gaps resulting from the discrepancy between these two perceptions of the Israeli place are reflected in creative expressions on diverse levels. The parameters that describe Israel’s national, cultural, and religious identity continue to be the subject of heated debate: Israel is a part of Europe; its histories and cultures are deeply interwoven with those of central and eastern regions of the continent. But, modern Israel is—geographically speaking—located in Asia. Thus it incorporates elements from both Orient and Occident. Since the 1990s, the postZionists’ demythologizing view of history has made Israelis painfully aware that attempts to force the creation of a common culture based on the idea of a homogenizing melting pot have failed. Questions of belonging to Orient or Occident, to Europe or the Levant, form the focus of debate in Israel, where the diverse concepts of society are in constant collision. Since the 1980s and 1990s the state of Israel has undergone extensive changes that have had significant effects in the political, demographical, cultural, and economic domains. Many aspects of Israeli identity are being deconstructed and reconsidered. The idealized Zionist image of one single Israeli culture and identity is being replaced by the perception

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of Israel as a pluralistic, and as some have put it, even multicultural society. The influence of the founding generation and the pioneer elite is slowly fading, and new currents are undermining the core values of Zionism, values that had functioned as social glue for many decades. These shifts have resulted in a deconstruction of the hegemonic, secular, Zionist national identity, and the emerging Israeli identity is confronted with increasing individualization and privatization in all sectors of daily life. These changes also need to be evaluated within the context of international developments: globalization, generational displacements and replacements, the search for a peaceful solution to the seemingly intransigent Arab-Israeli conflict prompted by the Barcelona Process, as well as the fall of the iron curtain, which brought to Israel, along with one million new immigrants from the former Soviet Union, different social orientations and frameworks. Almost all areas of society were— and still are—affected by a process of reinterpretation and redefinition of the questions of belonging, identity, and culture. Since the 1990s, the post-Zionists, also referred to as New Historians, have been engaged in an intellectual dispute over historical narratives: among other points, they argue that Israel is an elitist Jewish state and should be transformed into a state for all of its citizens, including Arabs, Druze, and other minorities. In the long run, this position will call into question the very existence of Israel as a Jewish State. In this context it is important to note the interdependence of the post-Zionist voices with daily current affairs. It appears that the rise of the New Historians is correlated with the continuing decline in threats to Israel’s existence. Challenging post-Zionist voices began participating in Israeli public discourse at a time when Israeli society was experiencing an opening up. Existing frames of reference were being diluted and a peaceful solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was within reach. The fact that the public expression of this post-Zionist dispute has recently dimmed must be considered in light of the outbreak of the Al Aksa Intifada in 2000 and the deteriorating security situation. In fact, some academics term post-Zionism a mere interlude, and argue that a successful transformation from ‘fortress mentality’ to an open society not only depends on national and personal security, but also on a peaceful existence globally. With none of these conditions in place, the post-Zionist discussion in Israeli public discourse has as a consequence weakened in the wake of national security threats like the Al Aksa Intifada. The issues of Israeli identity, the continuous heterogenization of society, and the so-called kulturkampf being waged among the different ethnic and ideological groups have been subject to increased debates

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in sociological and anthropological research in recent years.10 The reason for the resurfacing of the discussion over Israeli identity in the 1990s has also been subject to in-depth analysis and various academic explanations. It has been suggested that due to the aging of the state’s founding elite and an increasing of individualization and privatization of all sectors of daily life, an increased move toward diversification has also been occurring. In addition, the signing of the Israel-PLO Declarations of Principles (DOP) in September 1993 marked a watershed in Israeli political policies and the subsequent peace process intensified the debate over what constitutes Israeliness. After an extreme right-wing Jewish settler assassinated Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin in 1995, Israeli soulsearching, which had already been catalyzed in the course of the peace talks with the PLO, developed into a full-fledged identity crisis. A period of ritualized mourning followed the assassination, reflecting the shock over the disrupted social consensus, and this in turn led to a period during which the Israeli self-image was profoundly questioned.11 It has often been argued that this process of continuous polarization can cause further corrosion of inner-Israeli structures, and the dangers of dissolving into a society devoid of core values have been discussed extensively in Israeli public discourse. Lilly Weissbrod argued that such an extreme situation of disintegration and crisis is indeed a danger to society, but on the other hand it also implies opportunities for positive outcomes. This can lead to either a total breakup of the social fabric, and in the extreme case to a secession, or to a search for a redefined glue, a reinterpretation of core values adapted to reality and to which all, or most groups can agree.12

Following Weissbrod, the alienation and calling into question of old reference points need not inevitably lead to the breakup of today’s Israel. On the contrary, one can also see in this process of separa10 The extensive literature substantiating the claim cannot be discussed here. Suffice it to say that leading Israeli academic journals such as the Hebrew Zmanim (Times), Alpaim (Two Thousand), and Theoria ve-Bikoret (Theory and Criticism), as well as Israel Studies and Israel Affairs (English) have published papers and special issues on Israeliness, collective identity, and collective memory. Researchers from diverse disciplines have also dedicated themselves to the subject of identity politics. 11 See Alexandra Nocke, Israel Heute: Ein Selbstbild im Wandel. Innenansichten einer Identitätskrise (Bodenheim: Philo, 1998). 12 Lilly Weissbrod, Israeli Identity: In Search of a Successor to the Pioneer, Tsabar and Settler (London: Frank Cass, 2002), 4.

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tion and polarization a continuous liberalization and plurality of lived experiences. The disintegrating forces within the social structures are not only a source of irritation, but can also be perceived as an inclining in the direction of the new. Therefore, it can be argued that this development indicates a process of reinterpretation of core values, and one that is already underway in Israel. As shown below, the increased references to ‘everything Mediterranean’ and the question of whether Mediterraneanism can serve as a new unifying principle for diverse groups without requiring them to forfeit their social uniqueness, are yet more manifestations of this process of redefinition. Yet, in the time under observation here, as a consequence of the continuous outbursts of violence, the deteriorating security situation, and growing anti-Semitism worldwide, a new national consensus among the heterogeneous groups surfaced in Israel, papering over and obscuring previous cleavages. This resulted in a strong feeling of togetherness—a kind of tribal siege mentality—among Israeli Jews. This coming together had the effect, however, of intensifying the rift between Jewish and Arab citizens. This new consensus, often labeled as ‘neo-Zionist thought,’13 was accompanied by a general political swing to the right, a repression of leftist and liberal thought, and a comeback of the patriotic and more conservative values that are associated with traditional Zionist convictions. The revival of Shira be-tzibur (public sing-alongs), which embrace musical traditions from the years of the state’s founding, (to be discussed below) is only one tangible example in which the shift toward a more conservative scale of values has become manifest in the public sphere. There are numerous other examples to prove this point, including the harsh public criticism of post-Zionist supporters. In the area of education we find the introduction of new school textbooks that are committed to a traditionalist approach to Zionist history; the ban of certain textbooks written in a more liberal and post-Zionist spirit;14 and the installation of patriotic and nationalistic

13 Uri Ram defines Neo-Zionism as an “exclusionary, nationalist and even racist and anti-demoratic political trend, striving to heighten the fence encasing Israeli identity.” Uri Ram, “The State of the Nation: Contemporary Challenges to Zionism in Israel,” in Israelis in Conflict: Hegemonies, Identities, and Challenges, ed. Adriana Kemp, Uri Ram, and Oren Yiftachel (Sussex: Sussex Academic Press, 2004), 315. 14 Another example of this trend to more traditional and conservative values in the educational arena, I would like to mention the debate over whether or not the poems of the exiled Israeli Arab writer Mahmoud Darwish, who is often labeled ‘the Palestinian national poet,’ and is regarded as one of the greatest Arab poets, should be included in

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features in the daily school routine by the Ministry of Education, headed until 2006 by Minister Limor Livnat. Other examples show prominent post-Zionist thinkers, including Benny Morris, who radically changed their tune with the onset of the neo-Zionist era. Morris, who once forced his country to confront its inglorious role in the birth of the Palestinian refugee problem, thereby undermining Zionist historiography, later argued that displacement and expulsion of the Palestinians was unavoidable.15 These processes of inner-Israeli transformations described above are the starting points for this book-length analysis of the ‘formation of Israeli identity,’ with a specific focus on the phenomenon of Yam Tikhoniut. Chapter I, ‘Introduction: Point of Departure,’ describes and examines the historical and societal framework within which Yam Tikhoniut has emerged. Chapter II, ‘Tracing Yam Tikhoniut in Contemporary Israel,’ outlines the different manifestations of the phenomenon; it investigates three main sectors in which the discussion of Yam Tikhoniut can be located: (1) the academy and the media; (2) the Israeli locus; and (3) the Lived Yam Tikhoniut. The academic discussion takes place mainly among intellectuals at universities, through conferences as well as publications and newspapers. The media and the academy have been witnessing energetic debates about the interrelated issues of Yam Tikhoniut and identity formation in recent years. The Israeli locus, an intensified discussion about Israel’s location within the region, has been picked up in the fields of music, literature, and culture. Lived Yam Tikhoniut—the Mediterraneanism ‘under our noses,’ i.e., embodied in daily life—offers rich data coming out of the vivid reality of an integral part of Israeli existence that is not explicitly labeled as a Mediterranean mindset or mentality. While some core features of Yam Tikhoniut can be located, the lines between the three sectors outlined above are not all that clear. The fact that there is common ground and overlap between the differently located readings makes it difficult to define their borders. A central question that accompanies this research is: How does Mediterraneanism manifest itself in Israeli

the list of literature curricula in schools. A non-confidence motion over the inclusion of his poems was narrowly defeated. For a short summary of the different arguments in this controversy, see Tom Segev, Elvis in Jerusalem: Post-Zionism and the Americanization of Israel (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2002), 146–150. 15 See interview with Benny Morris: Ari Shavit, “Survival of the Fittest,” Haaretz, January 9, 2004.

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academic, cultural, and everyday discourse? The focal chapter of this study, III, ‘Mapping Yam Tikhoniut,’ presents in detail the findings of my field research, especially the interviews I conducted. In order to map the discussion, I developed different models of Yam Tikhoniut that cover the possible range of attitudes toward it. The given paradigms do not exhaust the possible scope and variety of the notion and make no claim of completeness. They do, however, provide some structure for the debate and help approach the topic and organize the vast collection of interpretations. Whereas Chapters I–III deal with the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in modern times, Chapter IV, ‘Perceptions of the Mediterranean Region,’ unfolds the historical perspectives on the Mediterranean Idea, which in the context of this study nurtured, but did not initiate the present debate. However, it is notable that in contemporary deliberations in Israel, the Mediterranean past is often referred to, sometimes even in an idealized and glorified manner. b) The Popularity of Yam Tikhoniut Within the complex transformations and the process of soul-searching described above, a certain concept is referred to with increasing frequency in the academic discourse on new definitions of identity: Yam Tikhoniut or the so-called Mediterranean Option.16 This study is an undertaking to capture the discourse on Mediterraneanism that has emerged within Israeli public debate over the last decades, and that continues to command a significant amount of attention in present-day Israel. The development of the Mediterranean Option, which has its multilayered roots in the region’s history, as well as its relevance for contemporary Israeli society will be analyzed. Further, this study will describe the development of the Mediterranean Idea, illustrate how the discussion of Yam Tikhoniut (re)gained popularity, and explain the reasons for this renewed interest, as well as its various uses as an instrument for social reconciliation. The tools of Cultural Studies can help to explore the notion of Mediterraneanism and its diverse manifestations in academic discourse and Israeli popular culture. Historical perspectives on the Mediterranean will also be a central issue here since In this book the term ‘Yam Tikhoniut’ indicates the specific public discourse in Israel. When referring to the discourse on the Mediterranean from a more universal cultural frame of reference (e.g., in other countries of the region), the terms ‘Mediterranean Option’ or ‘Mediterranean Idea’ are used. 16

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the Mediterranean Idea has been the subject of major Mediterranean historical theses in the twentieth century, developed and consolidated by thinkers like Fernand Braudel, Henri Pirenne, and Shlomo Dov Goitein, as well as reconsidered by the historians Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell in their provocative study The Corrupting Sea (2000). This field of Yam Tikhoniut is just as complex and tangled as the inextricably interwoven and interdependent religious, social, cultural, psychological, and political aspects of Israeli and Jewish history. At first sight it appears as a jungle of different interacting and opposing powers whose flux produces an Israeli self-image that is also in constant motion. A plunge into the depths of Yam Tikhoniut, attempts to differentiate the terms, motivations, and aims involved in the discussion make the notion no less confusing. Yam Tikhoniut is multileveled and has divers and diverse historical predecessors. Thierry Fabre, a scholar at the Maison Méditerranéenne des Sciences de l’Homme in Aix-en-Provence, comments on the nature of Mediterranean identity and underlines its orientation to the future, thereby drawing on Fernand Braudel, who claimed that “the Mediterranean speaks with many voices; it is a sum of individual histories”:17 Mediterranean identity is the result of a sense of being in the world that expresses the inalienable link between the material and the spiritual, the worldly and the heavenly, the rational and the fantastic. The sense of being in the Mediterranean world lies in the tension between the poles of attraction that link one to the other and never one without the other. Mediterranean identity originates here, from this coming and going. But each day, this identity is re-invented; since no identity is ever stagnant but follows the ups and downs of the times, it is a creation in real time. The Mediterranean identity is a polyphonic expression, at once One and Many, a plainsong that stands out from the noises of the world, made up of several solo voices.18

Making audible the individual voices that form the debate over the notion of Yam Tikhoniut and the contest over the content of that notion is the aim of this project. The future orientation here is especially important and stresses the fact that Yam Tikhoniut is not about reconstruction or restoration, but rather about creating a new perspective and 17 Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. 1 (Glasgow: Fontana Press, 1986), 13. 18 Thierry Fabre, “Frontiers and Passages,” Rive—Review of Mediterranean Politics and Culture, no. 2 (1997): 12.

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looking ahead. As I will show, while Yam Tikhoniut can be nurtured by historical experience and cultural nostalgia, its main potential lies in the creation of a future-oriented concept, one that does not supplant but broadens the existing models of identity. As early as my first preparatory visits to Israel, it became apparent that the questions concerning the influence of Mediterraneanism on Israeli identity were being met with great interest by academics from a range of disciplines and was being hotly debated in the media. The notion of Mediterraneanism had raised expectations among those who wanted to end Israel’s claustrophobic existence, to open up and evaluate its location within the geo-cultural space. As the journalist Zwi Bar’el noted in Israel’s leading daily newspaper Haaretz in November 2001: “The Mediterranean Sea ceased to be a place into which Jews could be thrown, and turned into a ‘basin’ around which one discussed common regional problems.”19 This longing to find a place and eventually, to use a term coined by Fernand Braudel, a longue durée acceptance in a region that is dominated by Arab society and culture, is one of the driving forces behind the discourse under exploration here. In view of the continuous harsh political confrontations, this desire to integrate has faded, and at such times as the height of the Al Aksa Intifada, felt totally out of reach. Moreover, the inner-Israeli dialogue, which was in full bloom during the peace talks of the mid-1990s, addressing questions of belonging, civil society, and identity, was completely overshadowed by the security issues that were dominant during the time of my field research. Within that timeframe, the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut reached its peak in the mid 1990s but came to a near standstill after the outbreak of the Al Aksa Intifada in 2000. The consequent collapse of the peace process made the often promoted emergence of a Mediterranean identity as a vehicle for region building seem unattainable. Notwithstanding this bleak scenario, it is premature to judge the Mediterranean Idea only in the context of the developments in day-to-day politics. The future significance of this concept is explained by historian Irad Malkin: I expect that the Mediterranean Idea will surface again, but without its ideological need to resurrect (and invent) the past. It will re-emerge as a result of mundane realities such as lifestyles and cultural contacts. (. . .) I

19

Zvi Bar’el, “Column,” Haaretz, November 15, 2000.

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chapter one expect that Israel’s ‘Mediterraneaness’ will be conceptualized from the reality of cultural and economical contacts with Mediterranean countries. Concept will emerge out of reality.20

It is vital, therefore, to look at the present and future prospects that an emerging Mediterranean identity, one comprising shared values and common interests, might hold. With this, I am referring not only to external political efforts, such as the launching of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership (EMP) in 1995, which promoted a region building approach and sought to integrate Israel into a larger Mediterranean framework (this will be discussed in depth below). Scholars criticized this effort, arguing that it was an attempt to engineer a shared identity and actively alter the domestic identity formation processes in Israel.21 By focusing on the inner-Israeli discourses in this analysis, it becomes evident that even before the recent deterioration of the political situation, the discussion of Israel’s cultural orientation already had a long-standing connection with the Mediterranean Option, and references to it were already present in various Israeli narratives. But what is Yam Tikhoniut? Within these complex transformations the increasing use of the term Mediterraneanism as a model for identity formation and the description of Mediterranean characteristics for various aspects of everyday and cultural life in Israel can be found in the media, in cultural and everyday social practices, and as a part of public debates. This new term became firmly established in Israel’s public debate and Mediterraneanism has become self-evident in Israel. The content of this notion is multifacetted: on the one hand, it is characterized by a nostalgic approach to the Mediterranean, drawing upon a repertoire from the past. During field research for this study it was intriguing to observe that the past was being restructured, conjured up, idealized, and glorified time and again, either to legitimize the current Mediterranean discourse or as an antithesis to the present discussion. Yet on the other hand, Yam Tikhoniut is the subject of a dynamic and high-profile discussion in present-day Israel. Israeli writer Amos Oz commented in 1990: “You could say we’re becoming more and more of a Mediterranean society, like the Sicilians, loud, slightly vulgar.”22 In 1995, the writer Abraham B. Yehoshua, in looking at Irad Malkin, “The Mediterranean and Contemporary Israel,” Technopolis Méditerranée, no. 1 (1996). 21 See Raffaella A. Del Sarto, “Israel’s Contested Identity and the Mediterranean,” Mediterranean Politics 8, no. 1 (2003). 22 Amos Oz, “Interview with Amos Oz,” Frankfurter Rundschau, July 7, 1990. 20

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developments that could reinvigorate the discussion on Israeli identity, attributed great significance to the idea of Yam Tikhoniut within the discourse of identity formation: It is the role of intellectuals and artists to aim their special efforts towards understanding the Mizrachi codes, and not to hurry in giving them up. We are neither Mizrahim nor Ma’arawim [ Westerners, AN ], but Yam Tikhoni’im [ Mediterraneans, AN ], but it is necessary to give this Yam Tikhoniut a meaning in a period where distances shorten. There is still a perception of regional identity, if not for the sake of merchandise and tourism, than at least for the sake of roots and identity.23

Historian Yaakov Shavit finds this Mediterranean reference, “in belles lettres, in cinematic and theatrical reviews, in descriptions of landscapes and character or human behavior, or even in reference to culinary menus.”24 This often mentioned Yam Tikhoniut is still in its formative period, still fuzzy at the edges, and of hybrid structure. It becomes apparent that Yam Tikhoniut is yet another characteristic of a period of redefinition of ideological and cultural orientations as well as a manifestation of the evolution of realities. That it does not exclude other ideologies and concepts makes it especially appealing for a society that has dealt with ethnic and religious divisions since its inception. The exceptional potential of Yam Tikhoniut lies within its power to join existing models of identity without either threatening their legitimacy or replacing them. Experiences stemming from the homogenizing ideals of Zionism, including the ‘New Jew’ and the melting pot ideology, demonstrated that the continuous promotion of static blueprints and infrastructures in order to create a model society are likely to lead to further division and polarization rather than to integration and harmony. The last thing Israel needs now is any kind of cultural ‘planning,’ be it Western- or Eastern-oriented. Israeli culture is neither Western nor Eastern, and there is no way of forcing its developments in either direction without causing great harm to the country’s future as well as immeasurable hardship for one or the other of its various cultural and ethnic groups.25

Abraham B. Yehoshua, “Am Israel (People of Israel),” Haaretz, December 29, 1995. Yaacov Shavit, “The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism’: The Origins, Meaning, and Application of a Geo-Cultural Notion in Israel,” Mediterranean Historical Review 3, no. 2 (1988): 96. 25 Nissim Rejwan, Israel in Search of Identity: Reading the Formative Years (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), 167. 23

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The oscillatory meaning of Yam Tikhoniut becomes apparent when we look at inconsistent responses to the concept: an old Yekke (immigrant from Germany), for example, who is still culturally attached to the ‘old world,’ feels threatened by the growing dominance of ‘everything Mediterranean’ within Israel’s culture; a political activist of Mizrahi origin may see in this discussion only another Eurocentric endeavor to marginalize his ethnic background; a businessperson noted that it pays off to launch products with Mediterranean names or associations, while others see in the Mediterranean concept a way to escape the harsh reality of the Middle East. Indeed, the conciliatory Mediterranean Option is referred to with increasing frequency in academic discourse on new definitions of identity. The hope is that this concept will help put an end to the lengthy conflict between Mizrahim and Ashkenazim26 and put a name to that which has been created jointly by all sections of the population over the past half-century. The aim is to defuse the constant polarization between Western cultural heritage and oriental context by introducing a third model, one in which diverse positions converge and existing individual identities expand. For author Yehoshua, Yam Tikhoniut has become a kind of magic formula with the power to reconcile all cultural differences. Parallelling the textual arguments that promote Yam Tikhoniut is a physical orientation toward the Mediterranean as well: Irad Malkin describes a ‘Mediterranean Paradox’ in analyzing the demography of present day Israel. In ancient times, Jewish settlements were founded in the hinterland by those who came from the desert in the east and settled in the mountains, whereas contemporary Israeliness and the ‘return to Zion’ came from the west, through the Mediterranean Sea, and developed along the coastal areas. Today, the active settlement of the mountains and the hinterland ( Judea and Samaria) is a pattern that is mainly pushed by the far right.27 As can be observed in contemporary Israel, the majority of the population lives along the congested coastal strip, a fact that might be read as a clear—even physical—orientation toward a Mediterranean future. Referencing the Mediterranean as a means to construct a common culture and identity is not a phenomenon unique to contemporary Israel.

For a discussion of the terms, cf. footnote 2, chapter ‘Prologue: Israel and I’ in this book. 27 See also Irad Malkin, “Be’in makom le-ezor: Israel ve-ha-yam ha-Tikhon (Between place and region: Israel and the Mediterranean)” (manuscript, by the courtesy of Irad Malkin, Tel Aviv 2002). 26

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The reference to ‘Mediterranean culture’ and the allusion to ‘everything Mediterranean’ can be found throughout the region, especially in the countries bordering the sea’s northern shores. Historically, the Mediterranean was once a point of reference as well as a projection screen—writers and artists alike indulged in the yearning for the land of the lemon tree and the landscape in which it grew. Even today, looking at the Mediterranean from the North, the sea is often romanticized and idealized. In the last decades, however, the significance of the Mediterranean has changed considerably and several levels of meaning have been added to it: the global representation of Mediterraneanism in the marketing industry is a given in today’s world, and it has become a promotional tool for product sales (examples from advertisements will be discussed in greater detail below). Mediterranean products and ‘Mediterranean cuisine,’ which serve as stand-ins for the exotic and the unusual, have also benefitted from the general ‘ethnic turn’ that has occurred throughout the Western world. On the political level, the Mediterranean took on a whole new meaning with the emergence of the Mediterranean paradigm and the consequent integration of a Mediterranean dimension into EU regional policies, for example the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership (EMP; discussed in detail below). The meaning of Mediterranean culture, inside and outside of Israel, diverges, depending on the context in which it is perceived. In the European countries bordering the Mediterranean, unlike the Arab ones, the sea is seen as a unifying force that embraces neighboring nations like Italy, France, Spain, and Greece. These countries share a certain pride in being linked closely to the Mediterranean basin, the cradle of great civilizations, and the home of ancient cultures. They not only share a common past, but also bear other resemblences to each other: Italy and Greece, for example, are situated in close proximity, thus sharing similar climates and soils and hence growing similar crops and cooking and eating similar dishes. A popular Italian saying, Una faccia una razza (One face, one race), which is used to describe the closeness between Greek and Italian people, is but one manifestation of this perception. Nicolas Sarkozy’s call for a ‘Mediterranean Union’, which was established as the ‘Union for the Mediterranean’ in July 2008, is also based on the assumption that common traits unite the Mediterranean countries, which in the long run—if further developed—could lead to a supranational, Mediterranean entity. Even if Mediterranean culture is perceived as some sort of a common ground in the countries of the northern Mediterranean, the importance the idea of Yam Tikhoniut has for inner-Israeli issues is of

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particular relevance. In Israel the discussion of Mediterranean culture and Mediterraneanism is closely intertwined with Israel’s present and future, and therefore, the Yam Tikhoniut discourse is of vital—even existential—significance for Israel. It is embedded in discussions concerning national culture, collective identity, and regional affiliation, the intentions of which are to locate Israel’s position within a broader Mediterranean framework. It was exactly this special relevance of the Mediterranean for the Israeli consciousness that Gilbert Herbert discussed in this very apt commentary: Here the view of the sea is much more complex. Jews in Israel certainly share a worldview of the sea as a source of pleasure, whether active, passive, or social. But for Israelis the sea has added dimensions. In a land restricted in area, narrow (less than ten miles between Netanya and Tulkarem), hemmed in, and predominantly arid, the sea has a psychological value beyond measure. It is an unspoiled natural resource, akin to the wilderness, a breaching of claustrophobic boundaries, a widening of the horizon. It is no accident that the majority of Israelis have settled on the coastal plain, nor that proximity to the sea, whether physical or visual, has considerable real-estate value. In addition, the sea, ever since the reclamation of the Haifa foreshore in the 1930s, has also been regarded as a potential source of additional land, with artificial islands featuring in many visionary architectural projects. One such project is an off-shore international airport, currently under consideration, recently advocated by then-Vice-Premier Shimon Peres in a conference on ‘The Sea as an Economic Resource,’ as compensation for the abandonment of the West Bank, a political policy of which he has been a long-time proponent.28

Herbert further pointed out that the orientation to the sea has a stark political impact, and he quotes Israeli president Shimon Peres (then Israeli Deputy Premier) from a conference sponsored by the Ruppin Academic Center in April 2007: instead of investing in the territories “we must invest in the sea, and stretch our western border in that direction by building artificial islands.” Here, Peres uses the sea as a specific alternative solution for addressing the issues of peace making policies. In fact, proposals and fantasy planning for artificial offshore islands have a long history and have, since the founding of Tel Aviv, inspired writers and artists, as well as architects and politicians. The goals of redeeming land from the sea were to expand Israeli territory westwards,

28 Gilbert Herbert, “A View of the Sea: Jews and the Maritime Tradition,” in Jewish Topographies: Visions of Space, Traditions of Place, ed. Julia Brauch, Anna Lipphardt, and Alexandra Nocke, Heritage, Culture and Identity (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 196.

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and to build a safe haven for Jews, one devoid of constant threats and the complex chains of past and present.29 These examples demonstrate that the Mediterranean Idea also offers a political vision, adding a new dimension to the prevailing fatigue, bitterness, and disenchantment with politics that can generally be found in contemporary Israel. 2. State of Research and Sources While the literature contains many discussions concerning the polarity of Israeli versus Jewish identity as well as the problems associated with defining the ambiguous term ‘specific Israeli identity’, it is apparent that existing descriptive and analytic works are not entirely capable of doing justice to the rapid changes currently taking place in Israel. In addition, a definitive ordering and evaluation of historical events is rendered difficult by a stratum of post-Zionism. Although this group of historians and sociologists consists only of a handful of scholars, the impact of their findings on the Israeli intellectual discourse should not be underestimated. The conventional version of history, which perceives the Zionist endeavor as an exclusively successful undertaking and lacks critical evaluation of its flaws, has for many years been treated as a fixed pole for identification. More recently, however, the Zionist imperative that called for unification of ethnic individuality and varied cultural backgrounds in order to create one monolithic society has been revised by some scholars, and even stood on its head. In this context ethnic components of Israeli society are also being reconsidered and concepts for a multicultural society, allowing for cultural individuality, are under discussion among the intellectual elite. Whether their assessments will undermine the general commitment to the Zionist ideals, which still prevail in Israeli society, remains to be seen. It seemed necessary to carry out an extended period of field research to collect primary data on the subject of ‘identity formation in Israel’ with a special focus on the Mediterranean Idea. In addition to several shorter research trips between 1999 and 2005, I spent a whole year— October 2000 until October 2001—in Israel to collect data, including

29 For a comprehensive overview of those planning fantasies throughout the last century see: Yael Allweil; Vera Treitel, “La Isla Bonita,” in Back to the Sea, ed. Sigal Barnir et al.

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personal interviews, analyses of phenomena of everyday culture, subjective observations, conventional literary analysis and research in libraries and archives. I found that the different manifestations of Yam Tikhoniut are embedded in a lively debate; there are voices that praise, comment, criticize, evaluate or condemn the different readings of the object under observation here. To write the story of the search and the formation of an identity based on the Mediterranean approach, and to differentiate the discussions on Yam Tikhoniut, an interdisciplinary methodology was applied. This involved combining the results of various types of research in order to obtain as complete a picture of the situation as possible. Two types of sources, collected during several field research trips form the basis for this analysis and provide primary data. First, in-depth interviews, as well as expert-interviews conducted with a selection of the prominent protagonists and antagonists in the public discourse on the Mediterranean Option, help to map the state-of-the-art in the discussion. These interviews with a variety of the outspoken key informants provided a great deal of material concerning central aspects of the current public discourse on the Mediterranean. The form of loosely structured open interviews applied here was chosen in order to give the interviewee plenty of room for comments and subjective interpretation. The interviewees’ responses—the central findings of the fieldwork—are incorporated throughout the study, either as specific quotations or as background information. The interviews with the ‘activists’ or ‘agents’ of the Yam Tikhoniut debate help to capture an image of the existential transformations taking place in Israel. A variety of voices explained their political and ideological positions concerning the Mediterranean concept, giving an inside view of the realities in contemporary Israel. Instead of giving a representative picture, these interviews will spotlight distinct aspects within Israeli society, each one capturing one specific segment of Israeli identity at a given moment. This will shed light on the main issues involved in current discussions over the process of identity formation. A leading question during field research was: Can the attitude toward Yam Tikhoniut be related to a specific ethnic origin? The bulk of the interviews were conducted in Israel, with 15 taking place during research trips to Egypt (in 2001) and to Lebanon (in 2002). A total of 74 interviews were conducted and most were documented on audiotapes. Those interviews that were unscheduled, evolving spontaneously from informal discussions, were documented afterwards in detailed notes. The material collected and the interviews conducted

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in Israel form the main reference point of this study, while those from Lebanon and Egypt are secondary since they do not directly affect the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in Israel. The fieldwork conducted in Lebanon and Egypt was nevertheless constructive in that it provided a kind of corroboration of the notion of ‘Mediterranean awareness’ in those countries neighboring Israel. ‘Mediterranean awareness’ in this case functions as part of the process of normalizing Arab-Israeli relations and thinking in terms of regional integration, a discourse that slowly began to surface as a result of the Oslo Accords, and which is supported by a very small number of intellectuals in the Arab world, primarily in Egypt. The second source category, termed local ‘subjective sources’, consists of my observations as an outsider in the midst of the confusion of daily life in Israel. It includes the results of the analysis of everyday phenomena and the public discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in the media, as well as participant observation. Integrated in this second category of sources are descriptions of selected objects that seemed especially valuable for this research context, such as bags of potato chips or the Hamsa, a hand-shaped amulet for luck and protection from the evil eye. Since Yam Tikhoniut is an idea that is subject to constant fluctuation, the sources analyzed in this second category originate for the most part from Israel’s present. As Homi Bhabha points out, it is important to gather different mosaic stones, which will eventually lead to the formation of a complex structure: “(. . .) the scrapes, patches and rags of daily life must be repeatedly turned into signs of a coherent national culture.”30 Also, in the specific Israeli case the collection of ‘bits and pieces’ can be instructive, and has clear applications for the project of this book. The research investigations here focus on the last decade of the twentieth century, one that witnessed the arrival in Israel of about one million immigrants from the former Soviet Union. Various events and processes triggered the opportunity for stocktaking and (re)assessments of what constitutes modern Israeli identity. In addition, controversial discussions on the meaning and content of Israeliness were provoked. The assassination of Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin in 1995 was experienced as an especially traumatic event by Israeli society, while the Oslo peace talks in 1993, the celebration of Israel’s fiftieth anniversary

30

Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 145.

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of statehood in 1998, and the turn of the Millennium in 1999/2000, questioned established value systems and deepened the crisis of identity. In the course of these events, the question, Quo vadis Israel?, gained renewed urgency. a) The Annales and Fernand Braudel: A French Historiographical Revolution In the context of the Israeli discussion on Yam Tikhoniut, the school of French historians Les Annales is mentioned repeatedly; one can even find recent translations of their works into Hebrew.31 The approach of the Annales, which opposed a nation-to-nation analysis on the basis of national history, and instead suggested a method devoted to a larger category of la longue durée, was an important methodological point of contact for this research on Yam Tikhoniut. In addition, the Annales promoted a new interdisciplinary historiography and made an important contribution to the research of the Mediterranean. In 1929 a group of historians founded the journal Annales d’histoire économique et sociale that championed a new writing of history—la Nouvelle Histoire—and which had a ground-breaking influence on historiography. At the group’s center were Lucien Febvre, Marc Bloch, Fernand Braudel, Georges Duby, Jacques Le Goff and Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie. On the one hand, their intention was to analyze historical events in conjunction with the specific Weltanschauung of an epoch in order to form an overall picture of a particular period. On the other hand, they sought to describe the history of human behavior as a whole instead of focusing primarily on the political history of one nation. The opening up to neighboring disciplines like geography, sociology, psychology, economics, linguistics, and ethnography was encouraged and interdisciplinarity was one of the school’s main characteristics. By extending the classic field of history, a new discipline, the history of mentalities (histoire des mentalités), which mainly focuses on long-term developments, was established. Fernand Braudel applied this school of thought to the notion of a Mediterranean entity and produced an epoch-making oeuvre. His classic study of the historico-cultural space of the Mediterranean in the second half of the sixteenth century represents an impressive account of contacts among the Mediterranean states, the interlinking of European

31 See for example: Fernand Braudel, Ha-yam ha-Tikhon (La Méditerranée: L’espace et l’histoire), Mare Nostrum—ha-yam shelanu ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2001).

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and Mediterranean history, and the complicated processes of change in terms of geography, social structures, and political systems. The sea itself shifts to the center of attention and becomes the protagonist of this monumental work. Like no one else before, Braudel turned the Mediterranean into a historical concept and saw in it a broad arena of cultures with the far-reaching impact of ‘the long duration’ or ‘the long term’—la longue durée, the slow rhythms of human transformations, and social and urban behavior patterns beyond the short-term developments in history and society. For Braudel, it was not appropriate to divide history into secluded units of nation-states. Rather, he suggested analyzing the whole region according to certain thematic subjects that lay beyond traditional political boundaries. In his eyes, the longue durée means “becoming used to a slower tempo, which sometimes almost borders on the motionless.” He calls for freeing oneself from history’s tyrannical organization of time, escaping that structural apporach in order to return later with a fresh view. He continues: “All the stages, all the thousands of stages, all the thousand explosions of historical time can be understood on the basis of these depths, this semistillness. Everything gravitates around it.”32 Braudel showed the great significance of geographical location for the birth and growth of civilization. He explains that underneath the social stratum we can find a different history. His investigations of the Mediterranean are divided into three parts, each of which has a different approach to the past, each part explaining one aspect of the whole. “The first part is devoted to a history whose passage is almost imperceptible, that of a man in his relationship to the environment, a history in which all change is slow, a history of constant repetition, everrecurring cycles.”33 Braudel, who died in 1985, left a lasting imprint on the notion of time and space, and the importance of space in history. He carefully described the rhythms and cycles of life and time, and the ways in which climate influenced them. Braudel believed that the similarity of natural and climatic conditions throughout the Mediterranean basin created a basic Mediterranean civilization. He argued that cultures are closely intertwined with their geographical setting and therefore coined the notion géohistoire. In the first three hundred Fernand Braudel, On History, trans. Sarah Matthews (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1982), 33. 33 Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. 1, 20. 32

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pages of his work The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II he discusses the significance of mountains, plains, coastal strips, islands, climate, overland and sea routes, and shows that all these factors are part of history. Braudel’s perception of the Mediterranean was that of a broad cultural arena within which cultures interact. His notion of the longue durée had a deep impact on the current discussion of Mediterraneanism in Israel’s present: several books that analyze his thoughts and deal with the subject of Mediterraneanism have been translated into Hebrew and published recently, thus indicating a rising awareness of the Mediterranean subject. In the context of this study it is important to note that notwithstanding the broad variety of civilizations, denominations, and models of community organization, Braudel sees a transnational unity in the Mediterranean region. He emphasizes shared economical, geographical, and climatological features, which even in the face of tremendous diversity create a kind of unity among Mediterranean countries. He describes immense, slowly moving forces—greater than the individuals putatively shaping the Mediterranean fate—that rule human existence in the Mediterranean entity. And finally, he observes a unified version of the Mediterranean as a monoculture with largely shared values that arise from a grand historical force. Braudel Reconsidered For decades, Fernand Braudel dominated the study of the Mediterranean as one historical entity. Whether or not the Mediterranean in former times was as unified as he claimed, he certainly was the scholar who exerted lasting influence on the Mediterranean historiography of the twentieth century. But new work has begun to appear in which the Braudelian approach to Mediterranean space is being reevaluated.34 In The Corrupting Sea (2000), the first major historical work on the Mediterranean post-Braudel, the historians Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell challenge and reexamine Braudel’s claim of a Mediterranean unity by identifying and analyzing the local irregularities and diversity of the region. 34 Predrag Matvejevic, for example, a literary scholar born in Mostar (Bosnia-Herzegovina), offers a subjective perspective on the Mediterranean, which he considers his home. In his Mediteranski Brevijar (the English translation was published in 1999 by University of California Press, the Hebrew translation was published in 2002 by Yedioth Ahronoth) he poetically evokes the Mediterranean, yet rejects the perception of a unique Mediterranean culture.

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A fundamental notion of The Corrupting Sea is the necessity of separating history in the Mediterranean (Braudel’s interest) from a history of the Mediterranean (Horden’s and Purcell’s objective). Another question that is central to their study concerns the boundaries of the Mediterranean. The aspects of climate, the much-cited quotation ‘the Mediterranean reaches as far as the olive grows,’ or the distribution of vegetation or certain cookery habits have often been mentioned in response to the disputed question: What is the Mediterranean and where are its limits? Purcell argues: “Far from claiming any distinctively Mediterranean items (light, olive oil, winter rain), we in fact describe not even any of the four elements in our schema as being of itself in any obvious way essentially Mediterranean.”35 Although Horden and Purcell appreciate Braudel’s work as the most famous piece of modern historical writing, they consider his approach as a major, yet flawed achievement, one that is more panoramic than problem-solving. In The Corrupting Sea they look to define the Mediterranean “in terms of the unpredictable, the variable and, above all, the local (. . .),” emphasizing that the Mediterranean is an essentially debatable idea, and reaching the conclusion that the exact delimitation of the Mediterranean remains open to discussion: (. . .) no definition can fail to be controversial. As we have argued throughout, the region is only loosely unified, distinguishable from its neighbours to degrees that vary with time, geographical direction and topic. Its boundaries are not of the sort to be drawn on a map. Its continuities are best thought of as continuities of form or pattern, within which all is mutability.

While Horden and Purcell do not reject the Braudelian approach of unity, they also develop their own theory: (“[. . .] it becomes possible to envisage what Fernand Braudel was thinking of [. . .]”), and by introducing the ‘microecological approach’ and the concept of ‘microregions,’ they suggest a differentiation of the perception of the Mediterranean. According to Horden and Purcell, the Mediterranean comprises various different patterns of microregions, within each of which many of the forms Braudel considered significant for the Mediterranean as a whole can be found. They do adhere to the Braudelian notion of exchange when they argue that these microregions are characterized by a

35 Nicholas Purcell, “The Boundless Sea of Unlikeness? On Defining the Mediterranean,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18, no. 2 (2003): 12. Italic in the original.

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certain interconnectivity and form a related network. The interconnected microregions, consisting of different units whose exact scale differs and cannot be specified, form a certain locality, which they call “a definite place with a distinctive identity.”36 Yet the authors stress a certain degree of fragmentation of the region and argue that Mediterranean specifics are hard to find. Instead, they suggest that what differentiates the Mediterranean is the “sheer intensity and complexity of the ingredients of the paradigm.”37 In this study of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel it is argued along the lines with Horden and Purcell: the Mediterranean is “a fuzzy set” and “neat frontiers, enclosing blatant uniformities, are hardly to be expected.” One response to those who strive to determine Yam Tikhoniut and tackle its exact features can be found in the following statement by Horden and Purcell: “A certain vagueness should be of the essence in the way it is conceived.”38 b) Orientalism: The Mental Map of the Orient In addition to Braudel’s groundbreaking perception of the Mediterranean, another pioneering concept that paved the way for a different perception of large-scale spaces (Großraumdiskurs) was Edward Said’s notion of Orientalism. This concept provoked a lively and ongoing debate over the cognitive construction of geographies and spurred interest in other regions, including the Balkans, Eastern Europe, the Baltic Sea, and the Mediterranean. Said also exposed the Western perception of the Orient as being marked by distortion, romantic transfiguration, and instrumentalization. According to Said, the Western world developed a set of clichés connected to the Orient. These mental maps, to use a term from cultural-anthropological and ethnological research, can best be paraphrased as the construction and invention of spaces in one’s mind. The notion of mental mapping can also be applied in the context of this research: a place or a region (in this case the Mediterranean) is composed differently in the eyes of the beholder than it appears on topographic maps. For the whole paragraph: Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2000), 80. 37 Purcell, “The Boundless Sea of Unlikeness?,” 13. 38 For the whole paragraph: Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 45. 36

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We form a géographie imaginaire which departs not just in small details but often very significantly from the scales and proportions shown on a globe. On our imaginary maps, countries and routes which form part of our own experience are in the foreground, while the unknown is pushed to the margins of our perception.39

The imagined Mediterranean depends on a specific mental map and is equipped with a set of clichés and images, which form an essential element for the perception of the Yam Tikhoniut discourse in contemporary Israel. The geographer Yuval Portugali points out that “the Mediterranean is an adjective to a long list of attributes and traits that together form the Mediterranean landscape, culture, and society.” The use of this adjective, according to Portugali, provokes certain associations and stereotyped images in people’s minds. The Mediterranean is an excellent example of the wide gap that exists between a constructed image, the internal representation of the mind, and the actual Mediterranean: But then, if one actually visits the Mediterranean, one will find many Hiltons, Sheratons, McDonald’s, modernist and post-modernist buildings, European cities, Chinese and Japanese restaurants, and so on. In short, there is a wide gap between the Mediterranean and the image of the Mediterranean—the cognitive map of the Mediterranean is systematically distorted.40

c) How to Capture Yam Tikhoniut? The initial interest here is in exploring public discourse concerning the Mediterranean in Israel and identifying various facets of the debate that is taking place. This debate is embedded in discussions about Israeli identity and national ethos and deals with an alternative concept for society, resulting in passionate, often agitated exchanges. Following the tracks of the Mediterranean in Israeli culture shows that though there are many phenomena and symbols of daily life that represent Mediterranean consciousness and Mediterranean features, those phenomena and symbols are far from being clearly defined. The ambiguity of the notion becomes evident when one explores the public discourse on the Mediterranean in Israel and tries to differentiate the multidimensional

Schlör, Tel Aviv, 162. Juval Portugali, “The Mediterranean as a Cognitive Map,” Mediterranean Historical Review 19, no. 2 (2004): 17. 39 40

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debate taking place. The crucial questions therefore are: Is Yam Tikhoniut an intellectual construct or lived reality? Why is this concept often instrumentalized and idealized? What exactly do we see? So far in this text, terms such as ‘Mediterranean Option’, ‘Mediterraneanism’, ‘Mediterranean identity’ and ‘Mediterranean characteristics’ have remained vague and imprecise. It is therefore necessary to examine their content and to analyze their role in the process of identity formation in Israeli society. In approaching Yam Tikhoniut in the contemporary context of globalization, one realizes time and again that the notion is in constant flux and its contents are not universally defined. In the field of scholarly study of Israeli culture the term ‘hybrid’ is used in order to define the multifaceted and complex cultural phenomena in Israel. There are multiple layers subsumed under the label Yam Tikhoniut, and the term can cover everything from atmosphere, state of mind, and places, to individuals, identities, and concepts. Thus, in approaching this ‘slippery terrain,’ the terms ‘assemblage’ or ‘mosaic’ are helpful for understanding the ‘Mediterranean murmuring’ in present day Israel and tackling the content of this notion. This study aims to take stock of Israeli identity, paying particular attention to an analysis of Mediterranean elements. As crucial as theoretical abstraction is, conclusions about emerging concepts of society can also be reached by closely studying the ‘mindset’ of real life individuals. The process of development described here is subject to constant change, underlining the fluid—and in Israel’s case unfocused—nature of identity. Thierry Fabre argues: “The identity of a geo-cultural unit cannot be defined: it has to be lived and shared! It is a feeling of belonging, a way of being in the world.”41 Therefore, no rigid definition of Yam Tikhoniut is intended here; rather, the transdisciplinary scope of problems connected to identity formation will be shown. The perennial characteristics of a Mediterranean society form slowly and often in secluded places within everyday life. Yam Tikhoniut also takes shape on Israel’s streets, in the shouk, in the coffee houses, and in the kitchens, and it has often been argued that, “Israeli society is a Mediterranean society in the making.”42 The theory of the everyday, of lived spaces, has been developed in recent texts in Cultural Studies and ethnographic analysis and is a useful tool for approaching the object of study here. 41 Thierry Fabre, “Mauern und Brücken: Das Mittelmeer am Scheideweg,” Zeitschrift für Kulturaustausch: Kulturraum Mittelmeer 46, no. 3 (1996): 29. 42 See, e.g., Malkin, “The Mediterranean and Contemporary Israel.”

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Scholars of postcolonial studies like Homi K. Bhabha and Edward Said struggled with new geo-political realities that have transformed relationships between nation-states, individuals, and cultures. They raised issues like ‘in-betweens’, ‘Orientalism’, ‘identity politics’, ‘authenticity,’ and ‘hybridity’. Bhabha, stressing the permanent transition and incompleteness of cultures and the formation and deformation of identities, introduced the notion of the ‘beyond’ as a realm in which to locate the question of culture. He saw in the controversial shiftiness of the prefix ‘post’ an expression of our living on the borderlines of the present, and he went on to develop a theory of cultural hybridity that moves beyond the dual polarities of ‘Self ’ and ‘Other’ or ‘East’ and ‘West’: The ‘beyond’ is neither a new horizon, nor a leaving behind of the past . . . Beginnings and endings may be the sustaining myths of the middle years; but in the fin de siècle, we find ourselves in the moment of transit where space and time cross to produce complex figures of difference and identity, past and present, inside and outside, inclusion and exclusion.43

These topoi of moving away from conceptual categories, the dilution of traditional borders, the enhanced awareness of the subject’s position, and the setting aside of “demands to make an either/or choice and contemplate instead the possibility of a both/and also logic,”44 as Edward W. Soja suggests with his term thirdspace, were vital in the preparatory phase of this work. A thirdspace, according to Soja, eludes dichotomic categorizations and goes beyond the well-known binary concepts. Drawing on the reservoir of these postcolonial theorists who formulated new interpretations of spatiality helped me sharpen the instrumentarium I used for conducting my research, and played an essential role in narrowing down the focus of this analysis. Moreover, distinct methodological tools have been applied since the complexity of the Israeli case calls for an interdisciplinary approach and a specific methodological repertoire. The theoretical base of my approach deploys a mix of methodology from Cultural Studies and qualitative research that make it possible to shed light on structures and phenomena that have not yet fully emerged. This involved combining the results of various types of research to obtain as broad a picture as possible of the situation within the timeframe of

Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 1. Edward W. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real and Imagined Places (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1996), 5. 43 44

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this research. An interdisciplinary approach also offers a way to grasp the continuously changing Israeli self-image and the phenomenon of an emerging Mediterranean identity. This analysis is based on techniques derived from cultural-anthropological and ethnological research: in-depth interviews, analysis of the media, participant observation of daily life, and extensive textual analysis. These so-called ‘soft methods’ distinguish qualitative research techniques and examine the objects of interest as complex as possible from different perspectives within their day-to-day setting. In this context the objects under observation here will always be linked to the examination of the societal framework in Israel. In addition, this qualitative strategy enables the object of study to be viewed from a process-related perspective. This set of methods provides the tools to spotlight different aspects within Israeli society, allowing a distinct segment of Israeli identity to be as fully captured as possible, with all its complexity within a given moment. It is the aim to fuse the results of different readings in order to obtain the most complete and as close-to-life image of the present.

CHAPTER TWO

TRACING YAM TIKHONIUT IN CONTEMPORARY ISRAEL As historian Yaakov Shavit has shown in his scholarly article about the origins and the application of Mediterraneanism, the subject “became the basis for a renewed evaluation of the place of Israeli culture within the overall framework of Mediterranean civilization,”1 and the notion of Mediterraneanism can increasingly be found in Israel’s public discourse dating from the early 1980s. However, its appearance was sporadic and not yet accompanied by a broader public discussion in the media and the academy. This situation had noticeably changed by the 1990s, which can partly be explained by developments related to the Barcelona Process and the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership Program. Since that time, the Mediterranean has been a viable cultural framework for some, as well as a cultural utopia for others, and one in which Israeli society continues to work to position itself. The inner-Israeli discussion on Yam Tikhoniut is often linked to an open conflict over the meaning of Israeliness, of a specific Israeli identity. In this context the Mediterranean Option is referred to time and again in various ways. Analyses of the public debate and the content of interviews conducted since the mid-1990s demonstrate that the increasing use of the term in numerous fields in the public sphere are indicative of a growing awareness of the region and sense of locality among the Israeli public. The Succot supplement 2007 of the Israeli daily Haaretz with the title Ha-yam shelanu: me Atlit ad Gibraltar. Mabat al ha-yam ha-Tikhon haiom (Our Sea: from Atlit to Gibraltar. A view of the Mediterranean today), serves as a striking example of this trend. This supplement, printed only in the newspaper’s Hebrew version, contains a potpourri of articles that are all somehow linked to the sea, but are not necessarily limited to the Israeli Mediterranean.2 However, whenever the specific Israeli Shavit, “The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism,’” 112. One finds the description of Greek islands as a desired getaway, the city of Alexandria between mythos and reality, dolphins, pollution, Jews in Gibraltar, underwater archeology, the city of Istanbul, Islamic countries bordering the shore, and illegal 1 2

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case of Yam Tikhoniut is addressed, neither the phenomenon nor its emergence in Israeli society is referred to. It seems that the term Yam Tikhoniut became firmly established in the Hebrew language and is by now employed naturally, without the need for explanation or particular references. This rising consciousness gives evidence of the existence of an alternative conception of the Israeli Makom, an understanding that incorporates a broader view, supplementing but not replacing the existing categories of place and identity. Stressing this accommodating aspect of Yam Tikhoniut, it can be perceived as a response to an ideological preoccupation that marked the founding years of the state of Israel. Yet the Mediterranean Option is not a fixed counterconcept, nor is it promoted as a concrete political, cultural, or geographical agenda that opposes other models of place and locality. Rather, it offers new approaches to traditional perceptions without insisting on a set grid. And its greatest potential lies in breaking up existing, often rigid categories, allowing the reconsideration of fixed points of reference. 1. Yam Tikhoniut in Academic Discussions The growing interest in the history of Mediterranean countries and the Jews of the Mediterranean region among academic circles has become apparent and intensified in the last decade, with various conferences and publications, literary journals and artistic expressions addressing the topic. The tone of the academic discussion ranges from total embrace to harsh rejection. On the one hand, the stance of full approval considers Yam Tikhoniut as a metaphorical entity, a poetic and elitist concept with the potential to integrate the polarized elements of society. On the other hand, the opposition and complete rejection, holds that the concept is a purely artificial construct, turned backwards and glorifying the past. The different individual voices that form these two discourses are analyzed in the chapter ‘Mapping Yam Tikhoniut.’

refugees stranded in Malta. The specific Israeli case is addressed with articles that deal with, e.g., Mediterranean architecture or cookery.

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Mediterranean Series, Journals, and Conferences The published expressions of Mediterraneanism that emerged within Israeli academia will be discussed in this section. The increase of ‘Mediterranean serials’ is not solely an Israeli phenomenon, which becomes immediately clear to anyone browsing the libraries for academic publications related to the Mediterranean. In her study on the boom of academic journals over the last two decades, Susan E. Alcock brings together an impressive collection of the literature that deals to a greater or lesser extent with the historical Mediterranean as a regional unit.3 However, publications related to the Mediterranean have particular significance in Israel, as the potential of cross-cultural contacts and similarities growing among Mediterranean people due to similar living conditions over the centuries have vital implications for Israel’s present and future. Most of these publications began appearing in the late 1990s, reflecting the rising interest and awareness in the Israeli locus, situated at the shores of the Mediterranean. The subject of identity formation and the question of a specific Israeli identity are raised time and again, and a more political agenda is also part of the conversation. Three literary series that focus on the translation of Mediterranean literature should be mentioned in particular: the publishing house Yedioth Ahronoth brought out Ha-sidra ha-yam Tikhonit (The Mediterranean Series) in cooperation with the Center for Mediterranean Civilizations Project at Tel Aviv University. The first volume, published in 2002, is a translation of Predrag Matvejevic’s fascinating book Mediteranski Brevijar, a lively and lyrical journey through time and space of the Mediterranean. The second project was the translation and publication of The Returns of Odysseus by Irad Malkin in 2004. The first compilation ever of belles-lettres dealing with the Mediterranean region as an idea, as a metaphor, as a geo-historical and cultural conception, and as a utopia for society also came out in 2004. The editor of the Mediterranean Anthology, Yaacov Shavit, explains that the aim of the collection of texts dealing with the concept of the whole region is to investigate the sources of this Mediterranean imagery and to analyze its developments and acceptance over time. In addition, Shlomo Dov Goitein’s portrait of A Mediterranean Society was published

3 Susan A. Alcock, “Alphabet Soup in the Mediterranean Basin: The Emergence of the Mediterranean Serial,” in Rethinking the Mediterranean, ed. W. V. Harris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005).

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in 2005.4 Secondly, the publishing house Carmel printed a series entitled Mare Nostrum: Ha-yam shelanu (Mare Nostrum: Our Sea), which includes translations into Hebrew of Fernand Braudel, La Méditerranée (Ha-yam ha-Tikhon); Elias Canetti, Die Stimmen von Marrakesch: Aufzeichnungen nach einer Reise (Kolot Marakesh); and Tahar Ben-Jelloun, Mukha the Stupid, Mukha the Clever (Mukha ha-sutah, Mukha ha-haham). According to its self-description, Carmel the publishing house wants to break physical boundaries, serve as a literary bridge to Israel’s neighbors, and expose its readers to the rich cultural heritage of the peoples residing along the Mediterranean shores: This series wants to strengthen the awareness of the Israeli reader to the natural cultural surrounding that he lives in, and—by publishing Mediterranean literature in Hebrew translation—wants to create a sense of solidarity with the other people on the Mediterranean shores, for their rich and diverse cultures.5

A third series, Sifrut min ha-yam ha-Tikhon (Literature from the Mediterranean) by the publishing house Karta, edited by Yaakov Shibi, includes translations from Greek, Turkish, and Arabic.6 Another project important in this context is the independent publishing house Andalus, founded in 2000 by peace activist Yael Lerer. Andalus is dedicated to the translation of Arabic literature and prose into Hebrew.7 The name Andalus refers to the site of the Islamic-Jewish ‘Golden Age’ in the past, a time of great intellectual and literary output, when Arabic and Jewish cultures fertilized one another. Despite the fact that there is nothing specifically Mediterranean about its ideological approaches, Andalus discusses Israel’s location within the geographical space, and

4 The original titles, now translated into Hebrew, are: Predrag Matvejevic, Der Mediterran: Raum und Zeit (Zürich: Ammann, 1993); Irad Malkin, The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity (University of California Press: 1998); Shlomo Dov Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: An Abridgment in one Volume, ed. and rev. Jacob Lassner (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). 5 See book spine of: Braudel, Ha-yam ha-Tikhon. 6 In this series the following titles were published: Chanan El-Shaykh, Beirut Blues ( Jerusalem: Karta, 2001); Dimitris Hatzis, Sofa shel ireno ka-k’tana (The end of our small city) ( Jerusalem: Karta, 2003); Costas Paris, Rebetiko ( Jerusalem: Karta, 2003); Buket Uzuner, Walz Yam Tikhonit (Mediterranean waltz) ( Jerusalem: Karta, 2002). 7 Among others, Andalus has published the following titles: the Moroccan Muhammad Choukri’s For Bread Alone, the Sudanese Al-Tayyeb Saleh’s The Wedding of Zein, the Lebanese Elias Khoury’s Bab al-Shams, two books by the Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish: Why Have You Left the Horse Alone and State of Siege, as well as an art catalogue, Self Portrait: Palestinian Women’s Art.

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its objectives are to culturally accommodate Israel within the region. Lerer sees Israel located in the heart of the Arab world, but perceives a lack of awareness of this fact among Israelis. She explains her motivation for establishing Andalus as filling a vacuum of unawareness among Israelis toward Arabic literature and thereby eliminating a lack of understanding between Israeli and Arab neighbors. The Andalus website notes that from the 1930s until Andalus began operating in 2000, only about thirty works of Arab language fiction had been translated into Hebrew: “It is nearly impossible to find translations of narratives that might enable the Hebrew reader to understand Arab societies and the various, complex experiences that shape the lives of the people who comprise them.” Among the works published by Andalus is Bab al-Shams (Gate to the Sun) by the Lebanese writer Elias Khoury, which deals with the Nakba.8 Claiming that the Israel Defense Forces committed severe war crimes against the Palestinians, Khoury collects a mosaic of Palestinian voices, interwoven with critical reflections on history and remembrance. Bab al-Shams confronts the readers with a very complex, historicized Palestinian perspective and addresses the core of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. When it was published in February 2002, a time during which the Al Aksa Intifada and harsh military confrontations were straining the Israeli public mood, Bab al-Shams moved well beyond the literary supplements and entered the arena of public political discussion. The object of much controversy, it was reviewed and discussed in numerous newspapers and on Internet news sites. Critics like the historian Tom Segev accused Khoury of inappropriately fusing literary and historical truth, indulging in ideological construction rather than a reflective discussion of historical facts.9 In a 2002 interview, Khoury responded to Segev’s criticism: He says I pretend that there were massacres in the Galilee, but according to Segev there is no evidence that they really happened, because Benny Morris [an Israeli New Historian, AN] does not mention them. He said my book is powerful, but he has no reason to believe what I wrote.

8 Within the Palestinian narrative the 1948 war resulted in Al-Nakbah, the immense catastrophe, since it engendered among other things the loss of homeland, dispersion, and devastation of culture. Israelis generally refer to this war as the War of Independence or the 1948 War. 9 Tom Segev, “Roman Arawi (Arab novel),” Haaretz, March 4, 2002.

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Asked if he held any hopes or expectations as a result of his book’s publication in Hebrew, he replied: I think the major issue of dialogue is to approach the memory of this land, the modern Jewish land. (. . .) The situation is very tough now and dialogue is technically impossible now. (. . .) I feel my book has no real impact on Israeli intellectuals.

A survey of academic circles in Israel reveals institutions and publications that deal with Mediterranean history and that nurture the academic discourse on the conciliatory influence of the Mediterranean, some of which were launched long before the EU exhibited any significant interest in the region (the EU’s role will be discussed in more depth below). In 1986, the periodical Mediterranean Historical Review was founded at Tel Aviv University, focusing on contacts and relations within the Mediterranean region rather than concentrating on a particular area or period. In 1998, the Center for Mediterranean Civilizations Project was also established at Tel Aviv University and aims to promote international cooperation with existing Mediterranean institutions, emphasizing a pan-humanities and interdisciplinary approach. The Center hosts summer workshops and conferences, has started a series of Mediterranean publications in Hebrew, and provides fellowships for students. Given the ways in which the political climate has changed since the mid-1990s, the Center hopes to foster the establishment of closer connections and cooperative relationships between Israel and other Mediterranean countries throughout the region. The (even physical) turn toward the Mediterranean and the founding of the center is explained on the institution’s website: Israel, with the bulk of its population settled along the Mediterranean coast, is undergoing today a Mediterranean re-orientation, expressed in lifestyle, in changing points of reference, and sometimes articulated as one of the competing strategies for a future collective identity and cultural direction.

In a joint initiative with Mishkenot Sha’ananim and the Israeli Education Ministry, Jerusalem’s Van Leer Institute founded The Israeli Forum for Mediterranean Culture in 1996.10 In a booklet marking the foundation of the Forum this project is described as follows: “The aim of the Forum is to 10 It is interesting to note that the founding name, The Israeli Forum for Mediterranean Culture, was later changed to The Forum for Mediterranean Culture in order to project a less national appeal, especially at international conferences that were also attended by

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explore the concept of Mediterranean Culture by comparing images, symbols, and myths of Mediterranean societies and by searching for whatever is shared or different in various cultural arenas.” The text emphasizes the changing political atmosphere as one impetus for this venture. As Israel is emerging from its isolation in its immediate cultural environment, our own cultural identities need to be re-thought. Through the exploration of Mediterranean Culture, and our own place in it, we also hope to be able to gain an insight into the various elements that make up our own culture.

Offering different workshops, under the main headings of architecture, visual arts, literature, Cultural Studies, and music, the forum has raised essential questions concerning space, locality, hybridity, identity, and dialogue in the Mediterranean region—always with a special focus on Israel’s position within this broader Mediterranean framework. The interdisciplinary approach to the multilayered subject allows a range of subjects to be covered in which intersections and points of contact can be identified. In 1997 the forum organized an international conference on The Mediterranean Landscape: Representations, Design and Identities. In addition, various academic activities have also been launched: lectures, conferences (e.g., in 1997 the then newly published book by Abraham B. Yehoshua, Journey to the End of the Millennium, was featured), movie screenings (e.g., Identity—Displacement, Immigration and Exile in the Mediterranean Cinema in 2000), musical performances, and a literature series (e.g., Window to the Mediterranean, also in 2000). And for more than a decade now, the Van Leer Institute has kept its involvement with the Mediterranean Idea alive by examining the evolution of Israel’s policy toward regionalization and regional thinking, as declared on its website in early 2008. It is important to note at this point that the positive political atmosphere in the middle of the 1990s was one of the factors that allowed discussions about Mediterraneanism to blossom in the inner-Israeli discourses. In addition, many of the academic activities described here were co-financed by the European Union’s Mediterranean initiatives. The dramatically changing political climate during that era produced a different, much more positive perception of the geographical space: Arab and Palestinian partners. The name was then changed once again to The Forum for Society and Mediterranean Culture, a denomination that remains in place until today.

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Israelis and Arabs met at conferences held by the European Union, and confidence-building beyond the political arena fostered the feeling of a new beginning. As the peace process advanced, the Southern Mediterranean states showed an increased openness, giving Israel the opportunity to engage in cultural exchange and dialogue. In addition to these outside factors, the Mediterranean Idea was often emphasized as a vehicle for inner-Israeli equilibrium: for example, The Israeli Forum for Mediterranean Culture underlined its aspirations to explore those points Israel shares with and those that diverge from its Mediterranean neighbors as a way of finding its own position within the region. From the point of view of the supporters of those Mediterranean initiatives, this interplay of neighborhood, openness, and self-assertion would, ideally, contribute to the formation of cultural identity and, in the long term, to peace and stability. Other examples of the growing Mediterranean consciousness in diverse contexts include: the Mediterranean Language Review, an interdisciplinary forum for the investigation of language and culture in the Mediterranean, established in 1983 by the Maltese linguist Alexander Borg; the journal RIVE—Review of Mediterranean Politics and Culture, published between 1996 and 1999 by the University of the Mediterranean in Rome, in cooperation with the European Commission; the critical online journal bitterlemons.org, which deals with issues related to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the peace process, as well as issues of security and stability in the region, dedicated an entire issue in 2004 to the question Is there a Mediterranean identity? Particularly important in the context of a growing sense of place and Mediterranean awareness within Israeli academia were two international conferences held in 2001 that dealt with the cultural-historical approach to the region: The Mediterranean Idea and Spatial Identity: Israeli Culture in the Mediterranean Basin (see figs. 10 and 11, page 283).11 Even after the outbreak of the so-called Al Aksa Intifada in October 2000, which left the Israeli public in a state of despair and uncertainty, the scholarly discussion on Mediterraneanism did not come to a standstill. While the peace process in the Middle East that started after the Gulf War in 1991,

11 The Mediterranean Idea: An International Conference was organized by Irad Malkin, Center for Mediterranean Civilizations Project at Tel Aviv University and Mishkenot Sha’ananim ( January 27–31, 2001); Spatial Identity: Israeli Culture in the Mediterranean Basin, conference organized by David Ohana at the Ben-Gurion Research Center, Sde Boker, and the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Be’er Sheva (April 2–4, 2001).

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and which was aimed at the emergence of a ‘New Middle East’, collapsed, academic activities—like the publication of a book series or the planning and holding of conferences—cannot react instantly to the ups and downs of daily politics. Therefore, despite the deteriorating security situation, several conferences were held in the last years that focused on the political-scientific and economic agenda of the Mediterranean Option. Discussing the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership that was launched in 1995 at the height of the Oslo-Process, these conferences dealt with new political realities: e.g., Current European and Israeli Perspectives on the Mediterranean Concept, Whither the Barcelona Process? and Emigration and the movement of population in the Mediterranean and in Israel.12 The disjunction between political realities and academic investigations, which becomes evident when reading the proceedings of the conferences and series discussed above, can partially be explained by the lengthy lead time required to develop academic curricula. An academic conference, which may have been a year or more in the making, and which addresses historical, political, philosophical, and cultural questions concerning the Mediterranean Idea, is simply not designed to respond immediately to breaking news and daily events. In addition, it needs to be mentioned in this context, that the process of institutionalization, as well as the backing and promotion of the Mediterranean Idea in the academic context, is strongly linked to the rising interest of the EU in the region. As a consequence, financial resources were released that form the backbone of many of the institutional activities described above. Finally, there is also a whole field of academic programs that deal with questions of culture and identity in the Mediterranean, but are not primarily linked to Israeli initiative or institutions. They do, however, have some relevance for my research here. Just to name a few examples: In June 2003 the American University of Beirut held a conference, Mediterranean Studies: Identities and Tensions, which brought together scholars working on diverse aspects of the emerging academic discipline of Mediterranean Studies; in February 2005 the University of Cambridge held a conference on Mediterranean Encounters: People, History and Literature;

12 Conferences organized by the EU-Israel Forum, The Van Leer Institute, and the Interdisciplinary Center Herzliya, March 8, 2001; Alfred Tobias, Hebrew University of Jerusalem and The Leonard Davis Institute for International Relations, April 7–8, 2002; and a series of lectures organized by the Forum for Mediterranean Culture and Society, Van Leer Institute, 2001.

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in March 2005 the Department of History at the University of Athens held a conference on Constructions of Mediterranean Nostalgia analyzing visual arts, including cinema, music, literature, and popular culture; in May 2005 a conference entitled Art and Mediterranean Culture was held at the University of Haifa; and in March 2008 the Athens Institute for Education and Research organized an international conference on Mediterranean Studies. 2. Art and Popular Culture This next section traces the manifestations of the Mediterranean topos within Israeli art and popular culture,13 using specific examples from the fields of music, literature, and visual arts to illuminate how the Mediterranean has been perceived in the past and how it is viewed currently. This section draws upon the extensive material that has been published on each of these subjects, with special attention paid to the musical expressions of Mediterraneanism, a topic that takes up most of the space in this chapter. The reasons for this focus are the numerous powerful musical representations of Yam Tikhoniut, as well as the accessibility of and exposure to popular music in Israeli daily life. A walk in North Tel Aviv, unlike the Shouk ha-Carmel or the old Tahanah Merkazit, neither of which is a traditional place for musical display or sale, exposes an observant flâneur to many different musical sources: music oozes from open windows or blasts out of a passing car, radios play nonstop in public places, offices, and buses, and kiosk owners play music to attract passersby. Indeed, popular music ‘sinks’ into daily life and is ever present within the urban framework of Israel’s cityscapes, whereas literature and visual arts are generally confined to more limited fields of cultural expressions, for example, books and museums. In the last decade, a notable switch in the public discourse, and an increasing openness toward the ‘Other’, in this case Arab culture, has occurred: since the beginning of the peace process and the signing of the Israel-PLO Declaration of Principles (DOP) in September 1993, significant changes in the patterns of Israeli cultural consumption have become

13 The following thoughts appeared in part in the article: Alexandra Nocke, “Israel and the Emergence of Mediterranean Identity: Expressions of Locality in Music and Literature,” Israel Studies 11, no. 1 (2006).

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evident. Empirical evidence shows that openness toward, and curiosity about the Arab world reached an all-time high, especially among young Israelis, during the period when the peace process was raising expectations for a better future. A popular slogan from the late 1990s that embodied this shift is Hummus be-Damesek, referring to a longing for open borders and the possibility of traveling to Damascus in order to eat Hummus.14 This shift in consciousness has also influenced musical consumption: In the beginning of the 1990s it was nearly impossible to purchase Arabic music in Israeli record stores. Today, any self-respecting Israeli music shop carries a wide variety of classical and modern Arabic music from Morocco to Iraq, Lebanon to Sudan. Moreover, Israeli singers have begun performing in Arabic, among them the Moroccan-Israeli singer Sahava Ben, who in 1995 recorded a whole CD of songs from the repertoire of Umm-Khoulthoum,15 and the Israeli singer Dikla on her disc Ahava Musika (2000). The popularity of Umm-Khoulthoum among the Mizrahi population in Israel tells a story of cultural linkage between Israel and the Arab World. This renewed openness in the mid-1990s also found expression in pan-regional academic conferences with Israeli and Arab participants, most of them under the patronage of the EU, as well as in recently founded enterprises for the translation of Arab literature, like the publishing house Andalus discussed above. The romantic yearnings for the exotic Mediterranean in the eyes of those who came from the ‘land beyond the olive trees’ can be heard and seen in the musicians’ and painters’ approach to the region. The reconnection to place was very visible in paintings of those artists who immigrated to Palestine during the time of the Yishuv,16 and will be examined later in the section on visual arts. In the 1940s, composers

14 A traditionally Arab dish consisting of cooked chickpeas pounded into a creamy paste with garlic and lemon juice, which is popular all over the Middle East. 15 Umm-Khoulthoum (1904–1975), an Egyptian woman singer and icon of Arab music in the twentieth century, who also enjoys popularity in the Mizrahi communities in Israel. For further reading on the singer Sahava Ben, who performed the UmmKhoulthoum repertoire for audiences in Nablus as well as in Tel Aviv, and at the border opening after the signing of the peace treaty between Israel and Jordan in 1994, see Amy Horowitz, “Dueling Nativities: Zehava Ben Sings Umm Kulthum,” in Palestine, Israel, and the Politics of Popular Culture, ed. Rebecca L. Stein and Ted Swedenburg (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 202–30. 16 Yishuv (Heb. settlement) denotes the autonomous Jewish community in Palestine from the time of the British Mandate up to the establishment of the state of Israel (1919–1948).

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created a so-called ‘Mediterranean Style’ in music and thereby tried to fabricate a new locality that was completely disconnected from the ‘old world.’ A more recent ‘genre’ in modern popular music, which has been labeled Israeli Mediterranean Music, has found expression in diverse television music programming under the heading Taverna. The Israeli Mediterranean Television Channel Brisa, which was launched in the year 2000 (and taken off the air in 2003) will be discussed in this chapter, as well as the diverse pop bands of Mizrahi origin that deal with the subjects of belonging and origin. The band Tea Packs, which addresses Levantine identity and new ‘locality’ versus the omnipresent influences of globalization in Israel’s culture, will be analyzed as a case study below. a) Music and the Emergence of Locality Zionism created the image of the ‘New Jew,’ a figure that was disconnected from the cultural roots of the Diaspora and symbolized a new beginning in the ancient homeland. Therefore the heterogeneous society of the Yishuv, combining many different cultural traditions, was in desperate need of a set of values that emphasized this new secular identity and bridged over the cultural and ethnic gaps of the immigrant society. The commitment to the idea ‘one nation—one culture’ was dominant, and in art, literature, and music alike, we can observe a search for a local expression of this new Jewish existence. In the development of Israeliness—something specifically Israeli—music plays an important role: many sociological currents that influence and shape Israeliness find their embodiment in the musical landscape, and the development of popular music in Israel can be seen as one form of the expression of identity formation. Music, particularly in the early years of the state, served as a powerful tool for integration between the different ethnic17 backgrounds. Upon their arrival in Israel, Jewish immigrants from oriental countries found a mainly European musical soundscape and quickly realized that there was no space for the musical traditions they brought with them. As Ammiel Alcalay observes, despite the dominance

It is important to mention here that in most of the literature dealing with contemporary Israeli subjects, the adjective ‘ethnic’ is used to describe everything ‘nonAskenazi’. Despite the shortcomings of this usage, the term will be used in this book to simplify matters. 17

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of the European musical soundscapes the great diversity of ethnic music in the new state was, nevertheless, preserved: Despite efforts to extricate Israel from the Middle East, along with all the technical and psychological obstacles, there is probably nowhere in the Levant where such a vast variety of music from the region can be found. Against great odds, each group of immigrants either preserved or if at all possible, continued to follow the trajectory of their musical culture from afar.18

The ethnomusicologist Edwin Seroussi notes that the initial stages of Israeli oriental Music, called Musika Mizrahit,19 were not specifically Israeli, but “mainly Israeli covers of imported Greek, Arabic or Turkish popular music adapted from records, cassettes or radio performances and ‘made’ Israeli by substituting Hebrew lyrics for the original ones.”20 However, with the emergence of Musika Mizrahit in the 1970s, music has served more and more as an instrument to preserve ethnic singularities and emphasize the cultural uniqueness of the diverse immigrant groups. Both the rising public awareness of Musika Mizrahit and the revison of the customary Eurocentric cultural approaches are linked to a major political and social turning point in the history of the state of Israel: after almost three decades of socialist Labor party rule, the rightwing Likud party—empowered by the vote of Mizrahi Jews—won the national elections in 1977 under Menachem Begin. After that victory, operating from a position of ethnicity acquired increasing legitimacy as the new political establishment made efforts to place its supporters within the national culture and the historical narrative. The search for a national style, locality, and authenticity in the field of music during the formative years of the state becomes apparent: folk songs of the Yishuv (known as Shirei Erez Israel—Songs of the Land of Israel) are heavily loaded with ideology and with expectations of serving

18 Ammiel Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs: Remaking Levantine Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 253–54. 19 Musika Mizrahit is popular music connected to Mizrahiut, ethnic oriental Israeliness. This music is associated with the ethnic-oriental identity of those low-status Israeli Jews who arrived from North Africa (especially Morocco) and the Arab states of the Middle East (like Yemen, Ethiopia, Iraq, Syria). See Jeff Halper, Edwin Seroussi, and Pamela Squires-Kidron, “Musika Mizrakhit: Ethnicity and Class Culture in Israel,” Popular Music 8, no. 2 (1989). 20 Edwin Seroussi, “ ‘Mediterraneanism’ in Israeli Music: An Idea and Its Permutations,” Music & Anthropology. Journal of Musical Anthropology of the Mediterranean, no. 7 (2002).

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the new set of values and building bridges between the various elements of the ethnically diverse society. The musicologist Jehoash Hirshberg calls this new folk song repertory—mostly comprising European-style folk melodies—an ‘invented tradition’: Folksongs and dances were designated to extol the spirit of the pioneer settlers, whether rural or urban; to depict the romanticized scenery of the land; to enhance the revival of Hebrew through setting of both biblical texts and modern lyrics; and to unify people through communal singing.21

While inventing a national style was a dominant current, we find different expressions of this longing. Looking at the vision and perception of the ‘East’ in the field of music, we find conflicting approaches that range from enthusiastic embrace to total rejection of the local traditions. Some composers of Shirei Erez Israel, most from East European backgrounds, tried to integrate oriental-Arab elements in their music in order to make it sound ‘local’: In the attempts to create a national style in music from 1920s onwards one finds many and varied tendencies that range from a call for total adherence to the great musical achievements of the West, with an emphasis on the universal aspects of the new national aspirations, to the urge to adopt the Orient as a source of inspiration.22

On the other side of this mainly European musical soundscape attempts were made to define a national style by emphasizing geographical and local influences, and the Mediterranean topos in Israeli music can be found beginning in the 1940s. The Hungarian-born composer Alexander U. Boskovitch (1907–1964) made a significant effort to create a national style in music by coining the term ‘Mediterranean music’ during the 1940s; he was convinced that music is a function of time and place and not a universal language. As Jehoash Hirshberg notes: “In Boskovitch’s worldview, Israeli music would find its symbolism in the sound and melos of the Middle East.” Hirshberg goes on to explain the influence of the locus on Boskovitch’s tunes after he arrived from Europe in 1938—his engulfment by the scorching Mediterranean sun, the sand dunes, and the vocal gestures of Arabic and Sephardic Hebrew:

Jehoash Hirshberg, Music in the Jewish Community of Palestine 1880–1948 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), 146. 22 Amnon Shiloah, ed., The Performance of Jewish and Arab Music in Israel Today, vol. 1 (Singapore: Overseas Publishers Association, 1997), 1. 21

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In the North, he [Boskovitch, AN] argued, the cold and misty environment leads to seclusion and melancholy—a situation that encourages the use of imagination. But under the blue skies and hot sun of the Mediterranean, things are more sharply delineated, and thus people are more grounded in reality.23

Connecting musical creativity to the geographical place, Boskovitch argued that only a composer living in Palestine, and being exposed to the climate, atmosphere, and the scenery of the actual place (the Eastern Mediterranean), could indeed create a national Jewish style of music. In the field of music, the Yemenite cultural traditions were regarded as authentic and native by the Ashkenazi establishment and for them embodied the image of the ‘noble savage’ in their orientalist fantasies. The Yemenite was accepted into the culture as an authentic Hebrew figure that preserved the image of the biblical Israelite, the surviving remnant of the ancient Hebrew nation, and was regarded as an archeological-ethnographic discovery whose existence verified the distant past, the biblical Hebrew culture that preceded the Exile.24

In his study Die Musik Israels, the author, critic, and composer, Max Brod (1884–1968) emphasized the enormous influence of the JewishYemenite singer Brachah Zefira in introducing Middle Eastern and oriental music—including Persian, Turkish, Sephardic, and Yemenite folk songs—to Western-oriented audiences in the formative years of the state. In fact, it was Brod who ascribed the term ‘Mediterranean style’ to Boskovitch’s compositions, linking them with the strong influences the Jewish-oriental folksongs collected and performed by Zefira, had had on him. Zefira’s role as a musical mediator between the Eastern and Western musical traditions has often been emphasized: she worked together with composers of European origin, notably Paul Ben-Chaim, who provided her with the arrangements for the ethnic songs in her repertoire, although—according to Max Brod—her originality and

23 See Jehoash Hirshberg, “Alexander U. Boskovitch and the Quest for an Israeli National Musical Style,” in Modern Jews and Their Musical Agendas, ed. Ezra Mendelsohn, Studies in Contemporary Jewry an Annual (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). For a detailed description of the emergence of the so called ‘Mediterranean School’ or ‘Eastern Mediterranean School,’ see Liora Bresler, “The Mediterranean Style in Israeli Music,” Cathedra. For the History of Eretz Israel and the Yishuv, no. 38 (1985) [Heb.]. 24 See Yael Guliat, “The Yemenite Ideal in Israeli Culture and Arts,” Israel Studies 6, no. 3 (2001): 28.

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significance were never sufficiently acknowledged.25 Ethnomusicologist Seroussi points out the ongoing presence of Yemenite motifs and performers in relation to musical styles described as ‘Mediterranean’, and explains how the label ‘Yemenite’ was used in order to indicate something ‘aboriginal’—the ‘Other’ in Israeli music: The incongruence between the geographical location of Yemen and the Mediterranean Sea is irrelevant, showing once more that the Mediterranean signifier in Israel does not refer to a well-defined geographical area but rather to the vaguer signified of ‘non-European.’26

Beyond the realm of music discussed here, the remarkable impact Yemenite Jewry had on Israeli arts and crafts, as well as the ideal of the Yemenite Jew as a projection screen for the romantic yearnings of the new immigrants from Europe, shall be discussed below. There are also those scholars who contradict the existence of a ‘Mediterranean school’ and even call it “fallacy.”27 The late composer, pianist, and music professor Josef Tal strongly rejected the position of using West European musical traditions as a base and simply adding oriental motifs as an ornament in order to make the piece sound more exotic and local.28 This is nothing more than ethnic coloring of a basically Western culture. Even so, the discussion of the Mediterranean topos as an expression of locality has not lost its appeal. On the contrary, locality continues as a prominent component in Israeli musical discourse, and has been subject to increased attention in the last decade. Art music also utilizes the term ‘Mediterranean’. Ami Maayani, a composer born and educated in Israel, mentioned a classical concert with the title Mediterranean Fantasy: On the Search for an Israeli Musical Identity, which took place in 2000, in which different generations of Israeli composers (among them Maayani himself ), with their diverse styles, performed.

Max Brod, Die Musik Israels (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1976), 58. Seroussi, “ ‘Mediterraneanism’ in Israeli Music” See also the website of the “Dipartimento di Musica e Spettacolo,” Bologna, http://www.muspe.unibo.it/period/ ma/index/number7/seroussi/ser_00.htm (accessed July 19, 2008). 27 See Hirshberg, Music in the Jewish Community of Palestine 1880–1948, 271–72. 28 See also his biography: Josef Tal, Tonspur: Auf der Suche nach dem Klang des Lebens (Berlin: Henschel, 2005). 25

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Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit (Israeli Mediterranean Music) Israeli popular music in the last decade has increasingly borrowed Mediterranean themes and rhythms, especially Greek and Turkish. The emergence of the so-called Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit (Israeli Mediterranean Music) combines Hebrew, Arabic, Mediterranean, and Western elements, and is deeply rooted in both Arab and Jewish culture. This Mediterranean soundscape challenges and reshapes the musical landscape of Israel, which has been dominated by the Eastern European influenced Shirei Erez Israel. Shimon Parnas, popular host of Mediterranean music programs on television and radio, sees a high potential for reconciliation within the Mediterranean Option, and actually the only cultural refuge for Israel, as he explains in an interview: If there is a bridge or a common denominator for this society of immigrants that came together here from all over the world; (. . .) if there is any chance to connect all of them and make them into one people, or to create one culture, the hope is to be found within Yam Tikhoniut. Not in Arabness, nor in Mizrahiut, and surely not in Western Europeanness or in Americanization. The territory here is Mediterranean and Middle Eastern—because of the political conflict the Middle Easternness will be extremely difficult to digest in the Israeli society. The hate is so strong (. . .) and this Middle Easternness cannot function as a bridge. The only bridge that can function is the Mediterranean bridge. (. . .) That is the only alternative.

The musicologist Amy Horowitz sees enormous potential within Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit since it performs across internal ethnic borders and could possibly provide a cultural common ground in a region with such a long history of enmity and distrust.29 The Egyptian playwright Ali Salem refers to the closeness and the cross-ethnic potential within music when he discusses the similarities of Egyptian and Israeli musical expressions. Yet because of these similarities, political tensions and hostilities are also an irritating factor and, according to Salem, have been condemned by Egyptian intellectuals as the ‘Israeli cultural invasion’. During his legendary automobile trip to Israel in 1994, Salem met his far away, and yet so close neighboring country not only with great curiosity but with the analytical eye of an anthropologist. Upon his return, he wrote about his experiences. Although his book was a bestseller in Egypt and has been translated into English and Hebrew, it

29 See Amy Horowitz, “Performance in Disputed Territory: Israeli Mediterranean Music,” Musical Performance 1, no. 3 (1997).

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also resulted in his expulsion from Egypt’s cultural circles. One of the stories Salem tells in A Drive to Israel is about a taxi ride he took during which he heard on the radio “a sad and beautiful music with a sweet, consoling refrain” and was flabbergasted: “The song is in Hebrew but the tune is familiar. Have I heard it before? Where? (. . .) I’d known that there are Egyptian tunes sung in Hebrew, but it’s one thing to hear of something and quite another to experience it.”30 Today, Musika Mizrahit, which incorporates ‘Greekness,’ ‘Middle Easternness,’ ‘Israeliness’ as well as Turkish, Persian, and other influences, is a cultural hybrid itself and confusingly intertwined with Israeli Mediterranean Music. In contrast to Israeli Mediterranean Music, however, Musika Mizrahit incorporates a position of ethnicity and is associated with the lower status of Mizrahi Jews and therefore with the ‘Other’ within Israeli society. Additional, often derogatory names given to Musika Mizrahit—like Musikat ha-tahanah ha-merkazit (Central Bus Station Music), Musikat Kasetot (Cassette music),31 Musika Etnit (Ethnic Music), and Musika Shorah (Black Music)—underscore this association with cheapness and ‘otherness’ and locate it outside of the musical mainstream.32 As a result, Musika Mizrahit —as well as Mizrahi culture in general—was marginalized for a long time, considered inferior, too ‘Arabic’, and relegated to the inferior position of ‘ethnic’ culture vis-à-vis dominant ‘elite’ culture. At one time, national radio stations only allowed Musika Mizrahit to be played during specific segments and restricted the number of hours a week that it could be broadcast—for example, Al ha-dwash ve-al ha-kefak (Honey and good times), Libi baMizrah (My heart is in the East), and Agan ha-yam ha-Tikhon (Mediterranean basin). These policies were perceived by the artists as an act of delegitimization, even ghettoization. Yet, by the 1980s the presence of Musika Mizrahit in the media changed noticeably as it slowly entered the mainstream of popular music and was more and more associated

30 Ali Salem, A Drive to Israel: An Egyptian Meets his Neighbors, ed. The Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, Dayan Center Papers, vol. 128 (Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 2001), 92. 31 Despite the fact that Musikat Kasetot are generally produced with low quality technique, this music entered the urban and private soundscape of everyday life and became an integrated component: a traveler in Israel is exposed to Musika Mizrahit in public transportation, taxis, cafés, restaurants, kiosks, shops, etc. 32 Amy Horowitz, “Musika Yam Tikhonit Yisraelit (Israeli Mediterranean Music): Cultural Boundaries and Disputed Territories” (Doctoral Diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1994), 7.

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with the label ‘Mediterranean’; by the 1990s it became “instrumental in defining mizrahi Israeliness.”33 However Musika Mizrahit is still somewhat limited to a certain ethnic group within society, whereas producers and performers of Musika Mizrahit also aspire to represent authentic Israeliness, a trait and identity that is not restricted to Mizrahiut only. This ambition is especially evident in the musical and ideological work of composer and singer Avihu Medina, who has strongly criticized the alleged discrimination against Musika Mizrahit, especially as practiced by the state run media. Medina’s allegations ultimately led to the establishment of the nonprofit organization Israeli Mediterranean Music Association (AZIT),34 which is dedicated to promoting the interests of Musika Mizrahit artists and composers and campaigns against their perceived marginalization by the cultural establishment.35 By including the term ‘Mediterranean’ in its name, AZIT has compounded the confusion and blurring of the terms Musika Mizrahit and Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit. This decision is also another indicator of the continuous ‘Mediterranization’ of Musika Mizrahit and Mizrahiut in general, which will be discussed later in detail. In contrast to Avihu Medina’s claim that Musika Mizrahit should become mainstream Israeliness, Shimon Parnas emphasizes the eclectic character of the genre, which fuses influences from several musical traditions and mixes it with basic rock instrumentation. In addition, Parnas also sees a great potential in this hybrid—even the emergence of something ‘typically Israeli’: We are lacking a cultural identity. There is not really such a thing as Israeli music: we steal here and there and take it all to the food processor and are processing it. But—if there is a clue of something original, a beginning of something uniquely Israeli, it can be found in Musika Mizrahit Yam Tikhonit and not in the Israeli Western music.

Amy Horowitz locates the emergence of Mediterranean music in Israel in places of everyday life: “‘Israeli Mediterranean Music’ made its commercial debut in 1974 among the vegetable and household appliance stalls in Tel Aviv’s central bus station marketplace.”36 The increased

33 Motti Regev and Edwin Seroussi, Popular Music and National Culture in Israel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 192. 34 AZIT is an acronym for ‘Amutat Zemer Israeli Yam Tikhoni’ (Israeli Mediterranean Music Association). 35 Regev and Seroussi, Popular Music and National Culture in Israel, 220–24. 36 Horowitz, “Performance in Disputed Territory,” 43.

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reference to the Mediterranean topos in Israeli musical discourse begins to occur in the 1980s and becomes an alternative name for what had previously been called Musika Mizrahit. Analysis of the terms ‘Musika Mizrahit’ and ‘Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit’ (two different names for two similar musical phenomena) as used by its creators and consumers—and for the moment leaving aside an in-depth examination of the tunes and their musical structure—does indeed reveal numerous similarities between the two. Another contributor to this nominal mix-up of terms for one and the same product is the fact that in Israeli record stores names for the two ‘genres’ are used synonymously. Shimon Parnas even creates a blend out of the two terms and calls the object under discussion here Musika Mizrahit Yam Tikhonit (Oriental-Mediterranean Music). And in a survey conducted for the newspaper Haaretz, a representative sample of the adult Jewish population was asked about their musical preferences: the category Musika Mizrahit was substituted with the genre “so called ‘Mediterranen music’.” 37 It is argued in this book that this is only a question of labeling: Musika Mizrahit, associated with Arab-oriental music, is being replaced by the magic formula Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit, which symbolizes openness and fusion across ethnic borders. These examples prove once again that a central feature of the general discussion on the Mediterranean topos is that there is no uniform code and no consensus on the different names and labels used in this context. We have already seen that the dispute over words and the competition over who is authorized to determine definitions is a thread that runs throughout the Israeli discourse on Yam Tikhoniut. Looking at the emergence of Mediterranean music it is also necessary to discuss the popularity in Israel of Greek musicians such as Aris San and Trifonas, as well as Turkish and Arabic popular music from the 1950s and 1960s. Israeli singers and composers regarded Greek music as an inspiration, adapted musical codes typical of the genre, and recorded Greek-style music with Hebrew words. The influences of these musical traditions laid the ground for the development of Musika Mizrahit and led to the popularization of the concept of the IsraeliGreek Taverna, and later to the popular television program of the same name, discussed below. The different influences from Greek, Turkish, and Arab musical traditions were eclectically absorbed—“essentially

37

“Survey by the Mutagim Institute,” Haaretz, April 18, 2003.

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Western music overlaid with Eastern ‘codes’ and ethnic ‘colours’”38—in order to create something new. Shimon Parnas argues that many Mizrahim embraced Greek music as offering a possibile exit from a cultural framework that was considered backward and primitive by the mainly European establishment: The immigrants from the Arab countries in the 1950s were ashamed of their culture and left it at home. (. . .). They did not connect to Israeli culture. (. . .) In the Greek music they found a substitute for the music that they were ashamed of from home.

The emergence of Musika Mizrahit in the 1970s has been interpreted as a result of a growing sense of self-esteem and pride after the rightwing nationalist Likud party won the national elections on the votes of the Mizrahim. “A feeling that their ‘own’ were governing gave Easterners a sense of added legitimacy and allowed them to express their ethnicity without endangering their status as Israelis.”39 In terms of politics, Amy Horowitz goes even further, since from her point of view the emergence of Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit is a “counter-hegemonic challenge to existing power structures.”40 Indeed, Musika Mizrahit has become a major form of cultural expression of Mizrahiut, i.e., ethnic oriental Israeliness, providing a long marginalized group with feelings of increased social significance and legitimacy within the public, in this case musical, sphere. A constant balancing act accompanies the emergence of Israeli musical style: on the one hand the trial to integrate and merge into the geographical space, as seen in the early years of the state, and the emergence of a ‘Mediterranean Style’ promoted by Alexander U. Boskovitch, Paul Ben-Chaim, and others. On the other hand the search for locality has also been characterized by a strong urge to avoid being completely associated with an Arab oriental cultural background, an aspiration that we can observe in the debate on Yam Tikhoniut as a whole. In the case of musical locality the use—and confusion—of the different labels, as discussed above, is a manifestation of this trial. To risk an oversimplification, one can even argue that in the realm of music the adjectives Mizrahi and Yam Tikhoni are interchangeable and often used as synonyms. Yet the reason to use either one or

38 39 40

Halper, “Musika Mizrakhit: Ethnicity and Class Culture in Israel,” 139. Ibid. Horowitz, “Musika Yam Tikhonit Yisraelit,” 36.

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the other adjective is motivated by different personal preferences and political positions. Israel: Land of Tavernot During the period when I was conducting field research in Israel (especially during the years 2000 and 2001) a particular variant was emerging in Israeli popular culture via the highly popular television program Taverna. Taverna’s musical component was at the time being declared as a new genre in Israeli music. Accompanied by so-called Mediterranean songs, host and audience celebrate life over a glass of wine and traditional Mediterranean appetizers, including olives, stuffed grape leaves, and feta cheese. The audience sits around tables that are eventually used for dancing and is in close physical contact with the performers and the host. Although the images and production of these programs was targeted at clichés held by viewers about the Mediterranean, some confusion about the labeling of the music performed could also be found here. Taverna, dedicated to Musika Mizrahit, gives itself a Mediterranean touch, but also opens the stage to purely Ashkenazi singers performing in the tradition of Israeli rock. Shimon Parnas, the ‘father’ of Taverna, describes Mediterranean music, and therefore the atmosphere that he wants his program to communicate, with simplistic stereotypes, and the repetition of exotic sentimental-oriental paradigms: (. . .) Mediterranean music is undoubtedly a product of the landscape and the climate. In all of the cultures in the area, the music is full of strong, bright colors: the whiteness of the sunlight, the blue of the sea, the brown of the earth. The smell of olives, basil, and the thousand and one other spices that grow in the region—all of it is found in the music. The Mediterranean type, regardless of cultural and political borders, is a warm, hearty, spontaneous, impulsive type. This also comes out in the music, which can lead you into deep abysses of sadness and depression or to a joie de vivre that knows no limits.41

The program Taverna flourished across television screens for a number of years, reaching a peak in popularity approximately between the years 2000 and 2003. Critics argue that these programs bore no resemblance to the authentic Taverna and that in the meantime Greek music was

41 Tirza Yuval, “One Culture or Many? Can Peoples of the Mediterranean Basin be lumped together as one single cultural type?,” Eretz.com (2000–2001), http://www .eretz.com/archive/jan0200.htm (accessed March 22, 2004).

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being systematically killed off. As journalist Amos Noy bluntly put it, Taverna means unappetizing people eating with their mouths wide open and rejoicing while scantily-clad models with blank expressions dance in the background.42 Even if opinions are divided on the artistic value of this program, the high ratings speak for themselves. Shimon Parnas, who developed the format, replied to the charges that he was deforming a culturally valuable Greek tradition: “Every time I go on stage I speak to the audience and explain to them that I don’t imitate an authentic Taverna, this is not a Mizrahi Café, nor a Mediterranean night club. It is an Israeli Taverna and I invented it.” Even if Parnas invented this Israeli version of Taverna, it is clear that the label Taverna was chosen to serve a specific purpose: to trigger pleasant Greek associations by drawing on the mental map of the program’s viewers. Asked in an interview for his opinion about this new musical trend, the writer Abraham B. Yehoshua explained the legitimization these programs have in his eyes: Brisa [‘Israeli Mediterranean Television Channel,’ AN ] and all this is very important, the Taverna and all these things are real. You see how Israelis are connected to it. There are many Israelis that came from the Mediterranean, from Greece, from North Africa. (. . .) There are many Jews that perceive Yam Tikhoniut as a natural thing. They feel at home when they come to Greece. And—there is no other country where I feel closer to Israel than in Greece. (. . .) Why impose and say this is artificial? No—it exists on the vernacular level.

During prime time during the years 2000/2001, one could find competing television programs such as Harif ba-ozen (Spicy in the Ear) on the Brisa (YES) channel, Ba-Taverna (In the Tavern, distinct from Parnas’s Taverna) on Channel 1, Reah menta (The Smell of Mint) on Channel 3, Ezel Parnas ba-Taverna (With Parnas in the Taverna) on Channel 2, and later Shishi ba-Taverna (Fridays in the Tavern). In 2003 some new forms of music entertainment began to appear on Israeli television, and these shows actually referred to an earlier period in Israeli history. The recently opened channel 10 televised the show Sarahle shara le-khulam (Sarahle sings for Everyone) with the Ashkenazi singer Sarahle Sharon, who grew up on a kibbutz. Sarah sits at the piano, plays and sings songs from different periods of Israeli history, presenting a potpourri of Shirei Erez Israel as well as popular songs written by Ashkenazi and Mizrahi

42 Amos Noy, “Drushah ve-udat hakirah (Committee of inquiry necessary),” Ha-ain ha-shwi’it (The seventh eye, journal for media and communication), September 2001.

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artists. She encourages her audience to dance and sing along. Yonnie Ro’eh used to host a Taverna program on channel 3, which was then replaced by a program called Shira be-shidur (Singing on Broadcast). The recent nostalgic turn in popular music entertainment programs in the last years can be explained by the general feelings of fatigue, bitterness, and weariness that are reactions to the deteriorating security situation in day-to-day life. The press and everyday conversations evidence a certain frustration and disillusionment within the Israeli public. The embracing of musical traditions from the founding years of the state, like Shira be-tzibur (public sing-alongs),43 which emphasized togetherness and sought to unify people through communal activities, is now witnessing a revival. These gatherings, held throughout the country and accompanied by an accordion, piano players, or small band, imply a return to the roots and have become very popular, especially among younger audiences. Reassuring reminders of the country’s idealized cultural past, along with a romanticized group image, offer warmth and security in a time of harsh political confrontations with the Palestinians and waves of anti-Israeli sentiment in Europe. Sarah Sharon and others regularly perform in clubs, presenting their popular sing-along-shows to generationally and ethnically diverse audiences. At one point in time, Shira be-tzibur performances on the roof of the newly built Azrieli Towers in Tel Aviv became particularly fashionable, turning into a sort of trendy happening. The timing of the success of this kind of entertainment for a younger audience is clearly linked to the outbreak of the Intifada in 2000, and has swept the whole country. After the U.S. attack on Iraq in March 2003, the number of soothing Hebrew songs from the past that were played on the radio was hard to miss. This phenomenon can also frequently be observed on days of mourning after an attack has occurred in which there are Israeli casualties. Gideon Samet, a commentator for the daily Haaretz, sees a clear link between this musical retro-wave and the heightened feeling of anxiety in a deteriorating security situation:

43 The roots of communal singing in the Yishuv period are explained as the cultural and musical backing of a new ideology being implemented in the ancient homeland. The enthusiastic participation of those communal evenings reflect, according to Hirshberg, the wish of the secular population for social interaction on Friday night and the identification with the cause of the national folk songs. See Hirshberg, Music in the Jewish Community of Palestine 1880 –1948.

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Like the wave of nostalgia for sing-alongs which has done wonders for the ratings of certain TV programs, so the old bleating of army entertainment troupes and the folksongs of the Gevatron and Naomi Shemer provide a cozy buffer against the shrill cries of war.44

A flood of remakes of traditional Shirei Erez Israel songs might be linked to the retro-wave discussed above. One can detect a national, even a nationalist wave in music production and a turning back toward the ‘good old times,’ with a large number of listeners picking up on this trend. Besides the turning away from the present situation there is another explanation for this phenomenon, which focuses on the lack of self-esteem of Israeliness, as the historian Shlomo Sand points out. As he argues, Yam Tikhoniut does not adequately support the diverse cultural traditions that form Israeli society, and therefore, the popular remakes reflect a longing to return to a supposedly secure ground: In the last years Yam Tikhoniut has been celebrating. This is, among other things, because Israeliness is not sufficient for itself, or because it is confident enough to give (. . .) legitimation for different cultural phenomena. The cover versions are also common because they are turning away from Middle Easternness, in which we are living, toward another Yam Tikhoniut, in which we would like to live.45

Glocalized Israeliness: Tea Packs as a Case Study The British sociologist Roland Robertson discusses the thesis of the ‘universalization of the particular and the particularization of the universal,’ and coined the expression Glocalisation, an indicator that despite the leveling forces of globalization, diversity persists. According to Robertson, seemingly oppositional forces—homogenization and heterogenization—are actually complementary and permeable, and through processes of ‘interpenetration’ create an interdependent relationship between universality and particularity. He calls for the breakup of the well-known antagonisms between the two, and argues that the local should not be seen as diametrically opposed to the global, but rather as one aspect that emerges within the process of globalization as a whole.46 The thesis of the strengthening of the local elements Gideon Samet, “Oh, What a Lovely War!,” Haaretz, March 21, 2003. Shlomo Sand quoted in Yonathan Yavin, “Alterman totach (Alterman is smart),” Haaretz Supplement, November 14, 2003, 63. 46 See Roland Robertson, “Glokalisierung: Homogenität und Heterogenität in Raum und Zeit,” in Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft, ed. Ulrich Beck (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1998), Roland Robertson, “Comments on the ‘Global Triad’ and 44 45

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within the process of globalization can also be applied to Israeli society. What Thomas Friedman called the Lexus and the Olive Tree,47 Kobi Oz (no relation to Amos Oz), the singer and songwriter of the ethnopop group Tea Packs, calls “a bit of Tunisia, a bit of MTV,”48 thereby clearly differentiating his understanding of local and global from that of Friedman’s. In this case, Oz’s Tunisian family roots are juxtaposed with the worldwide Music Television Channel (MTV), used here as a symbol for the global. Tea Packs is celebrated in Israel as the incarnation of Israeliness, of modern Israeli identity. Analyzing the band’s Hebrew name and its English transcription, the sociologist Motti Regev makes an interesting observation: Properly transcribed, the English version of the Hebrew name would have been ‘tippex’. That is, a brand name signifying erasure of ‘typo’ mistakes, the ‘whitening’ of things ‘black’. Nothing of this meaning remains in the English spelling adopted by the band. It clearly indicates a wish to be accepted in possible foreign markets as ‘musicians’ pure and simple, without the internal cultural-political connotations of Israel.49

These divergent Hebrew transcriptions clearly mark a separation between two different cultural spheres, the ‘local’ Hebrew and the ‘global’ English. The Hebrew Tippex embodies a clear socio-cultural comment on the continued marginalizing and ‘whitening’ of the Mizrahi population, and gives the band and their critical texts a touch of subversion. But the mellow and apolitical English name Tea Packs exemplifies the wish to be part of a larger cultural context that is not associated with the band’s specific social provenance, that of a poor development town in the Negev desert. The band’s variant self-labeling is an explicit representation of ‘Glocalized Israeliness,’ i.e., the wish to preserve something local yet to have the option of occupying a broader framework of ‘placelessness’. This becomes apparent, if we look in more detail at the self-presentation of the band Tea Packs.

‘Glocalization’,” in Globalisation and Indigenous Culture, ed. Nobutaka Inoue (Kokugakuin: Kokugakuin University, 1997). See also http://www.kokugakuin.ac.jp/ijcc/wp/global/ 15robertson.html (accessed July 19, 2008). 47 Thomas L. Friedman, The Lexus and the Olive Tree (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1999). 48 Yossi Klein Halevi, “The Wizard of Sderot,” The Jerusalem Report (1998): 40. 49 Motti Regev, “Rock Aesthetics, Israeliness and Globalization,” in Israelis in Conflict: Hegemonies, Identities and Challenges, ed. Adriana Kemp et al. (Sussex: Sussex Academic Press, 2004), 196.

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In his lyrics, Kobi Oz discusses different aspects of origin, Levantine identity and new locality versus the omnipresent influences of globalization in Israel’s culture. In this constant balancing act between the local and the global, Oz found a unique language: On the one hand he participates in contemporary global culture and uses the latest music production techniques. On the other, he maintains a sense of locality and uniqueness. Tea Packs combine their rock music with ‘ethnic’ instruments, like the oud (a short-necked lute), and the accordion, as well as specific aspects of performing with which the band is familiar from their ethnic background. The group’s CD covers feature a wild mixture of liturgical symbols and Israeli kitsch (see fig. 12, page 284): gigantic Star of David necklaces, Kiddush cups combined with watermelons and the Hamsa.50 Oz wants to rehabilitate the symbol of the Hamsa and recalls that for a long time people were ashamed to wear it since it is associated with Arab oriental tradition. For him the Hamsa is a unifying element for Israeli society: The Hamsa is an older symbol than the star of David, even more Jewish than the star of David. (. . .) I am Jewish, that is my Hamsa, a symbol that like many Jewish things was later associated only with the Sepharadim, but this Hamsa is Polish, just as it is Sepharadic, it is a universal symbol, a symbol that comes from the deepest point of this place, and this is the symbol of Tea Packs.51

Here Oz gives the Hamsa a somewhat traditional-religious connotation, whereas in another citation he puts the Hamsa, together with the watermelon, in the context of secular Israeli leisure activities and ‘good times in the sun,’ thereby turning it into his symbol of Israeliness: “The Hamsa and the watermelon are fixed elements of Israeli day to day culture.” Oz calls this intertwining and Tea Packs’ distinctive east-west hybrid sound the “Israeli Alchemy,” which blurs dichotomies and creates “new Israeli folklore.” Kobi Oz explains: “This is what Levantinism is all about—the ability to see all sorts of different things at the same

50 The Hamsa (Arab.: five) refers to the hand of Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed, as well as to the digits of the hand and is a popular amulet for luck and protection from the evil eye, common in Israel, as well as in other countries of the Mediterranean. See chapter in this book: ‘The Hamsa: a Mediterranean Symbol.’ 51 Kobi Oz quoted in Galit Saada, “Attitudes and Strategies of Action for Consolidation of an Oriental Identity: Musical Activity in Shderot” (M.A., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1999), 73.

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time (. . .) the availability to enjoy all worlds; it’s the ultimate form of post-modernism.”52 The biography of Kobi Oz, who grew up in a poor neighborhood of the provincial development town Sderot, is a story of life at the periphery of Israeli society. In his music he comments on the experience of being neglected and marginalized by hegemonic Israeliness. The remote development towns, located in the Negev desert, have little urban infrastructure. They were built to meet both the immediate housing crises that arose during the extended waves of Jewish immigrants from oriental countries in the 1950s and 1960s, and the national security priorities to ‘populate the Negev desert.’ Over the years, these development towns grew into overcrowded and povertystricken cities, the inhabitants suffering from low self-esteem, and their biographies having become representative of cultural and economic backwardness.53 Oz explains that he had had enough of the constant struggles to integrate and fuse a heterogeneous people into one, and claims that the big advantage of the development towns was that they contained no paralyzing dichotomy and competition between Mizrahi and Western values: In Sderot, you can hear Moroccan music without being worried what the neighbors will say, because they are Moroccan too. You could speak Moroccan, you could do everything that people living in poorer neighborhoods in the city were too embarrassed to do. I could be as Moroccan in Sderot as I wanted to be.54

It should be mentioned here, that the socialization process within a homogenous community in the development towns had a vital impact on the musical repertoire, and several other successful popular music bands, like Sfatayim (Lips), Knessiat ha-sekhel (Mind church), Tanara, and Renaissance emerged from the city of Sderot.55 The strong dichotomy of center and periphery can also be found in Kobi Oz’ lyrics. In the song Tahanah ha-yeshanah (The Old Station), a eulogy for the old Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv, which has been replaced by a sterile new building, Oz talks about his journey from the periphery to a completely different

Neri Livneh, “Call me Levantine,” Haaretz, August 13, 1999. See Oz’ autobiographical novel: Kobi Oz, Moshe Huvato ve-ha-orev (Moshe Huvato and the raven) (Tel Aviv: Keshet, 1997). 54 Livneh, “Call me Levantine.” 55 For details see Galit Saada-Ophir, “Mizrahi Subaltern Counterpoints: Sderot’s Alternative Bands,” Anthropological Quarterly 80, no. 3 (2007). 52 53

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world of ‘shiny Tel Aviv,’ the arrival at the Bus Station and the ‘descent onto the hot street [that, AN] was for me like a path into the world’ (for the full text of the song cf. footnote 127). The example of Tea Packs discussed here impressively illustrates the local adaptation of the effects of globalization. On the one hand, Tea Packs’ musical expertise functions on a sophisticated world level, on the other Kobi Oz captures a local flavor in tunes and lyrics that relate to Israeli realities (this conjunction becomes apparent in a CD cover showing a Hamsa in a futuristic mode (see fig. 13, page 284). As Motti Regev points out, globalized Israeli culture is a mixture of materials and meanings inherited from Hebrewism, thereby referring to the specific local culture promoted in the founding years of the state, and materials borrowed, adapted, and adjusted from contemporary world culture.56 Vernacular Yam Tikhoniut: ‘Brisa’ as a Case Study The television channel Brisa—Aruz Israeli Yam Tikhoni (Israeli Mediterranean Television Channel)—provides another example in this series of Mediterranean variants (see fig. 14, page 285). The Israeli satellite television provider YES (a leading multichannel TV platform) broadcast Brisa, a channel with explicitly ‘Mediterranean content,’ between the years 2000 and 2003. It was difficult to obtain any official information from YES about why Brisa was taken off the air despite its success. Even after telephone conversations with diverse representatives of YES, who confirmed that Brisa’s ratings were excellent and the response from audiences enthusiastic, the exact circumstances that led to its decline ‘remain a mystery.’ But since the exact political and financial reasons behind the decision to take Brisa off the air are not of cardinal interest for this analysis, we will now turn to the ‘Mediterranean’ content of the channel. A look at Brisa’s advertising brochures tell us much about its selfperception: it places a strong emphasis on locality and being ‘within everybody’s reach,’ using terms like ‘our language’, ‘our sounds’, ‘local humor’, as well as entering ‘your home and your heart.’ Brisa presented familiar subjects from its viewers’ immediate surroundings, dealt with regional roots and memories; it called itself an ‘Israeli-Mediterranean revolution confronting you anew with the sounds, voices and colors 56 Motti Regev, “To Have a Culture of Our Own: On Israeliness and its Variants,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 23 (2000).

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of your childhood’, thereby drawing on a sense of nostalgia among its viewers. Brisa considered itself the first local station to address the country’s 2.5 million Mizrahi Jews and tried to answer the question: What is Mizrahi culture? Here, too, we find some confusion about labels; Brisa called itself ‘Mediterranean’, but actually refered to ‘Mizrahi’. Television producer Ron Cahlili, who invented Brisa and shaped its programming, remarked: If I would call my TV channel Televisia Mizrahi, they [the Mizrahim, AN] would not like the definition—they associate it with primitive and ugly. Yam Tikhoni, that is the politically correct definition that the Mizrahim can identify with, (. . .) it upgrades their image. (. . .) It makes them cosmopolitan and does not leave them with Umm-Khoulthoum, Farid al-Attrash and the other ones of their (. . .) Arab stars.

Cahlili does not hide the fact that he had his own political agenda attached to Brisa: “I have the privilege of defining Mizrahi culture.”57 There is a critical and even subversive social message in his programming, as he declared in 2001, and the revolution is yet to come. Although his initial pitch was to the Jewish-Mizrahi audience, because he integrated into the programming significant amounts of popular Arabic culture, like popular soap operas from Turkey and Egypt, he also received strong responses from the Israeli Arab audience. In addition, the airing of Egyptian documentaries on grand Arab singers from the 1950s and 1960s, like Umm-Khoulthoum, Farid al-Attrash, and Abdel Wahab, fostered Brisa’s popularity among Mizrahim and Israeli Arabs alike. Cahlili saw in Brisa the possibility of erecting a bridge between Mizrahiut and Arabness, two identity concepts, as he argues, which share a similar cultural background, Cahlili even went so far as to consider Brisa as a vehicle capable of calming inner-Israeli tensions, and hoped that in the long run it would promote peace throughout the region: There is a big demand—also among Israeli Arabs. Slowly, slowly we discovered how close we are to them on a cultural level. In my eyes Brisa is the Peace-Channel. (. . .) We understand that we come from the same background and we both like Umm-Khoulthoum.

However, the idea that Brisa would appeal to Palestinians (who, if nothing else, don’t have the technical means to receive the channel, let alone

57 Shoshanna Sappir London, “Satellite TV’s Spicy Dish,” The Jerusalem Report, January 15, 2001.

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the financial resources) and could serve as a pathway for reconciliation seems quite far-fetched considering the existing political deadlock in Israeli-Palestinian relations. The Brisa channel offerings were quite diverse, with programs ranging from popular entertainment to sociocritical documentaries. In addition, it aired reruns of popular music festivals, bought foreign production rights, and showed many so-called ‘Arab movies’, a category that referred to feature films from Turkey, India, and Arab countries that are popular in Israel, especially among Mizrahim. A number of formats were especially produced for Brisa: the writer Sami Michael translated old Arabic poems and awakened a kind of nostalgia by arousing long-forgotten or suppressed memories; the show-master Shaul Bibi provoked the public with chauvinistic anti-Ashkenazi slogans; Didi Harari produced a Taverna for young talent called The next king (Hamelech ha-ba); in her program In the kitchen with Margol (Ba-Mitbah im-Margol) the Mizrahi singer Margalith Za’anani took viewers into the kitchens of everyday heroines; documentaries showed the reverse of the clichéd images associated with Mizrahiut: success, freedom of choice, prosperity, and acceptance. Viewers could also watch cooking courses as well as the remarkable show Pour out your heart (Lishpokh et ha-lev), in which the host Avi Bitter guided his audience into a studio decorated with pink roses, and from there straight into the very periphery of society, the underworld of criminals, drug addicts, and prostitutes (see fig. 15, page 286). Each of his guests, economically underprivileged and representing ‘the Other’ within Israeli society, would sit on his red sofa, and at one point in the show—after having revealed some horrifying detail about their life—begin to cry heart-rendingly.58 Emotion and tears were important components in Avi Bitter’s show, and the spectators needed to have their tissues at the ready in preparation for ‘human stories, as if taken out of Turkish movies,’ according to Brisa’s advertising brochure. Cahlili was frequently criticized for catering to consumerist interests and the culture industry, as well as for cultivating and reproducing stereotypes about the underprivileged Mizrahim, charges he denies, claiming: “By raising all the stereotypes, I want to break them.” His critics also argued that he was establishing an ‘Israeli These observations were made in the year 2000/2001. The program underwent several changes, nevertheless, the main agenda of the channel stayed the same until it was taken off the air in 2003. See Ariela Melmad, “Ha-Kotel ha-Mizrahi (The Eastern Wailing Wall),” Yedioth Ahronoth, December 21, 2001. 58

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Hollywood’ and therefore undermining the Mizrahim’s political efforts to achieve emancipation and equality within society. But Cahlili was unapologetic about his approach: I am for the (cultural) ghetto, for isolation. The Mizrahim need to define themselves among themselves, rather than to be defined by others. (. . .) I want to create our heroes; I want to build a Mizrahi myth. (. . .) I am returning the Mizrahiut back to the Mizrahim.

Reflecting on the provoking and often offensive show hosted by Avi Bitter, Cahlili stated in 2005 that the macho and chauvinist approach of this show was counterproductive to his political goals and that the audience was simply not yet ready for Bitter’s extreme behavior. In spite of the great diversity of the channel, a common denominator in the design of the programs can still be detected: an emphasis on the indigenous, local, and familiar. Indeed, Brisa, whose removal from the air received surprisingly little media attention, aimed to cover subjects that were connected to the cultural traditions of Mizrahim. By reaching back to ‘childhood memories’ or cooking shows that demonstrated the ‘secrets of mothers and grandmothers in traditional cooking’, Brisa evoked a strong sense of nostalgia. Since its ratings and success did not justify the decision to take it off the air, Cahlili maintains that its discontinuation can only be explained by the unease the establishment felt with its provocative programming content. Cahlili is convinced that this act was a “political and racist decision,” and that Brisa was simply too controversial for a broadcasting company that, above all, wants to entertain people. Despite Brisa’s ‘fate,’ Cahlili is convinced that his channel, the Israeli-Mediterranean revolution, as it was termed in a brochure, was a huge success: “I used famous faces to get the audience and to enter their homes. Then, I could use this influence in order to transport my own messages.” In his view, Brisa was a ‘Trojan Horse’ that made the path into the mainstream a little easier for the Mizrahim. Today, having bought some of the formats that Cahlili developed for Brisa, the main Israeli TV channels broadcast them on Israeli state television, a confirmation that Cahlili’s agenda was a workable one and is clearly able to attract a broader, not exclusively Mizrahi audience. And Cahlili is convinced that Mizrahiut became mainstream thanks to his efforts. This examination into the short-lived ‘Mediterranean TV channel’ demonstrates that the issue of naming it (Mizrahi or Mediterranean) is clearly connected to a political agenda, as Ron Cahlili proved. The adjective Mediterranean was used as a sort of a cover-up for the political

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issues connected to Mizrahiut that Cahlili wanted to publicize with his channel. To label the channel ‘Mizrahi’ would from the start have drawn on long-established and partly negative stereotypes, whereas ‘Mediterranean’ offered a whole new set of associations and therefore more commercial possibilities. Similar to the example of Musika Mizrahit, which is often labeled Musika Yam Tikhonit, the Brisa example shows, too, that the adjective Mediterranean/Yam Tikhoni is considered a more pleasant-sounding label for selling (cultural) products. b) Literature The development from a utopian Zionist vision to Israeli reality is reflected in the cultural currents, especially in literature. Much has been written about the impact of Hebrew literature on the formation of Israeli national identity and culture. During the formative years of the Israeli state, mainstream literary expression was termed Dor ba-Aretz or Dor ha-Palmach59 (generation in the land; generation of the Palmach), referring to the native-born children of immigrants who began to publish in the late 1930s. Similar to the Shirei Erez Israel in the musical field, the ‘generation in the land’ was characterized by a strong involvement in the invention and construction of the ‘New Jew,’ the embrace of the collective, and the adaptation to new realities in Israel. It is interesting to note that even before the country actually existed as a realistic option for Jewish immigration, it was already omnipresent and manifest in literature. Over the centuries, Israel was described, lamented, and praised, with the yearning desire to return to the land of the fathers as an overarching theme. Literature in Israel can be regarded as a seismograph for recording cultural and spiritual vibrations: many writers and intellectuals are intensely involved in the public political discourse through writing essays and articles for the daily press or actively participating in the peace movement (for example, Amos Oz, who is involved with the peace group Peace Now, and Yoram Kaniuk, who together with the late Emil Habibi, the Israeli Arab writer from Haifa, founded the Israeli-Palestinian Writers Committee).

59 Named after an anthology that was published in Hebrew under the same name in 1958. Prominent names in this generation of writers include: S. Yizhar, Moshe Shamir, Aharon Megged, Natan Shaham, and Yoram Kaniuk. Palmach units were the combat groups of the pre-state underground self-defense organization, the Haganah, to which some of the writers belonged.

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The group of well-established and veteran writers, the Dor ba-Aretz, dominated the Israeli literary world in the country’s first decades. In the mid-1950s and early 1960s a new voice in Israeli literature arose, the Dor ha-Medinah60 (generation of the state) or New Wave, who began to challenge their predecessors and deconstruct the core values of Hebrewism. Their work contains critical allegories of the Israeli political situation and the figures in their novels are often on a troubling search for meaning and identity. The ‘generation of the state’ rebelled against the prevailing national experience adopted by the previous literary generation, which had until then been dominated by the Ashkenazi, male, secular, and socialist narrative. Recently this literary establishment has been joined by a yet newer generation of writers, who bring with them new approaches to the ever-changing Israeli realities. The time under observation here has been characterized by a flourishing of prose writing by this younger generation of Israelis, including the work of many women. Gershon Shaked describes these women writers, among some of whom particular tendencies are especially “pronounced,” as “withdraw[ing] from the large dimensions of the political scene,” or “observ[ing] it through miniature synecdochic portraits.”61 Shaked uses a gender specific argument to explain the phenomenon of women writers supposedly being drawn away from the large-scale political to the somewhat condensed world of personal representations. He thereby reduces these vibrant developments in the literary arena to simply ‘female subjectivity,’ reiterating existing gender stereotypes. In fact, the gender question in Israel is an object of great paradox since the Zionist ideal promoted equality and equal opportunity in the new society, whereas in reality male leadership is privileged over female, and women are underrepresented and marginalized in political and cultural public life.62 Alan Mintz, a scholar of Hebrew literature, stresses this point and argues: 60 This group designates a group of writers who began their careers after the state was established. Prominent names in the Dor ha-Medinah or New Wave generation of writers include: Amos Oz, Aharon Appelfeld, Abraham B. Yehoshua, and Yaakov Shabtai. Generally, these categorizations, among others also suggested by Gershon Shaked (see id., Modern Hebrew Fiction (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000), 139–44.), help to map the diverse literary expressions. Nevertheless, they are static and somewhat simplistic, not giving much space to the diversity within a group or to those writers, who, e.g., produce counter-narratives within their own generation. 61 Ibid., 240. 62 For further reading on the marginalization of certain authors by the hegemonic discourse, see The Invisible Revolution: Rereading Women’s Poetry in: Michael Gluzman,

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“Women are assigned supportive roles; they are participants in this new historical endeavor, but rarely as leaders.”63 For Patricia Reimann, a German literature critic, the increasing number of women writers in contemporary literature is a sign of the long overdue recognition of women’s equality in a society still dominated by male standards.64 In Israel, traditional and paternalistic family structures can still be found among certain religious and ethnic communities. The appearance of women on the literary scene, and the consequent reexamination of gender codes as well as the increase of minority discourses, is, de facto, yet another indication for the growing diversity and process of individualization within Israeli society. With this generation of young writers, a new spirit and subversive counter-narratives are entering and challenging the literary mainstream of the Dor ba-Aretz and Dor ha-Medinah generations, which for many years were dominated by the codes of invention and imagination of one uniform national culture. The new generation of writers, also referred to as the ‘post-Zionism’ or ‘post-ideological-generation,’ is influenced by the Israeli realities of the present, and daily life is a powerful source for their stories. We find a colorful variety of settings and genres, including different kinds of fiction, among them thrillers and mysteries, which prior to this had consisted mostly of work translated from other languages. One group of writers, inspired by the city life of Tel Aviv, reflects on urbanization, consumerism, and growing individualism. Avner Holtzman, a scholar of Hebrew literature, observes a pluralistic variety as well as experimental tendencies in contemporary Hebrew literature and has identified six alternative narratives: the surrealist-fantastic narrative; the narrative that escapes to geographically far-away worlds; narratives drawn from orthodox Jewish communities; the pre-Israeli Jewish narrative with a nostalgic tendency; works by children of immigrants of North African origin; and, finally, the homosexual narrative.65 Generally, he determines two main themes—the intimate private details versus the large societal context—that provide The Politics of Canonicity. Lines of Resistance in Modern Hebrew Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 100ff. 63 Alan Mintz, “Introduction,” in The Boom in Contemporary Israeli Fiction, ed. Alan Mintz (Hanover: Brandeis University Press, 1997), 11. 64 Patricia Reimann, ed., Israel: Ein Lesebuch (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1998), 322. 65 Avner Holtzman, “Ha-sifrut ha-Ivrit be-shnat 2000: Tmunat mazaw (The Hebrew literature in the year 2000),” Hebrew Higher Education 10 (2002): 48.

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the platform for contemporary narratives in Hebrew fiction. A certain feeling of locality serves as a common denominator in this diverse field, as he quotes the young writer and editor of a literary anthology Assaf Gawron, who stresses the Israeli locus: It happens [in modern Hebrew literature, AN] what happens to all the young people all over the world, but they [those stories, AN] include a strong feeling of here—the violence is noticeable in the background, the situation is hiding between the lines, religion, Arabs, Shoah—to make it short: the whole chaos.66

The literary critic Miri Kubovy notes that the process of Americanization in Israeli life finds its various expressions in contemporary literature: English is being intertwined with contemporary literary Hebrew and gives the speaker an illusion of status, of being urbane and up-todate. Kubovy sees this literary Americanization as one component in a complex process that includes both Israeli phenomena and global cultural developments.67 As the young writer Dorit Rabinyan put it: “In order to say far less sacred things, we put the Hebrew language on a diet: we anglicized it.”68 The enormous pluralism in the writing of this young generation precludes making generalizations; however, there is a noticeable emergence of sub-national identities and cultures, which are paying more attention to individual aspects of identity formation and indigenous culture. Personal and human encounters, the coping with the mazav, meaning the political situation, and the uncertainty of daily life, rule this new wave of writing. The heroes and characters are not reflected on within a political or national framework, rather, they are individuals caught up in their private worlds and trying to master the challenges of daily life. The collective ‘we,’ characteristic of literary expressions of the Dor ba-Aretz, is now being replaced by the individualistic ‘I’. Unlike their literary predecessors, this group, provided by their parents with relatively well-off economic means and the illusion of security, takes the existence of the state of Israel for granted. In addition, by the choice of their supposedly shallow topics, they are undermining the ideological values of the Dor ba-Aretz writers.

Assaf Gawron, as quoted in ibid., 51. See Miri Kubovy, “Inniut and Kooliut: Trends in Israeli Narrative Literature, 1995–1999,” Israel Studies 5, no. 1 (2000). 68 See Dorit Rabinyan: Young, Troubled and Lost in the Promised Land (previously published in the British Sunday Times, December 2001): http://www.randomhouse.com/boldtype/0702/rabinyan/excerpt.html (accessed November 22, 2007). 66

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There is a deep feeling of being lost after the destruction of all the myths and of all social and national agendas of progress. In the past there were meta-narratives that gave hope for a better future, and people sacrificed everything for that future with feelings of heroism and elation. The present young generation has been witnessing the bitter disillusionment and deep disappointment of the previous generations.69

The secular individualism of this young generation is often accused by the ‘old guard Zionists ideologues’ of being apolitical and indifferent, even hedonistic and decadent. Critics argue that the subjects dealt with by this generation are private, superficial, and disconnected from Israeli realities. Etgar Keret explains this detachment from current political events: “I do not want to find absolute answers in my literature, like the A. B. Yehoshuas in the country. (. . .) If my girlfriend left me it is not important who is prime minister.”70 Etgar Keret, whose parents are Holocaust survivors, represents a group of Israeli authors often referred to as the post-ideological generation, which, with regard to the growing globalization, discusses the ‘loss of ideology,’ even the end of ideology. In an increasingly fragmented society they have crafted their confusion into a state of mind: “My generation,” observes Keret, “has the privilege of being confused. My generation is like a Bagel: many run in circles and stare into a hole.”71 Asked what could fill this vacuum he answered: “I don’t really know what could fill it, but one huge step in filling it would be admitting that it exists. (. . .) We [the Israeli society, AN] should admit: we have a problem. We don’t have much in common.” A careful reading of Keret’s texts reveals that there is indeed a ‘shortcut to everyday life,’ and at first glance it seems that he is simply collecting the surreal, moving, absurd, and funny scenes of the confusing Israeli normalcy and putting them into minimalist texts. But beyond the simple collection of the bits and pieces of daily life, Keret manages to draw a picture of the Israeli state of mind, which can be found in the streets or in the shouk of Tel Aviv, where many of his stories are set. Although Keret does not specifically address ethnic issues, he can serve as an example for a new generation of writers who deal with realities on site. His writing is distinctively local since it links specific local

Kubovy, “Inniut and Kooliut,” 251. Statement by Etgar Keret (panel discussion, Bücherstube Marga Schöller, Berlin, July 3, 2000). 71 Ibid. 69 70

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(Israeli) experiences, such as the tense security situation or the issue of military service, to universal concepts and questions. By capturing the sub-currents of Israeli daily life, Keret is neither escaping nor idealizing Israeli realities, but taking them for granted—as they are—with all their distinguishing characteristics and shortcomings. In the work of these young writers one finds less concern about national subjects such as nation-building, absorption of immigrants, or the construction of the heroic mold of the pioneer, and more subjects devoted to the private sphere and the main character’s pursuit of individual happiness. Looking at the literary themes and the authors’ self-representations, a growing manifestation of ethnically related awareness is also becoming apparent. But this specific ethnoconsciousness is not necessarily a representation of a specific Israeli state of mind, or evidence of an unequivocal counter narrative. This ‘ethnic turn’ has its pendants in contemporary world culture and needs to be evaluated within a global context. Nevertheless, in the following the specific Israeli components within this ‘ethnic turn’ will be traced. The Local in Israeli Literature Looking at the representations of the Levant and the Mediterranean in literary works in Israel, literary scholar Ammiel Alcalay, who was born in the US and is the son of Sephardic Jews from Bosnia, has brought together numerous references in a long overdue compilation of literature from the Levant. In After Jews and Arabs (1993), and in his anthology of contemporary Israeli writers with family roots in the Arab world, Keys to the Garden (1996), Alcalay presents the region beyond the established dichotomy of Jews and Arabs. He asserts that there has been a “veritable explosion of creativity [from the 1970s on, AN ] emerging from mizrahi consciousness,”72 and is convinced that some of the most vibrant elements in contemporary Israeli literature originate from authors with an oriental background. Their contributions to the debates on remembrance, the search for identity, and language—not to mention their role in discussions on the reevaluation of the past and minority-majority relations—are, according to Alcalay, of central importance in the development of a specifically Israeli culture.

72 Ammiel Alcalay, Keys to the Garden: New Israeli Writing (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1996), viii.

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The work of these writers has, and continues to have, a tremendous impact on the direction Israeli culture as a whole can take, an impact that cannot be measured by opinion polls but one whose true implications have barely been recognized or acknowledged.73

He further laments the lack of recognition, both in Israel and abroad, of important writers of Mizrahi origin, among them Sami Michael and Shimon Ballas. According to Alcalay, these writers have not yet found a receptive enough space and sufficient approval in Israel to be translated and exported as genuinely Israeli cultural products. Alcalay partly blames this on the selectivity and superficiality of those established literary critics who strongly influence the international perception of Hebrew literature, which in turn affects what is translated and what is not.74 Alcalay even assumes: “For Shaked and others in the literary establishment, these [Mizrahi, AN] writers simply do not exist,”75 arguing further that the establishment “consistently ignored, maligned or, at best, misinterpreted this work.”76 Alan Mintz has also noted how the reception of new books is manipulated by the press, since “a handful of powerful editor-professors attempt to shape the tastes of the serious reading public.”77 Fifteen years have passed since Alcalay’s remarks and with the beginning of the new Millennium the situation has changed: the subject of ethnicity and minority discourse in contemporary Israeli literature has slowly been entering the literary critique.78 Public discourse on and translations of Mizrahi writers are now more easily accessible.79

The long ignored literature of the Mizrahim is discussed in the anthology: ibid., xi. Striking examples for Alcalay’s allegations are two essays that mention no contributions of Mizrahi writers to Hebrew literature: Gershon Shaked, “Waves and Currents in Hebrew Fiction in the Past Forty Years,” Modern Hebrew Literature, no. 1 (1988); id., “The Arab in Israeli Fiction,” Modern Hebrew Literature, no. 3 (1989). 75 Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs: Remaking Levantine Culture, 238. 76 Alcalay, Keys to the Garden, viii. 77 Mintz, “Introduction,” 3. 78 See, e.g., Hanan Hever, Yehouda Shenhav, and Pnina Motzafi-Haller, Mizrahim be-Israel: Yiun bikorti mehudash (Mizrahim in Israel: A critical observation into Israel’s ethnicity) ( Jerusalem: Ha-Kibbutz ha-meuhad, 2002); Deborah Ann Starr, “Ambivalent Levantines/Levantine Ambivalences: Egyptian Jewish Identities in Contemporary Literature” (Doctoral Diss., University of Michigan, 2000); Nancy E. Berg, “Sephardi Writing: From the Margins to the Mainstream,” in The Boom in Contemporary Israeli Fiction, ed. Alan Mintz (Hanover: Brandeis University Press, 1997); Nancy E. Berg, Exile from Exile: Israeli Writers from Iraq (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996). 79 Recently, we are finding a variety of translations from Hebrew into e.g., German, Italian, or English that show a growing awareness and demand for the works of Mizrahi writers outside of Israel. See the website of the Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature, http://www.ithl.org.il/mainpage.html (accessed November 22, 2007). 73

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Still, it is obvious that the choice of authors discussed by the late literary critic Gershon Shaked was highly selective and it is striking that the contribution of Mizrahi writers—or the “non-Askenazi Jewish writers,”80 as Shaked labels this group simply by exclusion—are discussed only marginally in books like Modern Hebrew Fiction (2000). Another example pointed out by Alcalay is Israeli Poetry: A Contemporary Anthology (1988), edited by Warren Bargad and Stanley F. Chyet: the text mentions not a single Israeli poet of Middle Eastern descent.81 Nancy E. Berg discusses the terms and categories involved in the deliberations on modern Hebrew literature and finds it problematic to categorize ‘Sephardic writers’ as a unity because of the great diversity within the group. In the end, Berg argues, the only commonality they have is the way “the mainstream readership/establishment responds to them.” Moreover, the fact that these writers are labeled as ethnic writers—“using the term here in a uniquely Israeli sense where nothing Ashkenazi is ethnic”—locates them from the beginning in a certain discussion about ethnicity and otherness. “If we persist in reading them as ethnic, we deny them full voice, miss much of their texture, and may, on occasion, invert their meaning.”82 She argues further that the ethnic label nevertheless becomes less and less of a marker, since the authors mentioned here have entered the literary arena, moved from the margins toward the center, and broken out of the one-dimensional ethnic category. In conversations concerning Israel’s locality, important and thoughtprovoking impulses have come from writers of Mizrachi origin who deal with heritage and cultural roots in the region. Baghdad-born veteran writer Sami Michael perceives the history of the Levant as an experience of dialogue and multicultural coexistence. His novel Victoria (1993), an expansive family saga set in Baghdad and based on his mother’s story—her youth in Iraq and the hardship she encountered upon her immigration to the new state—was a bestseller in Israel. Abraham B. Yehoshua, son of a Sephardic family that came to Palestine in the nineteenth century, never explicitly called upon his ethnic roots in his early works, whereas in his family saga Mr. Mani (1990), charcterized by critics as a ‘passionate Mediterranean epic,’ he created a distinctly Sephardic Shaked, Modern Hebrew Fiction, 186. Bargad Warren and Stanley F. Chyet, Israeli Poetry: A Contemporary Anthology (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986). See here: Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 253. 82 Berg, “Sephardi Writing: From the Margins to the Mainstream,” 115. 80 81

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protagonist. His novel Journey to the End of the Millennium (1997), a historical fantasy describing the encounter of Jewish oriental and Jewish occidental cultures and set on the Mediterranean Sea, is also an example of the flowering of Israeli literature inspired by the geographical locus. Yehoshua himself labels his writing as ‘Mediterranean’, as opposed to ‘East’ or ‘West’, and explaining that the designation comes out of his personal feelings of belonging to a specific cultural entity: If I see a Greek tragedy I feel at home, not like in Hamburg. (. . .) I don’t want to present myself as being between East and West—I am ‘Yam Tihkoni’ [ Mediterranean, AN ], and my books are ‘Yam Tikhoni’im.’ ‘Mr. Mani’ is a Mediterranean book and the ‘Journey to the end of the Millennium’ is Mediterranean.

Israeli literary scholar Hanan Hever explains the specific local continuity of Mizrahi Jews with the Israeli place as follows: upon their arrival in Israel the spatial reality of the Mizrahim was local and they experienced what Hever calls ‘regional continuity’. Thus, he argues, for most Jewish immigrants from Arab states of the Middle East, the Aliya to Israel was not as exotic as for Ashkenazi Jews; the Mizrahim encountered a spatial familiarity when they arrived in surroundings characterized by conditions similar to those they had left behind.83 Yaron Ezrahi discussed the poverty of the literary genre of self-narration or autobiography in Hebrew culture from the classical period to the present. Moreover, in modern Israel, he argues, this genre is not very well represented in the literary landscape, with the exception of political biographies, which always have a collective implication and relate the contribution of a particular individual to the building of the country. He pointed out, however, that since the late 1970s and early 1980s, the appearance of autobiographies disguised as fiction can be observed among Israeli women writers.84 Subjects that were heretofore central to the Israeli literary canon, witness the quest for the ‘New Jew,’ the Israeli-Arab conflict, and the inner ethnic divide, have been pushed into the margins, with personal reflections and an increasing self-centeredness, beyond the story of the collective, taking a more central focus. Accordingly, the ‘personal place’ moves into the 83 Hanan Hever, “Lo banu min ha-yam: Geografia sifrutit Mizrachit (We have not arrived from the sea: A Mizrachi literary geography),” in Mizrahim be-Israel, ed. Hanan Hever et al., 199–200. 84 Yaron Ezrachi, Rubber Bullets: Power and Conscience in Modern Israel (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997), 94–98.

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center of attention and some writers with oriental family backgrounds began to collect family memories, thereby rediscovering their individual roots in the ‘East.’ Unlike their forebears, these younger writers don’t approach the Diaspora with any negative sentiments, but rather approach that world as an exotic past that holds no ideological baggage. Thus, by decentering the consensus, this younger generation is playing a significant role in defining identity and Israeli locality. There are authors, Ronit Matalon among them, who discuss the Levantine past in their work as a concept that might allow a future of peaceful coexistence in the region. Matalon’s book, The One Facing Us (Ze im ha-panim eleinu), which is a recounting of an Egyptian Jewish family history and is preoccupied with the Levantine option, shares several points of reference with works by the Egyptian writer Jacqueline Kahanoff. Matalon’s collected essays85 also contain some ideas in the style of Kahanoff: for example, Matalon often refers to Kahanoff’s perception of Levantiniut, which can be explained as a state of mind and feeling of belonging to the geographical region of the Levant. For Matalon, not only is Zionism but one possible cultural option for Israel, she even puts forward a post-Zionist reading of Kahanoff’s writings: As an Israeli, I was very, very attracted to the cultural and moral richness of the wandering Jew, who does not have one nationality or one country, has many languages, is open to everything human, and does not always close himself off from [foreign, AN] influences. In this sense, the Levantine option of live and let live, which in my opinion is the opposite of Zionism, very much attracted me.86

The scholar Joel Beinin sees in the production and promotion of Ronit Matalon’s work (especially The One Facing Us) and in the reassertion of Egyptian Jewish identity in post-1977 Israel a potential that reaches beyond the literary world: to construct a viable political vision for Israel’s future relations with its Arab neighbors.87 Similarly, writer Dorit Rabinyan found a source of inspiration for her family sagas in her own Persian-Jewish family roots. Rabinyan was born in 1972 and raised in the town of Kfar Saba in a family that had emigrated from

85 See Ronit Matalon, Kroh u-khtow (Read and write) (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz ha-meuhad, 2001), 33–34. 86 Interview with Ronit Matalon published in Davar, April 28, 1995, here see Joel Beinin, The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry: Culture, Politics, and the Formation of a Modern Diaspora (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 239. 87 Ibid., 240.

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Persia a few years earlier. Discussing the state of mind among her generation she describes, somewhat in the same vein as Etgar Keret, a shift in the general awareness of the situation that produced feelings of paralysis and depression: The collective Israeli consciousness, which was the cornerstone of the foundation of the Zionist state of 53 years ago and which bound the immigrants from all parts of the world into a people, into a nation, is no longer our consciousness. This is the archaic, too idealistic outlook on life of our parents (. . .). According to it, the individual has to sacrifice his own good, his freedom, his life, for the common good. This outlook has not succeeded in upgrading itself to a modern, sophisticated version.88

Rabinyan’s plots—sensuous fables full of fantasy and the smell of exotic spices—are inspired by her grandmother’s personal experiences in Iran. The English edition of Persian Brides, which is set at the turn of the twentieth century in a fictitious Persian village, shows Rabinyan on the backflap of the book, wearing a huge Hamsa around her neck. The first chapter of the book is called The Night of the Watermelon. Here again the two symbols of Israeliness, as Kobi Oz nominated them, surface in a similar context: a young and secular Mizrahi artist participating in the shaping of Israeli identity by contributing inherited and newly created material to the current discussion on the formation of Israeli identity. Rabinyan’s second novel, Our Weddings, is also an enchanting family saga that tells the story of an Israeli family of Persian descent. Rabinyan does not shy away either from drawing on existing stereotypes that describe harsh sexist patterns in traditional Mizrahi family structures, or from including the ways in which mysticism and the supernatural are interwoven with her heroine’s everyday life (e.g., discussing methods employed to provide protection from the ‘evil eye’).89 The decentered consensus described here shifts to an increased ethnic awareness and takes Israeliness back to ‘personal, individual places’ defined by ethnic group or biography. This literary inclination toward

See Rabinyan: Young, Troubled and Lost in the Promised Land. As Joshua Trachtenberg explained, the ‘evil eye’ is one of the most widely feared manifestations of demonic animus. The practice of warding off the evil eye, a demonic manifestation believed to be jealous of others’ good luck, arose during the Middle Ages. This superstition ascribes to the bearer of the evil eye power to wreak destruction with every glance, some of those who possess the power are not even aware of their dread influences. To avoid the evil eye, one should refrain from outward displays of good fortune. See Joshua Trachtenberg, Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion (New York: Atheneum, 1987), 54–55. 88 89

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the personal Makom concurs with research conducted by sociologists and political scientists in the last decade, who have been pointing to increasing ethnic consciousness, even the development of ethnic ghettos, and a move toward ‘tribalization’ within Israeli society. Looking at the literary and intellectual landscape of contemporary Israel, a growing awareness of Mizrahi issues in the public sphere and the media is visible. There are those who have made trips to their childhood homes, like the historian David Ohana who visited Morocco in search of his roots,90 and those who cannot return for political reasons, but reflect on their memories in fiction or biographical-historical essays. Sasson Somekh, a highly respected scholar of Arabic literature, born and raised in Baghdad, has published his memoirs.91 His recollections of a lost world include family stories, intertwined with general reflections on the Baghdadi community and its transition to Israel, as well as personal nostalgia for Iraqi spices and smells: “The heavenly flavor of ‘amba [spicy, yellow condiment with pickled mango, AN] on fresh-baked sammon lingers on my tongue to this day.”92 During the Gulf War in 2003, interviews with Jewish immigrants from Baghdad and representatives of Iraq’s intellectual community now living in Israel were omnipresent on Israeli television. Their memories of places in the old heimat, accompanied with current images of the Allied air raids on Baghdad, sustained the general wave of nostalgia. The documentary essay, “Forget Baghdad,” filmed in 2002 by exiled Iraqi Samir, deals with the identity conflict of Iraqi Jews in Israel, among them the writers Shimon Ballas, Sami Michael, and Samir Naqqash, thereby breaking-down given clichés about the Jew and the Arab. Their personal stories elucidate the problematic identity formation they experienced upon their arrival in Israel: Samir Naqqash, who passed away in 2004, continued to write his novels in Arabic, which made him an outsider in Israel; Shimon Ballas sees his mission as bringing Israel closer to the East and—as a product of Arab culture—considers himself today an “Arab Jew.”93 Hanan Hever, an Israeli literary scholar, comments on this contradictory self-definition:

90 David Ohana, Humanist ba-shemesh (Humanist in the Sun: Albert Camus and the Mediterranean inspiration) ( Jerusalem: Carmel, 2000), 120ff. 91 Sasson Somekh, Baghdad Yesterday (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz ha-meuhad, 2004). 92 Id., “Forever ‘Amba,” Haaretz, March 8, 2002. 93 Dalia Karpel, “An Arab Jew,” Haaretz, July 2, 2003.

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In contrast to Israeli identity, which appears as natural, homogeneous, local, and above all, universal, Ballas raises a possibility that is explicitly heterogeneous: the option of being local yet simultaneously an immigrant from the East—a ‘doubly realized’ reality, as Ballas put it (. . .).94

The literary manifestations of Mizrahi writers are as diverse as their contributors and the group as a whole, as Alan Mintz has noted: Some came from the secularized urban professional classes of Cairo, Damascus, and Bagdad; others were shopkeepers with a traditional religious outlook; and still others came from small towns and villages that had hardly been touched by industrial life.95

As diverse as this group may be, it becomes apparent that topics like identity construction, extensive family sagas, elements of sensuousness and exoticness, as well as postcolonial subjunctives enhance the process of reassessing and rediscovering long marginalized fields within literary expression. The young generation of writers—among them Mizrahi writers—is a factor that is reshaping the literary map in Israel and rewriting the Zionist narrative. Beyond the ethnic components, the constant threats in daily life in Israel, as well as general, worldwide literary trends are all driving forces behind the development of contemporary Israeli literature. Sami Michael explained the tendency in Israeli literature to flee reality, thereby putting it into a global context: (. . .) all postmodernism in literature is a kind of flight from reality. But it’s impossible to flee in Israel. Therefore, postmodernism in Israel is different from postmodernism that’s written in France, or Italy or England. Because Israeli postmodernism has a lot of anxiety, a lot of fear, a lot of worry, a lot of despair.96

c) Visual Arts Visual arts in Israel before and after the founding of the state reflect the history of the country, the people, and the continuous soul-searching with respect to questions of identity and culture. Like the other topics under observation in this analysis, the visual arts, too, have been in constant search of an ‘authentic’ and ‘native’ expression of the new 94 Hanan Hever, Producing the Modern Hebrew Canon: Nation Building and Minority Discourse (New York: New York University Press, 2002), 166. 95 Mintz, “Introduction,” 9. 96 Sami Michael interviewed by F. M. Black, The Forward, November 29, 2002, http:// www.forward.com/issues/2002/02.11.29/arts2.html (accessed April 20, 2003).

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living conditions in Erez Israel. The implications of different ethnic and biographical backgrounds coming together in Israel have been subject to visual expressions throughout the last century, with questions of identity and belonging remaining of crucial interest. In the Israeli art world, which art historian Gideon Ofrat calls rich and intense, “with an excitable Mediterranean temperament,” the question of place and space is a major theme. At the same time, however, according to Ofrat, “localism is a complex, unresolved issue in Israeli art.”97 Bezalel The Bezalel School of Arts and Crafts, established by Boris Schatz in Jerusalem in 1906, is commonly regarded as the beginning of Israeli art as it was searching for a genuine expression in Erez Israel. Bezalel, which is both a school and an artistic concept, referred to images of Easterness embodied in the Hebrew bible. In the quest for an authentic expression of Jewish art, Schatz was convinced that the real Jewish representation in art would emerge by itself, through the direct influence of the surroundings on the artist: “(. . .) the great past of our people in our country must leave its imprint on the painter, because here everything reminds him of the golden age when we were a healthy and free people at this place.”98 Similar to the first Zionist settlers’ perception of the Arabs, the Bezalel artists also drew on the Orient as a source for an idyllic, harmonious setting. They believed that the Arabs who inhabited the land preserved some sort of a pure and authentic way of life, resembling ancient biblical images. The Bezalel style is characterized by a romantic Orientalism, intertwined with decorative Jugendstil aestheticism. Illustrated figures as well as sculptured figurines were often stereotypical images of oriental people and resembled the local population: the ‘native Arab,’ the local, the Bedouin, or the oriental Jew. The ideal of the Yemenite Jew needs to be pointed out in particular, since it served as a projection screen for romantic yearnings in different fields: “The idealized image of the native Yemenite, as reflected in the Yishuv’s literature, plastic arts, cinema, drama, and song, was employed repeatedly for ideological, and social goals.”99 Artists from various ethnic backgrounds, who Gideon Ofrat, One Hundred Years of Art in Israel (Boulder: Westview Press, 1998), 3. Boris Schatz quoted in Dalia Manor, “Biblical Zionism in Bezalel Art,” Israel Studies 6, no. 1 (2001): 58. 99 Guliat, “The Yemenite Ideal in Israeli Culture and Arts,” 29. 97

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had been trained in different places, developed a specific Bezalel look that resembled different aspects of Persian, Yemenite, and Mameluke artwork. “But beyond classicism, Jugendstil, and East European realism, the Bezalel style embraced an orientalism somewhat eclectic in nature.”100 The anti-modernist stand of Schatz led to his and his school’s growing isolation from the art and culture emerging in the country. The ‘modern’ artists who came to Palestine in the 1920s and settled in the newly founded Tel Aviv as a counter-statement to holy Jerusalem, also rebelled against the dominance of traditionalist Bezalel ideals and art, whose influence eventually declined. The Local in Israeli Art The major motifs that run through the history of Israeli art are similar to those reflected in the field of literature and music discussed above. Some of the recurring themes are: the gap between the idealized image of Erez Israel and the disillusion that occurred upon arrival in Israel and the facing of the realities of another land, the subject of belonging, and the constant struggle of being an integral part of the new environment while at the same time being alienated from the geographical surroundings. Throughout the decades, one can detect a somewhat eclectic approach in the history of visual arts in Erez Israel and Israel. Most of the artists were immigrants and did not develop a completely new artistic language upon their arrival, but stayed connected to the traditions in which they were brought up. In addition, artists borrowed from different established European traditions and adapted them to local purposes, mirroring their desire to merge into their new environment. Regardless of the individual style an artist developed, it can be argued that especially in the first decades of the twentieth century, up to the founding of the state, certain symbols and images were omnipresent in the so-called Erez Israel Paintings. Local images like the palm tree, the sabra cactus, the pioneer, the camel, and the native Arab, are recurring, used by numerous artists in order to manifest a sense of belonging. The tensions between vision and realities described above resulted in the creation of a new imaginary world on canvas. The artists who immigrated to Erez Israel at the beginning of the twentieth century viewed the natives in Palestine through orientalist glasses: the oriental Jews as well as the Arabs living in the biblical land were perceived as

100

Ofrat, One Hundred Years of Art in Israel, 27.

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primordial and primitive, but at the same time intriguing and exotic. The ‘noble savage’ representing the mysterious Orient—associations often used to describe the native inhabitants of the land—was a source of fascination for the newcomers. But beyond that romanticized perception there was minimal dialogue with the surrounding Arab art and culture. Even though the Orient was perceived as a romantic dream, concealing magic within the local, the major source of influence on Erez Israeli Art was the West. Artists immigrating to Erez Israel brought with them the European modernist movements of Cubism, Futurism, Social Realism, and Expressionism, and upon their arrival were confronted with new, unaccustomed situations and surroundings: different habits, the heat, and the dazzling Mediterranean sun. The art historian Milly Heyd stressed the particular importance the style of naïve primitivism had in the early phase of the Erez Israeli Painting since it reflected the utopian future view of the not yet existent state the artists were dreaming about. Heyd argues that other Western artistic repertoire was less important since it did not serve the needs of the artists at the time: “The pessimism of the expressionists, the nihilism of the Dada and the nightmarish dream quality of the surrealists (. . .) did not fit the dreams of becoming integrated in a new land.”101 A deep inner division characterized art in the period before the creation of the state of Israel, reflecting the artist’s personal conflict between ‘there’—their old homes—and ‘here.’ On the one hand, their art was still rooted in the European heritage, marked by traditional forms and styles. On the other hand, this generation of artists was searching for a distinctive voice capable of expressing the feeling of life in the ‘old-new’ homeland of Palestine and more closely attached to the future than to the world of the Diaspora. Trying to bridge the distance between these two contradictory worlds, art in this period produced a dream world in which, for example, European Art Nouveau merged with arabesque decoration and local oriental scenes. The strong interrelation between Zionist ideology and local imagery, which is especially evident in painting, photography, and graphic design, may be explained by the need of the Zionist establishment for images that could bolster the construction of a collective identity. Visual art in Erez Israel, especially photography, played an important role in the

101 Milly Heyd, “Reuven Rubin in Palestine,” in Rubin Museum, ed. Carmela Rubin (Tel Aviv: Rubin Museum, 2003), 101–102.

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creation of a new native Hebrew culture, as well as in the process of identity formation, and was a powerful medium for creating ‘collective icons,’ some of them still relevant today within the Zionist consensus. The recurring images in the years that lead to the establishment of the state were the pioneer, the ‘New Hebrew,’ the fighter, rural landscapes, and the urban settlement, especially the ‘first Hebrew city’ Tel Aviv. However, after the state’s founding, the use of visual arts as a Zionist propaganda tool decreased: the Zionist vision had been fulfilled with the creation of a Jewish state. Doreet LeVitte Harten, the curator of the important exhibition The New Hebrews—100 Years of Art in Israel, which was on display in Berlin in the summer of 2005, explains the drastic fabrication of a new self-image within the framework of Zionist ideology, as well as the implications that arose from this self-invention: (. . .) Israeli culture differs radically from that of all other immigration countries. Normally an immigrant can choose whether to adapt to the culture of the host country or to remain within the community of fellow emigrants from his country of origin. In Israel, however, there was no culture to adapt to. The Hebrews first had to invent themselves. (. . .) They exchanged their Jewish names for such as were deemed to be Israeli. They changed their way of dressing, their language and their mentality.102

Of particular interest for the Erez Israel period are the works of the Romanian-born painter Reuven Rubin. The transformation that took place in his work as a result of leaving Romania and immigrating to Palestine is striking (after several visits and one year of study at the Bezalel Academy, he settled in Palestine in 1922): in order to deal with the new climatic and geographical influences of the new home in the Middle East and the discrepancy between vision and reality, he created a completely new illusionary world. With his new artistic language, in the tradition of naïve primitivism, he formed a dreamlike atmosphere that united East and West, even though the realities on the ground were not as peaceful. The fascination of the new and unknown becomes evident in a quote by Rubin upon his arrival in Palestine, taken from his autobiography: I was too excited to rest and immediately began to walk through the city. I felt like in a dream: for the first time I saw camels lumbering along the street and absorbed the smell of the nearby orange plantations. I took

102 Doreet LeVitte Harten, “Things to Come,” in Die Neuen Hebräer: 100 Jahre Kunst in Israel, ed. id. and Yigal Zalmona (Berlin: Nicolai, 2005), 340.

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chapter two off my shoes, hung them on a cane that I wore on my shoulders, and walked barefoot in the sand. Romania, its monotonousness, worries and disorders disappeared from my memory. Like in a dream, I was strolling about, walked towards the place where a new Jewish city Tel Aviv, that would become my home, ought to come into being.103

On canvas he brought together the contrasting elements of his own biography: a combination of European Romania and exotic Erez Israel, thereby also laying the basis for a new, somewhat naïve style of art in the not yet existent state. Camels appear in his paintings, trotting across the yellow sand, the sky is bright blue—we see palm trees, olive trees, tents of new settlers. “His paintings eventually became softer, more playful and more optimistic—a legend taking root in the sand dunes.”104 Rubin also portrays the country’s inhabitants in their traditional garments, or Yemenite Jewish figures that represent primordial Judaism and are used to contrast with the Hebrew pioneer (see fig. 16, page 287). “The delicate balance between old and new, between East and West, between the local and the ‘other’ who strives to become a part of the place, are fascinating motifs in each one of Reuven Rubins’s paintings.”105 Another important artist dedicated to the Erez Israel Style is Nahum Gutman, who immigrated to Palestine from Odessa in 1905 at the age of seven. In his work he presents the growing city Tel Aviv as an innocent and lovely place, where people live in harmony Between Sands and Sky of Blue, also the title of one of his books. Tel Aviv emerges in his art as a naïve “childhood paradise,” as Shlomo Shwa put it.106 Documenting the birth of a city, Gutman shows elements of oriental architecture, white houses of ‘little Tel Aviv,’ camels, Sycamore trees, donkeys, and time and again the Mediterranean Sea. However, his images are simplified and idealized, showing for example Tel Aviv completely detached from neighboring Arab Jaffa and its surroundings (see fig. 6, page 12) Gutman, who once said about painters in Erez Israel: “each of us sits under his own olive tree,” described his encounter with the Orient as a child as follows:

Reuven Rubin, My Life My Art (New York: Sabra Books, 1969). Shlomo Shwa, “Tel-Aviv on Canvas,” in Tel Aviv at 80: A Salute to Tel Aviv on the Occasion of its 80th Anniversary (Tel Aviv: Rubin Museum, 1989), 3. 105 Mordechai Omer, 90 Years of Israeli Art: A Selection from the Joseph Hackmey-Israel Phoenix Collection (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv Museum of Art, 1998), XI. 106 Shlomo Shwa, “Childhood Paradise,” in Gutman’s Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv’s Gutman (Tel Aviv: Gutman Museum, 1999), 102. 103 104

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It was the gateway to mystery, my first contact. (. . .) The Orient had opened up before me. I think that moment was the start of everything I have tried to express in my paintings since then. For the rest of my life I have sought to express my love for the special, self-contained, resplendent beauty of the East that captured my heart with its vitality. (. . .) And it all started with that camel with the mythical eyes.107

Generally speaking, the graphic arts in Israel were searching for something independent, ‘authentic’, ‘local’, and wanted to move away from the orientalist projections of the West onto the East. Despite the wellknown phrase of ‘turning one’s back to the Mediterranean,’ local images and Mediterranean specifics are omnipresent in Israeli art. There is no particular ‘Mediterranean stratum’ or ‘Mediterranean school’ to be detected in Israeli art (comparable to the Bezalel-style discussed above), yet the local influences can be distinguished throughout the decades in the work of diverse artists. The local enters the imagery in the form of symbols like yellow sand, azure-blue sky, plants and animals of the region, harsh Mediterranean light, etc. Moreover, the romantic approach to the cult of the ancient Hebrews, who took the initiative in creating a regional identity for the ethnically divergent inhabitants of the region, held great appeal for a new generation of writers and artists (cf. The Canaanite Movement), as it provided new inspiration concerning the discussion of ‘place’ and ‘belonging.’ The affinity for archaic Mediterranean cultures in the plastic arts, for example, the sculptures of Yitzchak Danziger, Yigal Tumarkin, Dani Karavan, and Benyamin Tammuz, has to be mentioned within that context.108 The reason that artists of diverse backgrounds turned to the land and made local specifics central motifs in their art can be seen as a kind of symbolic appropriation of the land. On arriving in Palestine, after undergoing the hardships of immigration, they wanted to shake off the sense of being foreigners and gain a foothold in a place that would eventually become their new homeland. The strong link to the land was fostered by the prevailing Zionist ideal of the ‘New Hebrew,’ who was supposed to emerge from a symbiosis with the land.

107 Nahum Gutman and Ehud Ben-Ezer, Bein cholot ve-kakhol shama’im (Sand dunes and blue sky) (Tel Aviv: Yavneh, 1984), 210. 108 Gideon Ofrat discusses this in detail, see manuscript by the courtesy of the Gutman Museum, to be found in: Gideon Ofrat, “Nahum Gutman: Between the Mediterranean Sea and Mediterraneanism,” in Gutman Museum Book (Tel Aviv: Gutman Museum, 2003).

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Doreet LeVitte Harten reflects on the recurring motif of Makom in artistic expression in Israel over the last one hundred years in the exhibition The New Hebrews—100 Years of Art in Israel. Even though the curator rejects the temptation to name what is Israeli in Israeli art, her exhibition revolves exactly around that question. In her contribution to the exhibition catalogue, she argues that Israeli art is less characterized by a specific outward appearance, but by a certain attitude, a subtext, a scope of yearning, which makes Israeli works of art distinctive. She explains that Zionist ideology propagated the process of normalization as an ideal for the future Jewish state, and linked this desired state of normality to the concrete land. Since the existence of the Israeli state, the metaphysical concept of place, which was valid for two thousand years, has been confronted with the actual geographical place, the Israeli state.109 A stroll through LeVitte Harten’s vision of 100 years of Israeli art elucidates exactly that collision between the ‘here’ and ‘there,’ the tension between imagined and real place, between the metaphysical and the geographical Makom, which is omnipresent in the works on display. Although the Mediterranean Sea never constituted a specific genre in a particular period of time, local motifs and symbols, as well as a sense of locality can be found throughout the decades in different forms and functions. The Mediterranean itself is depicted in various forms: as a stage and a platform for outdoor leisure activity (e.g., in Nahum Gutman’s drawings or in Zoltan Kluger’s photographs); the vastness of the body of water is a central focus in the large scale photographs of Roi Kuper; the diverse skyline of Tel Aviv-Yafo runs neatly parallel to the sea in Ariel Efron’s video installation; the sea is a decorative background element in holiday greeting cards that depict Tel Aviv.110 However, there are also examples for the adaptation and appropriation of the Mediterranean topos in contemporary visual art that can be observed as an overall phenomenon in the work of many artists from diverse ethnic backgrounds. As an example: the artist Yehudith Bach, born in Germany in 1910, came to Palestine in 1933.111 In her rich artistic repertoire, which includes landscapes, figures, and abstract painting, we find a collage with the title This is our Place in the Mediterranean (1999, see fig. 17, page 288). This work is part of a colorful,

109 110 111

LeVitte Harten, “Things to Come.” Id. and Zalmona, Die Neuen Hebräer, 210, 490, 72. Aryeh Gluch, ed., Yehudith Bach (Tel Aviv: Zmora Bitan, 2002).

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lively series she produced two years before her death in 2001, and contains parts of newspaper clippings in Hebrew, German, and French. The collage expresses joie de vivre, showing stylized oranges as well as wooden cooking spoons and other kitchen accessories. Without going into detail about this specific work and the significance it holds within Bach’s oeuvre, it might be said that she obviously adopted the question of belonging and the relevance of the Mediterranean as a reference point in her late work. Representations of the Mediterranean Sea remain a prominent element of modern Hebrew culture, either as an alienation from it or as an embrace and rediscovery. For many decades the sea itself was not important but the act of crossing it in order to reach the desired land was a central element in the Zionist narrative. It is argued here that symbols and images of the ‘local’ can be found throughout Israeli art, as they are strongly connected to the question of belonging and identity. When the term ‘local’ is used here it implies ‘Mediterranean,’ as the Mediterranean Sea is part of the local reality of Israel (‘Orient’ is also part of the ‘local’ discussed in this context). This ‘local’ element is not homogenous, but appears in different forms and contexts, as sketched above. In the period that led up to 1948, the local elements had strong Zionist allusions, whereas after 1948, the local acquired different nuances and alternative interpretations as the diversification of Israeli society grew as a whole. In contrast to specific artistic languages, which can be called a style or a way of expression with an aesthetic agenda attached to it, the local element in Israeli art can be found as a steady factor within the diverse imagery throughout the decades. 3. Lived Yam Tikhoniut In the following, Mediterraneanism in everyday life in Israel will be traced. The presence of Mediterraneanism on several levels shows that Yam Tikhoniut has already became an integral part of Israeliness. Critics sometimes argue that the concept of Yam Tikhoniut is a product of the imagination—arbitrary, artificial, and overestimated, but as will be shown here, everyday life in Israel confirms many aspects of its existence. Moreover, it appears that the lived experience of Yam Tikhoniut also surfaces on different levels of awareness, and finds explicit articulations in contemporary Israel. Yet, before turning to the specific case of Israel in greater detail some general remarks on the aspect of

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‘cultural baggage.’ An attentive observer finds many examples for the claim that specific cultural phenomena, as well as daily practices and a certain regional mentality resemble each other. Indeed, analogies with other cultures in the region become apparent when we observe specific examples from architecture, Israeli cooking traditions, or the use of symbols. Fernand Braudel examined the way cultural possessions traveled in the region and emphasized the role of anonymous carriers who, sometimes even unconsciously, facilitated cultural transfer. To retrace the exact route of names, everyday vocabulary, lifestyles, works of art, handcrafts, or ideas, subsumed under what Braudel called ‘cultural baggage,’ is almost impossible: “For every piece of cultural baggage recognized, a thousand are untraceable: identification labels are missing and sometimes the contents or their wrappings have vanished too.” Despite these complex roots, Braudel emphasized the fact that cultural exports traveled and civilizations borrowed from one another: “(. . .) in the Mediterranean to live is to exchange—men, ideas, ways of life, beliefs—or habits of courtship.”112 Braudel further stressed the strong reciprocal influence of the lifestyles of the Mediterranean cultures and described a zone of exchange among diverse cultural groups, which becomes apparent in the mingling of human interaction as well as in matters of taste and style: (. . .) they merged to produce the extraordinary charivari suggestive of eastern ports as described by romantic poets: a rendezvous for every race, every religion, every kind of man, for everything in the way of hairstyles, fashions, foods and manners to be found in the Mediterranean.113

A prime example of this ‘cultural baggage’ is the so called Mediterranean Lingua Franca, which is discussed in depth in the comprehensive etymological lexicon The Lingua Franca in the Levant—Turkish Nautical Terms of Italian and Greek Origin (1958). This study is an impressive account of a language used throughout the Mediterranean, from Portugal to Greece to North Africa. The emergence of this specific language goes back to a time when Mediterranean nautical terminology had not yet been infiltrated by modern international terminology. In this research, Turkologists and linguists traced this nautical language, trying to locate

112 Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. 2 (Glasgow: Fontana Press, 1986), 761. 113 Ibid., 763.

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and identify the ultimate origin of certain expressions. The study proves the existence of an international language that was used in the fields of navigation, fishing, nature, trade, and folklore of the region, and underlines the “linguistic-cultural unity of the Mediterranean.”114 This lingua franca was found to exist through the late eighteenth century, and was only understood by sailors and fishermen in particular sea ports. As the editors argue in the preface, in many instances those terms survived into the present.115 This lingua franca was a kind of pidgin, based on words borrowed from Arabic, Turkish, Greek, and Italian. In fact, the existence of this regional language underscores the idea of cultural transfer and exchange in the Mediterranean, as Irad Malkin pointed out: The ‘space’ of the language is maritime, its territory vast, but its boundaries narrow: it was spoken throughout the Mediterranean space, yet was blocked by the shoreline, limited to the ports of the Mediterranean cities. This lingua franca is a distinct manifestation of the network dimension of the Mediterranean city.116

Even today, an observant traveler can find proof of Braudel’s idea of shared ‘cultural baggage’ in the Mediterranean region: observing mentality, temperament, gesture, and articulation, one discovers remarkable analogies among the peoples within the region. In a thorough analysis of the question, ‘Is Israel Western?,’ Sammy Smooha details gestures and temperament that strongly link Israelis to the region and even disengage it from the West. He argues that in some key areas Israelis differ appreciably from Westerners: for example, social relations in Israel are marked by spontaneity, warmth, neighborliness, and sense of community. On the other hand, he argues, Israelis are also known for their directness, chutzpah, roughness, and invasions of privacy: “Improvisation is also a common Israeli trait. Israelis tend not to plan ahead in detail, but

114 Henry Kahane, Reneé Kahane, and Andreas Tietze, The Lingua Franca in the Levant: Turkish Nautical Terms of Italian and Greek Origin (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1958). See also Henry Kahane and Renée Kahane, “Introductory Essay: Aspects of Mediterranean Linguistics,” Mediterranean Language Review 1 (1983). 115 E.g., ablóco ‘blockade’, nave ‘ship’, mola! ‘let go’, mangia ‘food’, levante ‘lifter’, imbatto ‘sea breeze’, furia ‘climax’, colonna ‘lower mast’, baríl ‘barrel’, arena ‘sand’, allesta! ‘get ready’, alla borina ‘close to the wind’, tomba! ‘let fall’, etc. Kahane, The Lingua Franca in the Levant. 116 Irad Malkin, “The Mediterranean City: Networks and Spaces,” in Home Port: The Story of Haifa Port (Haifa: Haifa City Museum, 2002), 206.

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leave a wide margin for improvisation. They believe in their ability to cope with contingencies and embarrassing situations.”117 When it comes to defining the borders of the Mediterranean cultural space, diverse and even contradictory conceptions can be found. There have been attempts to define the boundaries according to climatic conditions, the distribution of certain flora (e.g., the olive tree or the vine), as well as cultural habits, for example the line of demarcation between olive oil eaters and butter eaters. Similar climates create similar ways of life and influence architectural attitudes as well as the use of public and private space. The pushing and shoving in Tel Aviv’s outdoor market, the Shouk ha-Carmel, the harsh guttural sounds in which the vendors praise their goods, to name but a few examples, resemble the market atmosphere in Tunis, Naples, or Alexandria. Also, the blue amulets or the already mentioned Hamsa against the evil eye, which is a widespread talisman in Israel, as well as in other countries around the Mediterranean, like Greece, Turkey, Morocco and elsewhere, will be discussed below. The perceptions of writers and travelers from outside the region did its share to construct a kind of typical inhabitant, one who is described as open, sensual, and full of joie de vivre. This romanticized, glorified Mediterranean character has become a cliché: warm-hearted, hottempered, passionate, spontaneous and hospitable, but also impulsive, noisy, pushy, sometimes even vulgar. Accounts of human interactions in the region, similarly stereotyped by outside observers, are portrayed as direct, intense, and always physical. Braudel’s theory of cultural transfer and exchange can also be applied to the contemporary situation in the region. A stroll along the promenades of Alexandria, Tel Aviv, and Beirut provides a glimpse into the contemporary meaning of ‘shared cultural baggage.’ Despite all the differences between these three locations, we see vendors in all three cities selling corn on the cob and freshly squeezed lemonade with mint, we see congregations of balloon vendors and back-street gamblers. And in all three places soaked lentils are sold in the same self-made, funnel-shaped paper wrappings.

117 Sammy Smooha, “Is Israel Western?,” in Comparing Modernities: Pluralism Versus Homogenity, ed. Eliezer Ben-Rafael and Yitzhak Sternberg (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 437.

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But if we move from wishful thinking to present-day realities, we are in for a rude awakening. Anyone searching for a surrogate for the Alexandria of old, of the blend of cultures and styles, the colorblindness under a hot sun, will not find it now among Israel’s neighbors. As paradoxical as it may seem, this surrogate may be found in Israel, on the seashore—from Ashdod and Ashkelon, to Acre and Naharyia—with Tel Aviv in the center. The Tel Aviv promenade of today is the substitute for the famous Alexandrian Corniche of yesteryear, filled with many different cultures, styles, skin colors, tolerant of all and assimilating everything.118

However, the question of the exact borders of the Mediterranean is not entirely answered, and Horden and Purcell emphasize the aspect of fragmentation and local irregularities of the Mediterranean space.119 This aspect of the ‘border-less space’ is a recurring feature and has also accompanied my observations. In what follows, the focus will be on how the emergence of Yam Tikhoniut is being expressed on different levels of Israeli public life. Analyzing a compilation of newspaper clippings120 that made use of the word ‘Mediterranean’ or ‘Mediterraneanism’ illustrates that the term Yam Tikhoniut operates in diverse contexts: there are restaurants that offer ‘Mediterranean atmosphere,’ ‘Mediterranean food,’ or ‘Mediterranean sandwiches’; one can watch a Mediterranean television channel and listen to radio programs like Agan ha-yam ha-Tikhon (Mediterranean basin); ‘Mediterranean diets’ and other product marketing campaigns are being designed around the notion of the Mediterranean. The upscale restaurant Bruno, which serves strictly kosher gourmet food in Tel Aviv’s trendy Azrieli Center, labels itself as a purveyor of ‘Urban Mediterranean Cuisine’ (see fig. 18, page 289). Ambivalence toward the concept, however, is also apparent in commentaries in which the word ‘Mediterranean’ is used with a negative connotation, to articulate political criticism, for example: describing a lack of authority and order in public and political life and the shortcomings of a ‘Mediterranean

118 Amnon Rubinstein, From Herzl to Rabin (New York; London: Holmes and Meier, 2000), 80. 119 Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 78–80. 120 The articles and newspaper clippings were generously provided to me by Yakoov Shavit, who sporadically collected them from the daily press clippings that make use of the term ‘Mediterranean’. This collection contains articles and ads from the early 1980s until the late 1990s, dealing with Mediterranean subjects or simply using the Mediterranean label in unfamiliar contexts. I made use of this valuable material throughout this study.

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democracy’121 or the inefficiency of ‘Mediterranean bureaucracy.’ The adjective ‘Mediterranean’ is also used derogatorily to describe social behavior or aesthetics that are considered vulgar, loud, or superficial. Nevertheless, in the majority of the examples found, the term was positively charged and evoked pleasant associations, e.g., ‘Mediterranean charm,’ ‘Mediterranean setting,’ ‘Mediterranean light’ or ‘Mediterranean joy of life’. These cases in point demonstrate the growing use of the term ‘Mediterranean’ and the increased interest in ‘everything Mediterranean.’ They also illustrate how over time the Mediterranean repertoire, including its stereotypes, has shaped reality and created an influential cultural phenomenon that continues to grow in intensity. Searching for cultural remnants and fragments, the New York-based writer and poet Ammiel Alcalay, who conducted some in-depth analyses of the cultures of the Mediterranean, stresses the importance of the multifaceted and often chaotic everyday life. In the area of music, he describes often neglected niches in Israeli daily life that turned out to be rich resources: In the alleys of the open marketplaces, at the central bus stations, out of suitcases, kiosks, flimsy stalls or tiny shops, virtual walking encyclopedias of popular culture sell cassettes and videos, in every dialect of Arabic, in Turkish, Greek, Persian, and Kurdish.122

In Alcalay’s description, the importance of ‘hidden places’ in daily life becomes apparent, where bits and pieces from diverse cultures, and the ‘cultural baggage’ brought along from the old world, are preserved. The search for these places where one finds Lived Yam Tikhoniut, as it is called here, also played a vital role in the field research conducted for this study. Although the list of possible examples for this lived experience is endless, only a few can be presented. The cases assembled here serve as an illustration of the actual presence of Lived Yam Tikhoniut in Israeli daily life. The discussion of this phenomenon begins by vaulting headlong into an impressionistic description of a characteristic urban site, where remnants of diverse cultures can be traced back to ‘hidden places.’

See, e.g., Alex Fischmann in Yedioth Ahronoth, October 15, 2001, quoted after the press review of the German Embassy in Tel Aviv, http://www.tel-aviv.diplo.de (accessed June 6, 2003). 122 Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 254. 121

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Excursus: The old Central Bus Station Tahanah Merkazit The old central bus station (hereafter Tahanah Merkazit) in the south of Tel Aviv, which Joachim Schlör calls the “ultimate cross-section of Israeli society,”123 is a symbol of Lived Yam Tikhoniut, combining many elements of the phenomena discussed above and illustrating the diversity and cleavages within Israeli society. The following observations focus on the beginning of the 1990s, before the Tahanah Merkazit was replaced by a new and functional building in an adjacent neighborhood, merging an indoor shopping mall with a bus station (the world’s largest); the result has frequently been described as monstrous. The new station is a sterile warren of confusing urban structures, many-leveled and maze-like, in which one can easily get lost. Tel Aviv residents avoid it, not only because of the tight security and the suicide bombers who have used the massive crowds in order to blend in and blow themselves up. The new central bus station just does not fit in and its colossal size stands in contrast to the many still vacant shop spaces, a constant reminder of the failure of the new station. With the opening of the new bus station, the site of the old station was less frequented, and the face of the old Tahanah Merkazit changed drastically, with the stall owners now serving a completely different group of customers. At present, large groups of foreign workers from countries such as Ghana, Romania, the Philippines, and Colombia have moved in, and a stroll through the site mirrors the crowded living conditions, poverty, and unemployment of these groups. Vendors of all kinds of goods are surrounded by a mix of empty beer cans, puddles of vodka, the stench of urine, and the smells of exotic spices from the Thai street cookeries that line the streets. The face of the old Tahanah Merkazit, which has also become a center for prostitution and black market activities, has changed completely and lost its former charm. The Tahanah Merkazit was once a vivid place of diverse sensual stimuli, and represents for me a colorful example of the phenomenon, which here is called Lived Yam Tikhoniut, actually a “virtual walking encyclopedias of popular culture.”124 Joachim Schlör describes his stroll through the diversity of shop and booths:

123 124

Schlör, Tel Aviv, 214. Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 254.

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chapter two Filthy, noisy and crowded, frequented by beggars, black marketeers and fanatical propagandists for every conceivable political and religious viewpoint and hobby-horse, with shops emitting deafening Oriental music, businesses both official and unofficial, drink stands, and newspaper stalls where orthodox travellers are pleasurably shocked to see hard pornography on sale, it has also become the haunt of groups of drunks—a novel sight for sober Tel Aviv.125

The Tahanah Merkazit was once a place of through-traffic, exposed to a multitude of different influences and embodying a unique mixture of lifestyles. Another author considers this site something like a bridgehead to the East, a manifestation of the Orient in the middle of the noble Bauhaus city of Tel Aviv, which over the years has strongly adhered to its European roots and whose urban map was grounded in the European values of its designers: A reminder that despite all the symphony-hall, art-gallery, up-to-date computerised hopes for a European sensibility, Tel Aviv is also in the Middle East, where the bazaar is more natural than the shopping mall, indeed, where even the best-planned malls somehow feel more like a bazaar than a shopping centre.126

The blue amulet against the evil eye, the Hamsa, the watermelons, the guttural shouts of the vegetable vendors and the blasting oriental and Mediterranean music mingle together in a kaleidoscope of diverse Israeli experiences. In 1995, the band Tea Packs melancholically referred to the Tahanah Merkazit in one of their songs. Coming from Sderot, the city in the Negev desert that stands for periphery and marginalization, shiny Tel Aviv is portrayed as a gateway to another, more desirable world. In this song, which is a sentimental tribute to the old bus station, all the diverse facets of Israeli society come alive, the quintessence of Israeli reality. The mish-mash of cultures and the scene’s culinary offerings (simple, traditional oriental foods: “Falafel stand with all the extras,” “Pita and Satar and a hard-boiled egg at the side” and the “drunk Malabi-vendor”), as well as the cassette music being sold at the station (“for 10 Shekel three cassettes” ), are all part of this nostalgic poem about a world gone by.127 125 126

181.

Schlör, Tel Aviv, 213–14. Robert Rosenberg, “Snapshots,” Ariel: A Review of Arts and Letters in Israel (1989):

Their song Tahanah ha-yeshanah (The old station) can be found on the disc Ha-haim shelkha be-lafa (Your life in a Pita bread) that was released in 1995: The descent onto the hot street/was for me like a path into the world/the drunk Malabi (an Arabic drink made out of coconut, nut, spices and sugar and is commonly sold by street vendors 127

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For Amy Horowitz, the Tahanah Merkazit is the focal point and central nerve system of her research on Musika Yam Tikhonit Israelit (Israeli Mediterranean Music). In her PhD thesis she discusses a new genre of homemade cassette tapes that originated from the stalls at the Tahanah Merkazit and, after years of marginalization, managed to “infiltrate the national airwaves and ethos during the 1980s and 1990s.”128 This musical genre, which combined Mediterranean and Arabic tunes, as well as western rock beats with Hebrew and Arabic street slang, was also referred to as Musikat ha-Tahanah ha-Merkazit (Central Bus Station Music). a) Climate In the following, the way the climate in the eastern Mediterranean affects the way of life shall be discussed. Fernand Braudel, drawing conclusions from his study of the Mediterranean region with little regard for national borders, believed that similar natural, ecological, and climatic conditions throughout the Mediterranean basin created a basic Mediterranean civilization. Turning to the specific aspect of climate, Braudel argues that the sea’s climate “regulates Mediterranean life into two phases, year in, year out, sending the Mediterranean people by turns to their summer then to their winter quarters.”129 In the spirit of Braudel, the interrelation between climate and civilization has been discussed in great detail by different disciplines: Whilst these climatic parameters are important, it is also vital to appreciate how they ‘produce’ Mediterranean landscapes and ways of life. The danger of physical determinism is present here, but few can ignore the throughout the Middle East, AN) -vendor/with peanuts the red-sugar syrup/a belt for 10 and a free cassette/grape juice and a newspaper while waiting/a movie house shows pornographic movies/and the hat of the Persian is full of embroidery.//I used to get off at the Tahanah ha-yeshana/it was for me a completely different country/a country with reality on hold/where rain falls and the sun is burning.//All of a sudden I belong to it/and sometimes I am someone else/in this crowded and hasty world/alleys full of cheap shoes/Falafel stand with all the extras/public toilets that stink from afar/cab drivers that never learned to shut up/a drunk and a blind look at the world/and a young Yeshiwa students earn a free mitzwah//on route into shiny Tel Aviv/I stop at a cracked reality/of Pita and Satar and a hard-boiled egg at the side/of dubious rabbis and dubious beggars/for 10 Shekel three cassettes/known songs from all over the world/and the black mud is all over the sidewalk/and the driver murmurs half a prayer. 128 Horowitz, “Musika Yam Tikhonit,” 6. 129 Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Vol. 1, 246.

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Drawing a clear distinction between their own writings and the Braudelian perception of unity in the Mediterranean, even challenging it, in The Corrupting Sea (2000) Horden and Purcell emphasize fragmentation and local irregularities of the Mediterranean space: “The nature of the diversity itself is diverse.”131 Geographers have also pointed out that the Mediterranean does not consist of one single climatic zone. Average rainfall, for example, differs considerably within the region, annual rainfall varying from the driest region in Europe, Almeria in Spain with just under 200 mm of annual rainfall, to just over 1200 mm along the Eastern Adriatic coast.132 These conditions contradict the impression of a climatic unity. Horden and Purcell describe the climate, which is known around the globe as ‘Mediterranean,’ as being distinguished by a remarkable “variability year by year and season by season.”133 However, in their recent reassessment of Mediterranean history, Horden and Purcell do not reject the Braudelian approach of unity as they develop their theory in depth, but suggest a differentiation of the perception of the Mediterranean, introducing the concept of interconnected ‘microregions,’ as discussed above. The warm Mediterranean climate is, on the one hand, described as a unifying and integrating element: it enhances outdoor activities, open air markets, the building of houses with integrated courtyards, outdoor squares as gathering places, and promenades along the seashore. On the other hand, the extremes of hot dry summers and warm wet winters was often experienced as a shock by new European immigrants and aggravated their initial feelings of strangeness upon arrival in their new homeland. Their whole way of life, including clothing, cooking, and food storage had to be adjusted to new parameters. The difficulties they encountered, coping without air conditioning or refrigerators, have been described in great depth in personal life stories, autobiographies, and advice publications (like those put out by WIZO, the Women’s International Zionist Organization) of the time. A cookbook from 1963, for example, contains not just a collection of recipes, but also functions as a guide130 Russel King, Lindsay Proudfoot, and Bernhard Smith ed., The Mediterranean: Environment and Society (London; New York; Sydney; Auckland: Arnold, 1997), 300. 131 Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 78. 132 See King, ed., The Mediterranean: Environment and Society, 31. 133 Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 78.

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book for the European immigrant, unfamiliar with the implications of the Mediterranean climate, the local ingredients, and cooking habits. Here we find suggestions like: “The body loses a lot of liquid because of the sweating, and in order to prevent harming dehydration, one has to drink more than in the European climate.”134 Climate and architecture, which is discussed in more depth in the following sub-heading, go hand in hand. Therefore some architectural aspects, which are closely linked to the climatic environment, will be examined: In order to adjust Tel Aviv’s rapid development to the specific climatic conditions, Sir Patrick Geddes, a Scottish urban planner, was commissioned in 1925 to design a new master plan for the city. Geddes’ plan, which was approved in 1926, called for the city to be a European Garden City. Although its implementation was never fully materialized, his plan remained influential in the citiy’s spatial development, and its influences are still visible today in the placement of greenery in front of and in between houses, as well as in the conception of public gardens. He vehemently criticized the adaptation of purely European architectural elements in Tel Aviv’s urban planning and called (in 1925) for a distinct adaptation to the local conditions of the country: Still, the architectural style of most buildings in Tel-Aviv is distinctly North European Character; whereas we are here in the Mediterranean, and in its warmest part, with highest and hottest sun. The large windows of Northern Europe are thus here excessive and involve a great deal of closing up with shutters, which practically reduce those facing the sun to ever smaller dimensions than are those of an Arab house! Without going so far as that, it is evident that common-sense adaptation of this bright light and hot climate requires reduction of sunward window-spaces accordingly. Again, all through the Orient, the flat roof offers what is by far ‘the best room in the house’ (. . .).135

Those Jewish architects who immigrated in the 1930s in the so called Fifth Aliya, among them graduates from distinguished institutions like the Bauhaus School of Art and Design in Weimar and the Technische Hochschule Berlin-Charlottenburg, radically changed the outward image of the city of Tel Aviv. The Tel Aviv variant of the International Style remained faithful

134 Liora Zuckermann, Ha-bishul ve-meshek ha-bait (Cookery and household) (Tel Aviv: Amichai, 1963), 15. 135 Patrick Geddes, quoted after the comprehensive study on Garden Cities by Ines Sonder, Gartenstädte für Erez Israel: Zionistische Stadtplanungsvisionen von Theodor Herzl bis Richard Kauffmann (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 2005), 172.

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to its European roots, and the innovations introduced by avant-garde architects such as Le Corbusier, Walter Gropius, Mies van der Rohe, and Erich Mendelsohn were only partly adapted to the local requirements in Palestine. Thus, city planners and architects tried to respond to the specificity of the local climate and relate to the local physical conditions, for example, balconies often replaced strips of windows or the size of windows was reduced. By the 1930s, urban planners and architects had begun to construct buildings on pilotis (pila, lat. for column), which became one of the characteristic features of Tel Aviv’s architecture. The first house so sonstructed, the Engel House on Rothschild Boulevard, was built in 1933 and contained features that met some of the requirements dictated by the local climate: the opening underneath the house was provided with plantings and thus created a shady and green space in an urban setting. This opening also allowed the sea breeze to enter the city and enhanced the ventilation of the inner courtyards of the buildings built on pilotis. This architectural feature of constructing houses on thin columns originated with the famous Villa Savoye, an early and classic exemplar of the International Style, constructed by Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret in Poissy (France) between 1929 and 1931. b) Architecture For Amos Oz, the city of Ashdod embodies an ideal place, a city on a human scale on the Mediterranean coast: down-to-earth, pleasant and unpretentious. Others see Haifa, a city in which citizens of three religions live peaceably side by side, as the ideal representation of a Mediterranean city. Here, we will look at Tel Aviv: as a real place as well as a symbol entwined in the Zionist narrative. The city is a significant factor in the analysis of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel, thus selected architectural sites in the ‘first Hebrew city’ will be examined in more depth. This city, which has often been labeled the ‘laboratory of independence,’ is for many reasons emblematic. In Tel Aviv, the Zionist project became manifest and the self-perception of an entire generation of ‘New Hebrews’ is mirrored in the city’s development. The present-day image of the city ‘that never sleeps’ or the ‘non stop city’, (a popular slogan of the City Hall Tel Aviv-Yafo, see fig. 19, page 290), becomes apparent when we look at another common saying that declares: ‘In Tel Aviv people live, in Jerusalem they pray, and in Haifa they work.’ To this day, Tel Aviv continues to serve as a center for Israel’s art scene, a place where trends are set, and Israeli culture and Israeliness are formed.

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Tel Aviv (. . .) is entirely ‘Israeli’ and is all ‘ours.’ In contemporary Israeli culture it symbolizes freedom from the struggle over the place, the escape from the non-Israeli in every Israeli, from Judaism on one side and the autochthony of the Arabs on the other. (. . .) Tel Aviv is making time for the affairs of the little place. (. . .) Tel Aviv is human daily life: making a living, culture, society, having a good time.136

A walk through the streets of Tel Aviv easily turns into a walk through the old homelands of its architects. There are European stylistic elements from Renaissance to Art Deco—imported symbols from the ‘old world,’ including red-tiled pointed roofs, balconies, and large windows that do little to obviate the most extreme effects of summer heat. The art historian Edina Meyer-Maril pointed out the eclectic character of the city and argued that the architectural face of Tel Aviv mirrors the diverse tastes of its inhabitants. One can argue that the citizens of the new Jewish Tel Aviv, apart from the flat roof, wanted to distinctively distance themselves in their architectural style from the local, Arab Turkish building traditions, like they were e.g. obligatory in the nearby city of Yafo, and wanted to keep up a European housing-form and -culture.137

However these ‘alien’ features exist side by side with ‘local’ romanticized oriental motifs on building façades, such as palm trees and camels, Moorish decorations, and stylistic elements like arches, domes, and columns. The newly immigrated architects regarded the local features they saw in Arab villages and houses as a preservation of biblical traditions and adapted them in response to their desire to create authentic and original designs. In this case too, the ideology of returning to the land of the forefathers, as well as to the ancient cultures of the Mediterranean, was the motor that powered these aesthetic expressions. The style of Boris Schatz, the founder of the Bezalel School in Jerusalem, was instrumental in establishing the design of ceramic street signs and tiles for some public building façades in Tel Aviv. The exterior ornamentation, showing agricultural scenes, as well as landscape and cityscapes,

136 Zali Gurevitz and Aran Gideon, “Al ha-makom: Antropologia Israelit (About place: Israeli anthropology),” Alpaim 4 (1991). Here quoted after Michael Feige, “The Names of the Place: New Historiography in Tamar Berger’s Dionysus at the Center,” Israel Studies Forum: An Interdisciplinary Journal 19, no. 2 (2004): 70. 137 Edina Meyer-Maril, “Die Stilistische Entwicklung der Tel Aviver Architektur von der Gründung der Stadt im Jahre 1909 bis 1933,” in Tel Aviv: Neues Bauen 1930–1939, ed. Winfried Nerdinger (Tübingen: Ernst Wasmuth Verlag, 1993), 27.

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reflects his commitment to the ‘local,’ as one can also see in the tiles designed for the house of the poet Chaim Nachman Bialik, discussed below. Schatz drew on ancient Mediterranean motifs, on biblical scenes, and Jewish ornamentation. By linking the Jewish entity in Erez Israel to biblical and ancient Mediterranean symbols, Schatz stressed the continuity of the Jewish presence in Erez Israel. Further, by using archaic images of physical labor, his school stressed the importance of national rebirth and resettlement in the ancient homeland. Contemporary critics often devalue this period of eclecticism, which was the dominant style (the so-called Erez Israeli Style was especially applied by Jews who came to the land before 1948) in Tel Aviv in the 1920s, considering it fake. Notwithstanding this reproof, the style shows that the architects at the time already felt the necessity of adapting their imported Western skills to the local surroundings, and were searching for an appropriate way to express it. However, the indulgence in oriental fantasies and the concomitant holding on to well-worn European practices, convey an idea of the difficult transition process that confronted the new inhabitants. By the end of the 1920s, the architectural trend to move away from eclectic localism to the clean lines of the International Style was accompanied by significant developments in the political arena, which enhanced the shift: the dream of integration and merging into the new environment was shattered, when in 1921 and 1929 violence between Jews and Arabs broke out. The rise to power of the Nazis in 1933 led to increased immigration from Germany and Austria to Erez Israel. The architects among those newcomers brought with them the architectural language influenced by the Western European avant-gardism and abstract functionalism of the Bauhaus School, which beginning in the 1930s came to dominate Tel Aviv’s architectural style. These architects changed the face of Tel Aviv, which at the time was in a phase of intense urban development, and turned it into a unique assembly of International Style architecture. The way the architecture of the International Style was adapted to local conditions, e.g., climate, is discussed above. The eclectic tendency in Tel Aviv’s urban architecture during the city’s formative years, and the historical legacies, which are visible in the mixture of different styles, is a strong evidence for its ‘Mediterranean characteristics,’ as Yaacov Shavit pointed out.138 But is Tel Aviv

138

Shavit, “Tel Aviv al ha-yam ha-Tikhon.”

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a Mediterranean, or even a Levantine city? Since it is located at the Mediterranean shore, Tel Aviv is exposed to Mediterranean temperatures that demand specific measures for dealing with the accompanying harsh climatic conditions, and require distinctive architectural structures that make it possible, for example, to comfortably use outdoor spaces for public activities. Yet, compared to other Mediterranean cities like Beirut, Alexandria, or Salonika, which until the middle of the twentieth century were associated with a certain ‘cosmopolitan character,’139 the Jewish city of Tel Aviv always lacked the typical multicultural milieu and diversity of these other Mediterranean cityscapes. In the early years of the city, most of the immigrants originated from Europe, and there was only a small non-European Jewish minority—and hardly any non-Jewish minorities.140 Even so, the ‘first Hebrew city’ witnessed an urbanization process that can be compared with those modern cities that develop specific ethnic or religiously separated neighborhoods. Within the cityscape, clear ethnic distinctions evolved, and among the citizens of the Yemenite, the German, or the Polish quarter in Tel Aviv, which were all Jewish, but brought with them different cultural backgrounds, competition and antagonism often arose. The Muslim culture was almost totally absent from the ‘first Hebrew city,’ except for some abandoned and neglected building sites such as the Hassan Beq mosque between Tel Aviv and Jaffa, which was the only reminder of the fact that the ‘White City’ with its Bauhaus treasures was not ‘born from the sea,’ but was instead a historical entity located in the Middle East.141 A closer look at some architectural examples that exemplify the struggle between occidental and oriental styles, demonstrates the constant confusion over belonging: the wish to preserve the cultural heritage of Western Europe is intertwined with the longing to merge into the region and to feel ‘at home’ in the old-new land. Barbara Mann, in her discussion of architecture in the early days of Tel Aviv, comments: “Urban

139 However, those ideal cosmopolitan cities like Alexandria, Tangier, and Smyrna no longer exist, as policies of nationalization forced different ethnic and religious groups to migrate. See Dieter Haller, “The Cosmopolitan Mediterranean: Myth and Reality,” Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 129, no. 1 (2004). 140 Shavit, “Tel Aviv al ha-yam ha-Tikhon,” 17. 141 In a controversial publication, the architect Sharon Rotbard argues that the ‘White City’ Tel Aviv is a myth invented by intellectuals and artists with the intention of making the city appear more European and to isolate it from its surroundings (Arab Jaffa) as a clean and even sterile place. See Sharon Rotbard, White City—Black City (Tel Aviv: Babel, 2005) [Heb.].

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planning and architectural style reflected the desire to build a city that was both European and the antithesis of Jewish life in the Diaspora, as well as somehow local.”142 As already discussed above, we find similar lines of tension in the fields of literature, visual arts, and music—the urge to express a new locality without being completely cut off from the cultural repertoire deeply rooted in the Western European tradition. Looking at the category of private ‘dream houses,’ we find architectural designs that blend oriental and occidental styles, Eastern European traditions, and oriental-style ornamentation. As a distinct example of this fusion, the house of Chaim Nachman Bialik, built by the Russianborn architect Joseph Minor in 1925, exhibits many Mediterranean and oriental influences. With its prominent Mashrabyeh,143 pergolas and columns, its arches and dome—the decorative elements in particular were taken from Arab ornamental traditions—this house can be seen as an artistic expression of Bialik’s poetic trail back to his Sephardic and Mediterranean roots. Following in the footsteps of his teacher Alexander Baerwald, who built the Technion in Haifa (Israel Institute of Technology) and was an advocate of the architectural style that came to be know as Erez Israel Style, Minor sought in his designs a synthesis between European and Arab style architecture. Baerwald belonged to the first generation of architects in Erez Israel that dealt with the specific local climatic, architectural, and technical conditions of the country. Several study trips took Baerwald to the region, and he began to develop his own architectural language, which he described (in 1916) as follows: “das Zusammenwirken morgenländischer Bauweise mit den Errungenschaften der deutschen Technik.”144 In his drafts for Bialik’s house, Baerwald’s student, Joseph Minor, also considered the climate: a flat roof created a place to sit outside on hot summer nights and narrow arched windows kept out the harsh sun. The interior design of the Bialik house, however, displayed a European ambience, with spacious reception hall, dining room, and an open fireplace.

142 Barbara Mann, “Tel Aviv’s Rothschild: When a Boulevard Becomes a Monument,” Jewish Social Studies 7, no. 2 (2001): 13. 143 Oriel window with latticework screen, used to cover the aperture before windowpanes were invented or commonly available. Traditionally the woman of the house sits behind the opaque walls of the Mashrabyeh, drinks (source of the Arabic name) and watches the street, while she is invisible from the outside. 144 Alexander Baerwald, quoted after Sonder, Gartenstädte für Erez Israel, 78. English translation: “the concurrence of oriental architectural traditions with the acquisitions of German technology.”

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In 1992, the Israeli architects Ada Karmi-Melamede and Ram Karmi constructed the Supreme Court building in Jerusalem, which references different historical layers and local architectural techniques from Erez Israel by using courtyards, arches, and water channels in the style of Roman, Hellenistic, and Crusades-era architecture, as well as reflecting biblical symbols. These allusions to the nation’s past aim to create a spatial continuity and strengthen a sense of place. The geographer Haim Yacobi critically argues that Jerusalem’s Supreme Court building reflects “the hegemonic interpretations of Israeli social and cultural reality. This interpretation is characterised by using selective historical and biblical references, in order to create through architecture an ‘iconographic bridge’ into an imagined collective past.”145 Indeed, the creation of a sense of place is a prominent feature in other architecutral designs by Karmi, who also built the residential Rosemary Court in Herzlyia, a housing complex that draws on building traditions of the Mediterranean: closed off to the outside, but on the inside marked by an interlacing system of apartments, some of them with access to a personal roof garden, all of them facing a courtyard with greenery and a swimming pool that creates a pleasant microclimate. According to Karmi, this division between public and private space provides the inhabitants with a place for social gathering and personal recreation, as well as a sense of community and security, since the apartment complex is only accessible to the residents. In the style of traditional houses, where extended families of many generations live together, the Rosemary Court is, as Karmi argues, an adaptation of an ancient concept to modern times and an example of Mediterranean architecture in Israel. Karmi describes his planning process as sculpturing the air: Mediterranean architecture in his eyes means opening up and including the sky’s blue, in order to be closer to the elements. Another distinct example of what has often been labeled ‘Mediterranean architecture’ takes us to the private home of Shimon Shamir, historian and former Israeli ambassador to Egypt and Jordan. Upon his return from his posts abroad, Shamir built himself a private dream house in Herzlyia Pituach. Observing in contemporary Israel the

145 Haim Yacobi, “Form Follows Metaphors: A Critical Discourse Analysis of the Construction of the Israeli Supreme Court Building in Jerusalem,” The Journal of Architecture 9, no. 2 (2004).

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increased awareness of the local cultural traditions that originated in the region, Shamir remarks: We are no longer living in a bubble. We will not be able to preserve indefinitely the cultural isolation that was forced on us during the period of the wars. We are starting to rub up against our surroundings. It started with music and food, and now it’s the turn of architecture.146

Shamir’s vision is a Middle East that emerges as a peaceful, multinational and multicultural region, where people respect each other’s separate identities, yet cherish their common heritage. This house is, as he argues, a visual representation of his ideology of normalization and reconciliation with his Arab neighbors, since it quotes formal architectural elements of Arab origin. Inspired by the Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy, the design evokes motifs from a traditional Cairo home and fuses modernity with Eastern local architecture. A clear example of this fusion is the prominent Mashrabye on the façade, built out of dark wood in combination with glass. As a result of this mix of materials the transparent Mashrabye loses its traditional cultural function (which is to protect the woman of the house from outside viewers, while at the same time allowing her to observe the outside through the latticed shield), and turns into a purely decorative element. In the privately produced booklet (Ha-bait be-rehov Galei Tkhelet 6—The house in the street ‘Azur Waves 6’), Shamir explained his motivations for building a house that draws on local traditions and building techniques, but is adapted to modern needs. The publication also includes a glossary as well as information about the original idea and the implementation of the project. Shamir’s critics often argue that the design of the house is nothing more than a reproduction of what Edward Said called ‘Orientalism’: a fashionable and luxurious villa, drawing on romanticized oriental features in a colonialist manner. Shamir’s booklet refers directly to these accusations and asks rhetorically: “Will the house in Herzlyia also be exposed to this criticism of Orientalism?” In his answer Shamir states that the house “tries to bridge between the oriental and the modern without using an orientalistic mediator,” the more so as it strongly rejects a “fashionable and superficial Mediterranean style.” He explains that the purpose of choosing this specific design stems from the respect he holds for the rich culture of the adjacent Arab

146

Esther Zandberg, “It’s not a House, It’s Ideology,” Haaretz, July 16, 1999.

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states. Shamir argues further that this understanding of culture and design—if it was broadly distributed in the public—could even function as a cultural bridge between neighbors. Among the authentical architectural traditions for the region the architectural tradition of Islamic Cairo was chosen as a model of inspiration for the design of the house (. . .). The house does not adopt at all this Mediterranean style that here and there became fashionable in Israel, and which is a shallow collection out of a wide geographical and multicultural region.

In fact, Shamir rather asks, ‘What can we learn from the Orient?’ as opposed to repeating the old stereotypes of the murderous and the uncultured Arab. He believes that paying tribute to achievements originating in the Arab world and returning to a deep appreciation of the Eastern roots, instead of downgrading oriental traditions by forcing them into the margins of folklore and vernacularism, will strengthen the regional identity. However, living in a Mediterranean dream house in Herzlyia versus in a typical dilapidated Tel Aviv apartment, with the notorious plastic shutters in front of the windows that Shamir despises, is not only a question of style and level of cultivation, but also a question of one’s economic situation. Right now, this highly ideologized ‘dream house’ of the Shamir family, sited in the upscale neighborhood of Herzlyia Pituach, appears as an alien element in surroundings that architecturally have not yet reached the Mediterranean and where redtiled pointed roofs are still in evidence, a symbolic leftover from the old world, originally designed to allow snow to slide down easily. A small excursus concerning the presence of this architectural feature: red-tiled pointed roofs are frequently referred to and represent the essence of a European-style house. This architectural element even appears in drawings by children who were born in Israel—often with a smoking chimney, which is obviously not typical of Israeli houses. A look into the remarkable collection of children’s books by renowned Israeli graphic designer David Tartakover demonstrates how the images of traditional European architecture, in this case the red-tiled roof, and landscape continue to influence Israel-born generations.147 In this 147 David Tartakover’s rich collection, for example, contains books by the illustrator Fritz (who called himself Peretz) Ruschkewitz, who was born in Germany in 1896 and immigrated to Erez Israel in 1933. Ruschkewitz’ book, Tiul ba-Aretz ( Journey through the country, 1942), depicts an idealized vision of the German immigrants of the Fifth Aliya rather than portraying the reality they faced in Israel: He pictures Gad and Ruth, a girl

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context it is also interesting to mention that to this day Israeli architecture uses red-tiled pointed roofs, which is especially prominent in Jewish settlements in the West Bank and Gaza. Among the flat-roofs of the Arab villages, the European-style houses in the settlements are a strong political statement. This phenomenon also demonstrates that architecture in Israel was and continues to be used as an ideological tool, as renewal, settlement, and the creation of a new Jewish entity were the declared central goals of the Zionist movement. The architect Sharon Rotbard pointed out that: “In Israel, architecture, just like war, is a continuation of politics by other means.”148 The relationship between the city of Tel Aviv and the Mediterranean has been the subject of controversial discussions, and architects, urban planners, historians, and journalists have taken an active part in it. The title of the Israeli pavilion at the 2004 Architecture Biennale in Venice was Back to the Sea, and dealt with the relationship between the city and the sea, featuring exhibitions on urban planning, architectural models, and fantasies concerning the ideal shape of the city. The ambiguous title Back to the Sea picks up the question of whether Tel Aviv was actually built with its back to the sea, as some critics of urban development maintain. However, a different interpretation of the title suggests a turn toward the sea, even a return to the sea, and implies that the perspective is a familiar one, known from former times, and indeed is a nostalgic approach to the Mediterranean. The exhibition and the accompanying catalogue pick up the two contrasting perspectives inherent in the title Back to the Sea, which form the core of the present discussion on Tel Aviv’s locality.

and a boy traveling though the country in an open sports car. In the colorful illustrations, Israel appears to be similar to Switzerland: cows, red-tiled roofs, and mountain scenery. The ‘first Hebrew city,’ Tel Aviv, is presented as if it were a suburb of Berlin, rather than a humid and crowded Mediterranean city: we see broad-leafed trees, tidy streets populated by blonde and suit-wearing people, Bauhaus-style houses in a dazzling whiteness, and police officers in neat uniforms directing a marginal amount of traffic. Ruschkewitz’s desire is apparent: to design an orderly and clean European-style city, which comes closer to the dream of the Yekkes than to realities in Erez Israel. I am grateful to David Tartakover, who generously granted me access to his impressive graphic collections. See David Tartakover, “Gutman und Ruschkewitz: Zwei Ansichten vom Land Israel,” in LeVitte Harten, ed., Die Neuen Hebräer. 148 The multidisciplinary exhibition ‘Territories’ (2003), in the Berlin-based KW (Institute for Contemporary Art), dealt with the power of architecture and examined space, politics and power as an area of conflict. For examples and images see the comprehensive exhibition catalogue: Klaus Biesenbach et al., ed., Territories: Islands, Camps and Other States of Utopia, Exhibition Catalogue (Berlin: Walter König, 2003), 159.

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Within this discussion there is a lot of criticism of the way in which Israeli architecture deals with the coastal line, as the statement of journalist Tami Silberg illustrates: If people want to live a Mediterranean life, with the connection to the outside, with an open window and a breeze that blows the curtains, we should not create here a microclimate as in Seattle. (. . .) The coastal towns of Israel should not turn their backs to the sea. Tel Aviv is 100% a Mediterranean city, but it committed a sin and continues to sin with regard to her Yam Tikhoniut in building high rises that block the sea.149

Indeed, Israel’s present day architecture—particularly prominent on the seafront around the Opera Tower in Tel Aviv—reminds us of the pastel-colored homogenization of Southern Californian architecture. These new buildings, incorporating shopping malls with integrated movie houses and playgrounds, are unfriendly, even somewhat alien, built with their backs to the sea, paying tribute to consumerism and the American zeitgeist. These postmodern structures, fully air-conditioned and with artificial lighting, are isolated from the local context and cut off from the Israeli locus. Architect David Kroyanker stresses the element of transition in Israeli architecture: (. . .) Israeli architecture has undergone changes and developments, and is in large part an architecture of transitions. From an architecture of impoverished slums and cheap housing projects, to one of prosperity in the suburban neighborhoods and prestigious high-rise condominiums; from standardization and conformity, to uniqueness and originality; from a conservative, restrained and humble approach to a style that often borders on vanity, vulgarism, and alienation.150

Nevertheless, despite the glaring American influences in Israel and all over the world, an awareness of conservation and restoration has been on the rise in Israel. For example, civic action groups prevented the leveling of historic living quarters in Jerusalem. Academic efforts, like a 1994 conference in Tel Aviv on the Bauhaus period, brought public attention to the aesthetic achievements behind the Bauhaus-style buildings of the 1930s. As a result of these activities, UNESCO declared the ‘White

149 Tami Silberg, “Iswu kshatot, lekhu al trisim (Leave the arches and go for shutters),” Ma’ariv, Pessah Supplement 1996. 150 David Kroyanker, “Fifty Years of Israeli Architecture as Reflected in Jerusalem’s Buildings,” Architecture of Israel: Architecture and Interior Design Quarterly (Spring 1998). See also http://www.israel-mfa.gov.il/mfa/go.asp?MFAH02dq0 (accessed November 22, 2007).

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City’ Tel Aviv, with the largest group of Bauhaus and International Style buildings in the world, a World Heritage Site in 2003, which resulted in a rediscovery and reevaluation of those buildings by researchers and local population. The general attitude held concerning this precious legacy reveals an interesting contrariness: for decades, the Bauhaus buildings with their European origin were perceived as a ‘foreign body,’ since they imported Western building traditions to the Middle East and mostly neglected Arab and Turkish building tradition. Over the last decades, the Bauhaus buildings in Tel Aviv have been neglected and have slowly deteriorated. In the meantime those buildings, once considered alien, have been declared ‘heritage’ and of ‘outstanding universal value,’ and thereby becoming retroactively ‘local.’ UNESCO explains that the ‘White City of Tel Aviv’ is a synthesis of the trends of the Modern Movement in architecture and town planning in the early part of the twentieth century. “Such influences were adapted to the cultural and climatic conditions of the place, as well as being integrated with local traditions.”151 This explanation for UNESCO’s choice shows that with time the status and significance of a specific site changes with the frame of reference and can be filled with new meaning. The examples discussed above lead us to the question, “Is there is such a thing as a specific ‘Mediterranean architecture’ that includes local traditions as well as historical elements, and that exists beyond the mere reproduction of such aesthetic clichés as the dome and the arch?” As in the fields of music and the arts, an attempt is made to adjust to local situations and to relate to the historical surroundings, as well as adapt to modern needs (as the example of the Shimon Shamir house illustrated). Rather than judging whether or not this attempt succeeded, the increased reference to this complex question that has been prominent in Israel’s public discourse in the last decade shall be pointed out here. The aspiration to merge is often connected with the idea of reconciliation and the desire to settle the Israeli-Arab conflict, as Shimon Shamir’s statements illustrate. It is a fact, that in present Israel we can find many artistic expressions tuned toward a new locality, whether it is called Mediterranean, Arab, oriental, or Levantine. Questions of how to blend in without neglecting roots that originate from a Western cultural context are being controversially discussed.

151 “White City of Tel-Aviv: The Modern Movement,” UNESCO.org, http://whc .unesco.org/pg.cfm?cid=31&id_site=1096 (acessed November 22, 2007).

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Journalist Tami Silberg sees a great relevance for the development of ‘Mediterranean architecture’ that goes beyond the reproduction of stylistic stereotypes: Inviting the outside within, as a main component of the Mediterranean architecture, can become a central question of the broad public, when it comes to planning a house, a neighborhood or a city. If we speak about a place that is disconnected from the outside it suits those who would like to live in Manhattan, but by chance they live here. But those who find it important to life in the Mediterranean basin will look for a place that not only will quote the Mediterranean image (like Pagoda, Arches, Domes) but will also give them a real positive solution and will allow them the desired quality of living.152

After briefly taking this walk through architectural representations in Tel Aviv through the decades, we are left with an uncertainty concerning the question: is Tel Aviv a Mediterranean city? Tel Aviv is located at the Mediterranean shore, which has essential implications for the nature of a city, for example, a distinctive outdoor life, yet it was not founded as a coastal city and reached the shoreline only gradually. The city’s beaches play an especially important role in the manifestation of Tel Aviv’s image as a secular place for leisure time activities. Tel Aviv arrived at the shores long ago, yet the scope of the city’s inner link to the sea is still subject to heated debates among architects, urban planners, historians, and journalists. The rediscovery of the sea is still taking place, as the extension of the promenade from north Tel Aviv to Herzlyia, or the massive gentrification processes at the formerly dilapidated harbor grounds in North Tel Aviv, demonstrate. The examples discussed above tell us about the relationship between Tel Aviv and the sea and illustrate a certain ambiguity: On the one hand, the urge to blend into new surroundings generated different agendas and master plans over the decades. On the other hand, the discussion about the ways in which the city neglected the sea (by, for example, using it as a sewage outlet) and the question of whether it was indeed built ‘with the back to the sea’ is still the subject of widespread dispute. The city was a focal point of the Zionist project, which became reality bit by bit. Tel Aviv is still adapting to those ever-changing realities.

152

Silberg, “Iswu kshatot, lekhu al trisim.”

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c) Cuisine Food is more than nutrition: it is a source of pleasure, object of longing, symbol of power, and it reflects shortages as well as cultural and social habits and interpersonal relations. In the literature discussing Jewish food, generally two styles of cooking are being differentiated: the Ashkenazi and the Sephardic kitchen. The so-called Ashkenazi and Sephardic styles, both incorporating many diverse cooking traditions, are closely tied to the available local ingredients, climate, and soil in the specific region of origin. In a cookbook we read: The Ashkenazi world is a cold world. It is a world of chicken fat, onion and garlic, cabbage, carrots and potatoes, freshwater fish, especially carp, and salt herring. The Sepharadi world is a warm one of peppers and eggplant, zucchini and tomatoes, rice and cracked wheat, saltwater fish and olive oil.153

Despite the shortcomings of these simplistic terms, discussed elsewhere in this analysis, they are used in most of the traditional cooking literature to describe certain styles. Yet, more recent publications refrain from this dichotomic categorization and arrange the foods according to different categories (e.g., salads, main course, dessert). The brochure The Diverse Israeli Table printed in 2000 by the Israel Information Center of the Foreign Ministry and written by one of Israel’s leading culinary critics, Daniel Rogov, divides the different dishes regionally (Middle East, Maghreb, Mediterranean, and Eastern Europe) and even incorporates traditional Jewish, Christian, and Moslem holiday fare. Nevertheless, the more general distinctions made between so-called Ashkenazi and Sephardic styles applies to the Israeli case of homemade food, with the only significant difference being that the cooking conditions in Israel differ from those of the (European) Diaspora. As a result, cooking habits in Israel were to a certain extent adapted to the local circumstances, although even today, different immigrant groups preserve the specifics of the kitchens in their countries of origin. Generally speaking, the Israeli kitchen is eclectic and has been influenced by a great variety of Jewish Diaspora cooking. Dishes were transferred and transformed from generation to generation, were treasured and subjected to alterations according to lifestyles and ethnic backgrounds, as well as the availability or unavailability of certain

153

Claudia Roden, The Book of Jewish Food (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996), 16.

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products. Changes in culinary practices also occurred in response to changes in economic and political situations and cultural contexts. Fernand Braudel termed this phenomenon How cultural exports traveled, and described how cultural possessions, the everyday as well as the unexpected, follow men around the world and are carried or “ferried from place to place, left behind or taken up again.”154 This also applies to the subject under observation here: behind every recipe a specific story, ancestral memory, local tradition, and identity can be found. Israeli cookbooks published during the years of the founding of the state contain narratives of the transitions, acclimatizations, and adjustments of new immigrants from European countries. It is valuable to look at a few examples of popular cookbooks of the time, thereby focusing on the representation of ‘the East’ within them. In the canonical cookbook of the day, published by WIZO in 1956, we find among a long list of traditionally European-style foods the subchapter ‘Eastern-oriental food’ (Ma’achalim Mizrahim), including recipes for Hummus, Tahina, Falafel, Kubbeh, and—surprisingly enough—Pizza. This shows how Mizrahi food was simply added to the dominant Ashkenazi kitchen as an enriching element, yet at the same time was set apart under a separate heading, which emphasizes cultural boundaries and differences. It is interesting to note that the traditional Ashkenazi foods like gefilte fish, cholent, and knaidel are generally considered ‘Jewish,’ whereas the diverse and sensuous cooking traditions of Mizrahim are considered ‘ethnic.’ This pattern of labeling and thereby marginalizing the Mizrahi traditions is also apparent in other arenas in which the differentiation between the two ethnic groups is made (e.g., as discussed in the ‘Literature’ section in this chapter, above). Additionally cookbooks often served as culinary advisors and discussed how cookery and climate are interrelated: “Using hot spices in our climate is recommended, in opposite to the European climate, spices like salt, pepper and others accelerate the blood circulation and ease the feeling of tiredness caused by the heat.”155 Apart from the two main styles in homemade food to be found in Israeli households, as discussed above, the aspect of eating out is interesting for this research context. The recent influences of globalization 154

760.

Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Vol. 2,

155 WIZO is an acronym for Women’s International Zionist Organization: Kakh nevashel (Thus shall we cook), ed. Wizo (Tel Aviv: Ner, 1956).

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have been felt in the food industry as well as in dining habits, and one can find a lot of imitation of the culinary capitals of the world in Israeli restaurants. The result, which has to be seen within the context of global trends of culinary diversification, is a cross-over or fusion cuisine, which combines various world trends with local traditions. Especially during the 1990s, Israel witnessed a strong haute cuisine-wave; it became more and more fashionable to go out for a gourmet dinner among a sophisticated and wealthy clientele. In upscale restaurants it is almost impossible to eat ‘local,’ or to order your meal in Hebrew: even though there is Hebrew vocabulary for specific dishes, menus are written using international names, mainly derived from foreign languages, yet using Hebrew letters (e.g., spaghetti, steak, sandwich, sushi, gefilte fish). More recently, however, basic and local foods, mostly originating from traditional Mizrahi cooking, once perceived as primitive and low-class, i.e., food for poor people, has become increasingly popular. Fast and cheap food, like Falafel or Hummus, has lost its image as solely an inexpensive food of the poor. In addition to the traditional Hummus stands, Hummus is also being marketed in a new environment of chic, trendy, and styled Hummus-Bars, and Falafel can be enjoyed in upscale restaurants in all sorts of new flavor variations. The revaluation of the authentic and traditional kitchen cannot only be explained by a growing local awareness and an Israeli trend of rediscovering roots, but also has to be evaluated within the context of a global trend of culinary diversification, which can be experienced as much in the streets of Berlin as in New York. Daniel Rogov describes this ‘boutiquisation’ of vernacular food like Falafel as follows: (. . .) we Israelis even saw the introduction of gourmet felafel—felafel seasoned with a wide variety of herbs and spices, and even chickpea mixtures that contain chicken and beef. In recent days while strolling the streets of Tel Aviv I have even dined on felafel with Cajun sauce.156

Newspaper columns, as well as television cooking shows focusing on different ethnic groups and emphasizing their rich cultural heritages, have recently become popular sites. The broadcast of In the kitchen with Margol (Ba-Mitbah im-Margol) on the TV channel Brisa, with the Mizrahi singer Margalith Za’anani, was a prominent example of this trend. In the image shown here we see Margol, together with a traditional 156 Daniel Rogov, “Felafel: Street Food Par-Excellence,” http://www.stratsplace .com/rogov/israel/felafel.html (accessed November 22, 2007).

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Mizrahi woman, in a private kitchen preparing food (see fig. 20, page 291). This format not only focused on the food itself, but illuminated the biographical stories behind the recipes, as well as the everyday settings in which the food was prepared, including shopping for different ingredients at the local shouk. The emergence of these shows and their popularity supports the point that ethnic food has undergone an image make over. Israeli restaurants offering foods inspired by local ingredients, and cooking traditions from the region are now confronted with the challenge of how to name the type of cuisine they are offering. In order to avoid charged labels like Arab or oriental, the adjective Mediterranean is often invoked, which indicates the emphasis on local-Mediterranean and Middle-Eastern cuisine. Here again, a feature also apparent in other segments of Israeli life, the global meets the local and a new form of hybridization and mutual influencing has become increasingly characteristic of the Israeli kitchen. At the same time, ‘Jewish food’ is undergoing a kind of revival as well, which can be explained by, among other things, the general rise in a spirit of nostalgia and sentimentality. Although the reputation of local cooking ingredients has grown, and different styles and traditions have fertilized each other, the specific traditions still occupy their own unique positions within the rich culinary landscape of Israel. Thus, Israel is far from developing a unified culinary style. The sociologist Uri Ram clearly links the comeback of ethnic foods like Falafel to a general trend of growing globalization within Israeli society. According to Ram, globalization does not necessarily result in a growing universal cultural uniformity, but leaves room for particularism and cultural diversity. He argues that global commercial and technological flows don’t necessarily lead to the disappearance of local habits and customs, and in fact could actually preserve or revive them. He applies this theory to the eating habits in Israel and discusses the example of McDonald’s restaurants and the Falafel: “(. . .) in the late 1990s, McDonald’s presence, or rather the general McDonaldization of Israeli food habits, led to the falafel’s renaissance, rather than to its demise.”157 Further, Uri Ram describes the recent establishment of standardized Falafel restaurant chains in Israel and abroad, and argues that even though McDonald’s (the global) does not eliminate Falafel

157 Uri Ram, “Glocommodification: How the Global consumes the Local; McDonald’s in Israel,” Current Sociology 52, no. 1 (2004): 13.

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(the local), it “rather restructures or appropriates it.”158 His theory suggests the existence of a counter-movement to continuous globalization, which resists the growing cultural uniformity by strengthening local particularities and indigenous habits. Moreover, Ram argues that this process implies an opportunity to change the original character of the local product. Looking at the Mediterranean region and, in the spirit of Braudel, setting contested national borders aside for a moment, the position of two widespread foods in the region shall be discussed here: the olive, as a typical fruit of the region,159 and Falafel, as a typical regional dish160 whose exact origin is subject to fierce debates. These two resonant symbols are significant food products within Israeli culture, and the discussion around them is politically charged. Both foods are considered local and represent a culinary ‘union’ among the countries in the Eastern Mediterranean, despite the diversity of cooking traditions in the region. Falafel, which probably originated in Egypt, just as much as Tahina, Hummus, and Tabuleh, can be found in private kitchens and restaurants from Beirut to Metulla as well as in Damascus and Alexandria. Despite its cross-border popularity and its validity to different people in the region, the debate over the legitimate proprietor of Falafel is highly ideologized, and reflects the broad conflict that touches on questions of territory and identity. On the one hand, Falafel is served at Israeli foreign ministry receptions. It has become a symbol of Israeli national cuisine and is labeled ‘Israel’s national snack,’ as announced on popular postcards sold at kiosks all over Israel (see fig. 21, page 292). Falafel appeals to many different segments of the Israeli population, and since it is kosher, it is also quite popular with Orthodox Jews. On

158 Uri Ram points out that the ultimate symbiosis between the global and the local was achieved in the country where Falafel originated: McDonald’s in Egypt offers ‘McFalafel.’ Ram refers to an article (Walla News, January 22, 2002) with the title ‘McDonalds: The Mediterranean Version: McFalafel’). Ibid., 15, 28. 159 The olive tree is among the oldest known cultivated trees, coming to the Mediterranean about 6,000 years ago. The exact origin of the tree is disputed, as some scholars argue that the olive originated in Asia Minor and spread from Iran and Syria to the rest of the Mediterranean region. Others argue that the olive tree is indigenous to Greece. 160 The fried dish Falafel can be traced back to Egypt, where it is made out of fava beans. The variant, which was common in Palestine and is used in Israel today is made from dried chickpeas, which are soaked in water, ground, mixed with spices, shaped into small balls, and deep-fried. These Falafel balls are usually served in a pita bread with salad and tahini (sesame) sauce.

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the other hand, critical Arab voices claim exclusive rights to the food, and talk about the illegitimate appropriation and even expropriation of a traditionally Arab food. In addition, this case illustrates how food can also be regarded as a national home, as a symbol of continuity and resistance. Political scientist Ahmad Sa’di points out that the adaptation of Arab food for the sake of the creation of a native Israeli culture is just another entry in a long list of discrediting and humiliating of the Palestinian culture: Palestinians, particularly those of the inside, have also witnessed the appropriation of their culture. Since 1948, and especially since the mid1970s, there has been an attempt to establish a native Israeli culture that is neither European nor Oriental, i.e., an authentic non-exilic culture. This project has progressed through the expropriation of many aspects of Palestinian culture. Traditional Middle-Eastern foods such as hummus, falafel, taboulleh, koubbeh, etc., have been co-opted from Palestinian cuisine and are often presented as typically Israeli. Local herbs that Palestinians use for cooking and healing, like Za’tar, have also become part of an Israeli “nativist” approach. (. . .) Palestinian culture has thus become a pool from which Israelis pick and choose in order to build an “authentic” Israeli culture.161

The fascination with the local and primordial way of life of the Arabs, which often resulted in adaptation of their customs and clothes, as well as their food, felt by the early Jewish settlers cannot be underestimated. Itamar Even-Zohar describes the construction of a new role model for the Jewish immigrant in those years and discusses the role specific foods, loaded with symbolism, played in the formation of a ‘native Hebrew culture,’ as well as how food can even be the bearer of political messages: Green olives, olive oil and white cheese, Bedouin welcoming ceremonies, and kaffiyehs all acquired a clear semiotic status. The by now classical literary description of the Hebrew worker sitting on a wooden box, eating Arabic bread dipped in olive oil, expresses at once three new phenomena: (a) he is a worker; (b) he is a “true son of the land”; (c) he is not eating in a “Jewish” way (he is not sitting at a table and has obviously not fulfilled the religious commandment to wash his hands).162

H. Ahmad Sa’di, “Catastrophe, Memory and Identity: Al-Nakbah as a Component of Palestinian Identity,” Israel Studies 7, no. 2 (2002): 185. 162 Itamar Even-Zohar, “The Emergence of a Native Hebrew Culture in Palestine, 1882–1948,” Poetics Today 11, no. 1 (1990): 179. 161

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In addition to the longing to disconnect from Diasporic experiences, Jewish immigrants from Europe soon discovered that the food they had brought with them from their country of origin was inappropriate for the new surroundings, and in a process of conscious or unconscious localization adapted their way of life to the new local circumstances. The fascination the Haluzim163 had with the native Arab population in Palestine led to the adaptation of certain lifestyles and cooking habits, always linked to the Haluzim’s wish to become part of the region’s culture. Within this context, Yael Raviv analyses the specific case of the Falafel and describes its instrumentalization and iconization in Israel’s nation-building process. As she shows, the Falafel went through a complicated reinterpretation process and over the years became an emblem of Israeli identification: “Since its origins are Arabic and the entire Jewish population in Israel adopted it, it is not directly associated with any one community in the Diaspora, as such it is the perfect symbol for a proud, ethnically mixed, new Jewish nation.”164 Those critics who denounce the ‘Israelization’ of ‘oriental foods’ overlook the fact that approximately half of the Israeli population stems from immigrants who came from North Africa and the Arab states of the Middle East, meaning that to a large extent, even their countries of origin shared cultures, languages, and ways of life. Despite Falafel not being a specifically Jewish dish, it was certainly eaten by Jews in Arab countries like Syria and Egypt, being a regional and not a national food. Surprisingly, the American food critic and cookbook author Joan Nathan does not address the politically charged inclusion of Falafel in her book on The Foods of Israel Today, when she goes into the history of the dish. She merely states that Falafel and Hummus are certainly not solely Israeli foods, but were indeed adapted to the Israeli cuisine from local Arab foods.165 Yet, elsewhere she argues that “Falafel is a biblical food,” thereby clearly linking it to Jewish traditions and indirectly claiming ancient Jewish Falafel rights. “The ingredients are as old as you’re going to get. These are the foods of the land, and the land goes back to the Bible. There have been Jews and Arabs in

163 Haluz, Haluzim (Heb. Pioneer): The idea behind the Haluz-movement was the revival and renewal of the Jew through manual work and a strong physical bond with the soil. The Haluz represents a counter image to all anti-Semite Jewish clichés. 164 Yael Raviv, “Falafel: Friend or Foe?,” Gastronomica 3, no. 3 (2003): 23. 165 Joan Nathan, The Foods of Israel Today (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2001), 8, 70–71.

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the Middle East forever, and the idea that Jews stole it doesn’t hold any water.”166 This discussion clearly indicates the political connotation this question carries in Israel, where the charged political atmosphere is even reflected in the seemingly apolitical arena of food. Indicative for the Mediterranean environment, and not limited to the Levant, the olive is a key element of the Mediterranean landscape. The typically Mediterranean summer drought is essential for the development of the fruit, and the trees’ roots grow deep in the ground in order to find moisture during the hot seasons. The trees endure for centuries and therefore became a symbol of cultural stability. Olive trees are used throughout the Mediterranean region, and with their fruits provide the base for Mediterranean cooking, thereby linking culture and environment. An Arab saying claims that: ‘the Mediterranean reaches as far as the olive grows.’167 The olive tree is an essential component of life in the Mediterranean region, as well as a source of economic power. No other plant, besides the grapevine, is as characteristic of the Mediterranean as the olive tree, which is inseparably linked with the region’s mythology and symbolism, as well as the ways in which it is perceived from the outside. It symbolizes peace and durability, wisdom and freedom, and on its own, the evergreen olive branch became a symbol for peace. It is not only known as a source of highly nutritious food, but also for its therapeutic and ritual uses (e.g., the ritual anointing of kings in ancient times). In addition, olive oil, besides having a protective quality, is a luxury product and regarded as empowering. The uprooting of old olive trees, which often have been growing on the land for hundreds of years, became a strong symbolic weapon in the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian struggle; therefore, the olive tree is also a constant reminder of the unresolved Israeli-Palestinian conflict.168 Stepping into the Israeli kitchen, the olive has always been around, but was for many years underappreciated, especially by traditional

166 Jodi Kantor, “A History of the Mideast in the Humble Chickpea,” e-CookBooks—The Food and Cooking Network, http://www.e-cookbooks.net/articles/chickpea .htm (accessed November 22, 2007). 167 See Matvejevic, Der Mediterran, 17. 168 There is a highly ideological debate in Israel concerning the subject of who works in the olive groves and produces ‘Israeli’ olive oil. In addition, the question is also raised about whether olive oil produced by Palestinians and sold in Israel by peace activists in times of border closures might be purposely poisoned, surfaces time and again. For a general introduction into the cultural history of the olive, see Mort Rosenblum, Olives: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit (New York: North Point Press, 1996).

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Ashkenazi-style cooks. The exceptional revival of olive oil in the last years can be explained by a worldwide ‘Tuscany-trend,’ which also reached Israel. Through the Italian ‘backdoor,’ the local ingredient (re)-entered Israeli kitchens and thus became a highly appreciated product. Risking a generalization: in checking out the shelves of Israeli supermarkets and perusing restaurant menus, an exceptional renaissance of everything Mediterranean in the culinary context is striking, and one can easily reach the conclusion that Israel eats Mediterranean. The site of the old harbor in North Tel Aviv in the last years became a hotspot for trendy seaside restaurants with outdoor seating, grilled seafood and fish, as well as a view of the sea. Many of these eateries somehow manage to integrate the adjective ‘Mediterranean’ into their menus or their name in order to evoke specific associations (see figs. 22 and 23, pages 293–294). As in other fields discussed elsewhere in this study (popular music, art, etc.), in the area of the culinary efforts have been made to define a specific national kitchen, one that is indigenously Israeli. The cuisine emerging in Israel today, strongly influenced by native ingredients, is hybrid and eclectic by nature, embracing the different ethnic elements of Jewish cooking traditions. One of Israel’s leading chefs and cookbook author Israel Aharoni denies the existence of a uniquely Israeli kitchen. He argues that a specific national kitchen evolves naturally, and is the result of culture, history, and the geographical situation of a specific country. Israel has existed for only a little more than half a century, and, according to Aharoni, has not had the chance to develop a local culinary tradition, as have France and Italy. The attempt to construct an Israeli kitchen, he insists, is doomed to fail. In one of his cookbooks he indulges in a play of thoughts, and tries to imagine what a specifically Israeli cuisine might have looked liked if the Jews had never left Biblical Palestine and a local kitchen had developed of its own accord. “Yam Tikhoniut is the key word here” he states, and emphasizes the geographical situation, but also the mentality, temperament, and character of the people. By “taking something of everything from the Mediterranean countries and mixing it,” he designs a representative ‘Mediterranean menu,’ consisting of local ingredients, including goat cheese, olives, eggplant, fish, tomatoes, zucchini, lamb, figs, and sabras.169 The artificiality of such a well-meant fabrication becomes obvious if we look at the ‘local’ ingredients, which are supposed to ground this special 169

Israel Aharoni, Aruhot aruhot (Meals designed) (Tel Aviv: Modan, 1991), 24ff.

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Israeli-Mediterranean menu in the region. Fernand Braudel has already pointed out that some of the ‘classical’ fruits, which are today strongly associated with the Mediterranean, were actually imported: the orange and lemon trees from the Far East, the cactus from America, tomatoes from South America, as well as the fig tree and potatoes.170 Finally, one might ask the question: Is the dominance of classical oriental dishes and the increasing use of what have come to be perceived as indigenous ingredients in Israel proof of the nation’s obvious regional affiliation? As the example of the olive oil trend discussed above shows, much of the current reorientation in Israeli cuisine has to be seen in the context of a worldwide phenomenon. It is evident that the mere use of olives does not make something or someone Mediterranean or even embedded in the region. A restaurant critic in 1989 stated that the use of certain products was “(. . .) an attempt to integrate into the Mediterranean region through feta cheese and black olives, but four black olives don’t turn Rishon [suburb of Tel Aviv, AN] into Crete.”171 On the other hand, the growing public presence of the Mediterranean in diverse sectors of daily life, as compiled in this analysis, indicates an emphasis on spatiality and exemplifies a trend moving in the direction of the Mediterranean, which cannot be ignored. d) Advertisement The food industry has followed the Mediterranean trend, with the company Osem offering Mediterranean Kous Kous (see fig. 24, page 295) and the dairy cooperative Tnuva (originally a cooperative marketing organization for agricultural products) having changed the name of its Gvina Bulgarit (Bulgarian Cheese) to Piraeus-Cheese. In Tnuva’s television spot (aired in early 2002), all the clichés and associations associated with the word ‘Piraeus’ are served up: the classical Greek symbols of white sailing boats and blue skies in a picturesque little Greek harbor. However, there are also Yuppies from Tel Aviv dressed in white linen, who are sailing around the Aegean Sea advertising the new ‘Piraeus’ cheese. It is indeed contestable whether these are self-evident examples of Yam Tikhoniut in Israeli public discourse. These striking examples

170

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Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Vol. 2,

171 “Buri ta’im ve-chaseh nafuah (A tasty buri and a swollen chest),” Hadashot, September 24, 1989.

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demonstrate that the label ‘Yam Tikhoni’ was applied to products retroactively out of simple economic considerations. The question that will be discussed below, in connection with a specific product (potato chips) is: Why does the Mediterranean topos provide such compelling material for sales pitches, both locally and in a global context? The product discussed in depth here represents a microcosm of well-known Mediterranean clichés and, at the same time, breaks them.172 The company Elite, distributing potato chips under the name Tapuchips, came out with a new series, Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni (see fig. 25, page 296), baked in olive oil, with different flavors. The TV spot (on air in Israel in early 2003) shows a joyous wedding in a Greek setting with extended family, people dancing and singing to Greek rhythms with Hebrew words. The product description on the back of the bag (see fig. 26, page 296) talks about the soulfulness of living next to the Mediterranean, the breeze that touches your face, and the delight of eating simple, fresh, and authentic food. Warmly welcoming friends for a meal at the seaside is an allusion to the stereotyped idea of ‘Mediterranean hospitality,’ yet by mentioning ‘friends’ instead of ‘family’ we see that the marketing strategy is clearly aimed at a young target group. “Exactly like you, Tapuchips are natural, true, they are simple, they are ‘one of us.’” A point of special interest is the textual usage of certain words, like artzenu (our land), anu (we shall), and ehad mi-shelanu (one of us), borrowed from a clearly Zionist context. The use of this vocabulary can be interpreted as part of the current general wave of nostalgia in Israel, and as a reassurance that roots are still very much in place. Yet, what appears to be an ideal Mediterranean setting, including all the well-known stereotypes, is unmasked as an orientalist fantasy (in Said’s connotation of the term) when we look at the small print describing the three different flavors in the Tapuchips series: salt and pepper seasoning is termed klasika amitit, a real classic; tomato-basil flavor is labeled as harmonia mushlemet, a perfect harmony, and herbal spicing is a simfonia meshubahat, an extra fine symphony of herbs. These terms—classic, harmony, and symphony—are taken from a high culture context that is clearly linked to a European musical tradition. In the summer of 2003, the true meaning of a glocalized world dawned on me in a Swedish supermarket, where a new creation of chips, Mediterráneas, produced by the American company Lay’s, was on

172 I am indebted to Gili Gofer, who opened her rich cookbook collection to me and gave me much inspiration for writing this sub-chapter.

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display (see fig. 27, page 297). In fact, it turned out that these chips were being sold all over Europe, in Mediterranean and non-Mediterranean countries alike. This bag of chips showed intriguing similarities with the Israeli Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni—identical graphic design, images, colors, and flavors—just no Hebrew characters. The visual images and Mediterranean clichés printed on the bag were the same as those used in the version of Tapuchips, yet the text on the back showed little textual resemblance to the Hebrew one. Whereas the Hebrew version indulged in human activities carried out at the Mediterranean, which included hospitality, meals with friends, and a pleasure-seeking lifestyle, the Scandinavian variant consisted of commonplaces about the climate and general remarks about the ‘Mediterranean lifestyle’: “Lay’s captures the essence of the Mediterranean life. The mild climate, the unique culture, the relaxed atmosphere and of course the appreciation for tasty food. In summary, everything that makes the Mediterranean life so special.” This discovery of Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni in a Scandinavian version illustrates that the demand for ‘everything Mediterranean’ and the reference to the adjective ‘Mediterranean’ is not a phenomenon unique to contemporary Israel. In strolls through German supermarkets, ‘Mediterranean products’ also catch one’s eye, as we find chocolate with ‘Mediterranean peach flavor’ or cookies with the name ‘Mediterranean springtime’. Another aspect worth noting in order to explain the increased use of ‘Mediterranean vocabulary’ outside of the region, is the ‘ethnic turn’ in the last years all over the Western world, which has allowed small restaurants with ‘Mediterranean cuisine’ or ‘Mediterranean atmosphere’—meaning exotic and out of the ordinary—to flourish. These examples signify the ‘Mediterranization’ of the gastronomic branch of advertising and indicate that the Mediterranean, in any geographical context, is an effective advertising concept for evoking pleasant associations and transmitting a message of pleasure, as well as savoir vivre. To take this textual analysis of the product descriptions of Tapuchips versus Mediterráneas to its limits, it is argued that despite the identical features of the products, when comparing the two one finds distinctive local singularities that actually fit the existing stereotypes of the particular region in which the product is being sold: the Scandinavian variant describes in somewhat colorless language the different flavors of Mediterráneas—“Tomato & Basilico, Oregano and Greek Feta,” whereas the Israeli product indulges in opulent descriptions like “a perfect harmony of Basil and Tomatoes” and “an extra fine symphony of herbs.”

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Also, the arguments for using olive instead of other oil are stated in more flowery terms in the Israeli version: “The pure and high-quality olive oil that we add, turn our Tapuchips into a real delight.” By contrast, the Mediterráneas argument is much more informative, trying to educate potential buyers about the advantages of olive oil: “Olive oil [is] an essential part of the Mediterranean cuisine. Therefore Lay’s Mediterraneas is also refined with olive oil.” Here, the stereotype of the outgoing and sensuous Mediterranean type versus the reserved and rational Scandinavian type is presented. But most strikingly, the choice of words for the product description of Tapuchips and the emphasis on the collective ‘we’ clearly evokes Zionist allusions and echo a certain feeling of nostalgia thst is specifically aimed at the Israeli market. Today the global representation of Mediterraneanism by the marketing industry is a given, as this example of chips in Sweden and Israel illustrated:173 the Mediterranean clichés are used as a vehicle to transport a certain lifestyle—a feeling of being in the world (see fig. 28, page 297). This case also emphasizes the fact that the specific Israeli case always has to be evaluated within the context of global trends and developments, as discussed above in the case of ‘post-ideological’ literature. However, this global marketing phenomenon of continuous Mediterranization, as seen above, should not be confused with the specific Israeli Yam Tikhoniut that emerges in Israel’s present. The rising awareness of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel is accelerated in part by economic and market-oriented factors, which can be regarded as a local variation on a global theme. Nevertheless there is much more to the phenomenon of Yam Tikhoniut than economic considerations alone, as this study explains. The Hamsa: a Mediterranean Symbol The Hamsa (Arab: five), a protective and curative amulet, refers to the hand of Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed, as well as to the digits of the hand. It is a popular charm for luck and protection against the evil eye, and is a widespread object, embodied in the scenes of everyday life in the region. The Hamsa protects from the evil eye, brings happiness and health, peace and good fortune. The evil eye is a current superstitious belief and not a mere relict from ancient times; it still exerts 173 Lay’s offers these chips all over Europe, but not on the American market. Additional flavors include: Tsatsiki in the Netherlands, Al Punte de Queso in Spain and Oregano in Greece.

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an influential presence in many cultures in the Middle East,—Jewish, Christian, and Muslim alike. Tradition has it that the curse of the evil eye, which can be transported through the mere glance of another person, releasing damaging forces, causes sudden misfortunes. These unexplainable forces are held responsible for illness, catastrophes, and death. Therefore, the Hamsa amulet was and is a constant companion that offers protection from the random nature of ever-present danger. As William Gross, the owner of the world’s largest collection of Hamsas, points out, the Hamsa was and is found across North Africa, the Middle East, Turkey, Iran, Iraq, India, and in parts of Southern Europe and the Far East, in both Islamic and Jewish society; its presence in Morocco is the most ubiquitous.174 There is little knowledge about the exact origin of the Hamsa. Some scholars believe that the Hamsa has pre-Islamic roots and its earliest iconographic formulations were derived from Phoenician ritual implements found in the region of the Eastern Mediterranean.175 The symbol, which originated in the Moslem culture (Islamic hand of Fatima), and from there was adopted by the Jewish people residing in Islamic countries, is found predominantly in magical folklore, both Jewish and Islamic. Muslims and Jews living in Islamic countries shared a strong folk belief in the Hamsa’s magical powers to protect from sorrow and to enhance personal luck. For those Christian communities living in Islamic countries the Hamsa is also a familiar symbol as a bearer of good fortune. The symbol of the Hamsa was never contested among the different religions, its scope of meaning enriched by every society that adapted it and nourished by intercultural dialogue in the region. In the case of Israel, William Gross recounts that with the founding of the state, the widespread talismanic and protective amulet slowly began to disappear among Jews since the state’s secular conception was not compatible with traditional folkways and superstitions. This devaluation of the Hamsa needs to be seen within the framework of the time. As pointed out elsewhere in this study, the spirit of the time embraced the Western-oriented Ashkenazi culture, which also became

174 William Gross, ed., Living Khamsa: The Hand to Fortune, Exhibition Catalogue (Schwäbisch Gmünd: Museum und Galerie im Prediger, 2004), 48ff. 175 For the discussion on the Hamsa’s origin, see Niza Behrouzi, ed., The Hand of Fortune: Khamsas from the Gross Family Collection and the Eretz Israel Museum Collection, Exhibition at the Ethnography and Folklore Pavillion (Tel Aviv: Eretz Israel Museum, 2002), 7; T. Schrire, Hebrew Amulets: Their Decipherment and Interpretation (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966), 56, 73.

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the hegemonic culture in the first decades of the young state. There was a tendency among the founding generations of the state to regard everything connected to the ‘East’ and the ‘Orient’ as inferior, which resulted in the marginalization of traditions that Jews who came from Islamic societies brought with them. As a result, the cultural background of the Mizrahim was often discredited as mere folklore. But in the last decades, with a general turn toward the roots and formerly abandoned customs of the Mizrahi Jews, the Hamsa was also rediscovered. It underwent a transformation from a magical to an aesthetic object and experienced an exceptional revival: “In the last decade this interest peaked to the point where the khamsa is perhaps a more ubiquitous symbol of Israel than the more traditional Shield of David or the Menorah.”176 Looking at the presence of the Hamsa in Israeli daily life, we find a multitude of representations of this image, although with a somewhat diluted meaning: the protective amulet, traditionally associated with magic and sorcery, has been turned into a trendy and secular talisman, worn by anyone. The Hamsa became a symbol in Israeli everyday life, even an “icon of Israeliness and secularity,” as the musician Kobi Oz put it, and has neither a general religious nor specific denominational determination. As shown above, Oz wants to rehabilitate the symbol of the Hamsa and recalls that for a long time people were ashamed to wear it because of associations with Arab oriental traditions. However, it should be stressed that the Hamsa, as a relict from the customs of oriental Jews, is still associated with some sort of ‘Easternness,’ as well as a certain degree of esoteric spirituality. Yet today the Hamsa has left the folkloristic and ethnically denounced corner and became a national symbol for the whole society, accepted and deployed regardless of personal ethnic background. With its revival, the Hamsa gained great exposure in Israeli daily life and became a popular symbol for ‘good luck’ in everyday culture. It is used and worn in various forms, including key chains, amuletic charms, postcards, wall decorations, and high-priced jewelry, as well as a decorative element in tiles. One can also find the Hamsa in a variety of styles, including on telephone cards, lottery cards, and advertisements. These items are often produced as objects for mass consumption and also sold as popular souvenirs to tourists, detached from the traditional context of spiritual devotion. These naïve and stereotypical imitations

176

See Gabriele Holtius in: Gross, ed., Living Khamsa, 110.

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of classical Hamsot thereby gain entry into the age of kitsch, an aspect picked up by the Israeli pop group Tea Packs, which uses the Hamsa as their logo (see figs. 12 and 13, p. 284), as discussed elsewhere. Symbols, which were connected to the specific place, emerged in the Yishuv period as a result of the strong Zionist aspiration to visualize the link of the ‘New Hebrew’ to the territory. Yet, in contemporary Israel most of these Zionist icons (e.g., the Haluz or the Sabra) lost their impact and are today considered mere figures of nostalgia. This process of reinterpretation of the Hamsa—from tradition to trend—goes hand in hand with the development also described in other contexts in this analysis: a rising awareness of ethnic roots and a desire to find secular and politically uncharged symbols that are connected to the Israeli space (geographically and historically). The Hamsa carries no directly religious charge and is recognized by diverse cultures in the region, which explains its broad acceptance and popularity in Israeli society. The Hamsa, omnipresent not only in Israeli history and daily life, but also in neighboring countries, can be regarded as a symbol that withstands political borders and transcends harsh conflict, and is yet another example of cross-border connections. The Hamsa, omnipresent in the Mediterranean region, can rightly be called a Mediterranean symbol, which is neither religiously determined nor one that incorporates solely Christian, Jewish, or Moslem traditions. For the specific Israeli case it can be first and foremost labeled as an icon of Israeliness and secularity, yet it is far from being perceived as an overarching and all-embracing symbol by the public. Conclusion The examples compiled in this chapter show a diverse interaction with Mediterranean symbols and clichés and their various uses in Israeli discourse. It became apparent that the increased use of the label Yam Tikhoniut was not an automatic confirmation of the existence of a specific local awareness, since global tendencies and developments also need to be taken into account. But what can be said is that there is a search for alternative categories and new labels when describing phenomena in Israeli daily life, and the growing popularity of the label ‘Mediterranean’ seems to meet this demand. Historian Elie Barnavi accounts for the emergence of a Mediterranean culture under our very eyes and points out: “As difficult as it is to classify or to define it,

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the Mediterranean civilization exists. We see it living, growing, very diverse, but always visible. We see it being born under our eyes and it has Israeli shapes.”177 The search for local symbols that connect Israel with the place where it is located is a familiar trope in the Zionist narrative. When the famous Israeli sociologist Shmuel N. Eisenstadt called for Israeli society to discover symbols that on the one hand represent a collective Israeli identity and “on the other hand Israel’s Middle Eastern surroundings,”178 he was looking for symbols that incorporated locality, as well as Jewish cultural heritage. He might have had the Hamsa in mind.

Elie Barnavi, “Israel Laboratoire Méditerranéen,” Rive—Revue de L’Université de la Méditerranée (1996): 55. 178 Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, Die Transformation der israelischen Gesellschaft (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1992), 177. 177

CHAPTER THREE

MAPPING YAM TIKHONIUT As pointed out before, the object under observation here is due to constant changes and is challenged from many sides, which makes it difficult to define its borders. Intellectuals from diverse academic fields are participating in the Mediterranean debate in Israel, which will be discussed in this chapter. Due to the fact that Yam Tikhoniut is not only an intellectual concept, but among other things also a trend, a marketing strategy, as well as a lived reality, its manifestations are diverse. The various voices involved in the debate are scattered throughout different spheres and are not always clearly audible or visible. As will be shown here, the multifaceted interpretations of this notion have been used and instrumentalized for different political, historical, psychological, economic, and biographical purposes. As a result, it seemed necessary to carry out a period of field research to collect primary data that would help to make audible the individual voices forming this debate. The task of describing Yam Tikhoniut beyond the well-known clichés confronted me with a multitude of possible interpretations. The critics and advocates of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel have provoked a lively debate and the interviews I conducted provided a vast amount of primary sources. My interview partners, among them academics, politicians, artists, writers, and intellectuals, are all somehow involved in the public discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in Israel. For them, the Mediterranean Option represents many different things: a cultural bridge and dialogue between East and West; a solution to the inner-Israeli conflict; a mediator between neighboring countries; a poetic and elitist concept; as well as a universal synthesis between polarized elements. Other voices criticize the Mediterranean Option and see it as a convenient cultural utopia; as Orientalism without the Arabs; a theory of exclusion and patronization; a backward-looking view that glorifies the past; as diluted Arabness or vulgar anti-Americanism. In the following, those voices representing the divergent poles in the discussion will be assembled and it becomes apparent that they are taken from a living reality—the oft-mentioned “Mediterranean Laboratory.”1 1

See Barnavi, “Israel Laboratoire Méditerranéen.”

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Based on the rich body of material which I collected in Israel the models suggested here will help to contextualize the diverse expressions of Yam Tikhoniut in Israeli public discourse. The two main models dealing with Yam Tikhoniut as a constructive and positive blueprint for society are the ‘Locality Model’ and the ‘Synthesis Model.’ In each model several different voices that could be subsumed under a specific theme were brought together. In a third section those models are developed, which critically comment on Yam Tikhoniut and which are, due to their variety, assembled in a general subchapter: ‘Critical Voices.’ The critique on Yam Tikhoniut is diverse and could not be contained within a single, connecting larger theme. Thus, two subchapters are presented here, which are each constituted by one individual voice (‘Orientalist Model’ and ‘Escapism’) as well as two additional models (‘Fear of Levantinization’ and ‘Diluted Mizrahiut’), which consist of general positions instead of individual voices. Other approaches, like the market-oriented reasons for fostering Yam Tikhoniut, are grouped in a larger global context and therefore discussed elsewhere in this analysis. The categorizations utilized here should serve as a map to the current discussion. In reality, however, the models presented here as clear-cut representations have rather fuzzy borders, often overlap, and are in constant flux. The individual voices are also within themselves highly complex, and cannot be slotted exclusively into one category. Rather than presenting a comprehensive description of a particular model with its various facets and overlaps, concise examples from the interview material were selected in order to introduce certain protagonists and provide snapshots of their particular stands on Yam Tikhoniut. In an effort to make a multilayered discussion accessible, decisions had to be made that sometimes simplified the subject matter at the expense of the complexity of a certain argument. However, this matrix provides clues that help in grasping the different positions that have been adopted in this ambiguous public discourse. Ideally, this approach will also lay the ground for in-depth future research and even encourage comparative cultural studies embracing all Mediterranean countries. All the voices heard in this assemblage, as diverse as they may be, are strongly committed to their point of view. The discussion is passionate and agitated, and often includes very personal positions. Due to the individual involvement of some of the interview partners, the discussion even results in personal accusations and enraged crosstalk.

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However, this (for an outside observer, often unusual) ‘culture of dispute,’ is not a feature unique to the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut, but characterizes political debates throughout the Israeli media, as well as in the Knesset. The vehemence of the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut and its influence on various spheres provides further proof for the relevance of this concept and shows the extent to which it has been internalized among the Israeli public. The debate on Yam Tikhoniut centers around the longing to find a ‘natural’ place in the region and to understand where the Israeli society is located vis-à-vis its neighbors and vis-à-vis the entire world. 1. Personal Yam Tikhoniut: “It is home, the origin of my parents and the air that I breathe” At the outset, one aspect that was omnipresent throughout the field research and that will be sketched here, will be called ‘Personal Yam Tikhoniut’. Notwithstanding the limitations of the models developed below, what was striking among the interview partners was the recurring personal and intimate reference, sometimes even a physical and emotional bond to the Mediterranean. Despite the different, at times even contrary political positions of the interviewees within the debate on Yam Tikhoniut, the personal perception of the sea showed remarkable similarities: the Mediterranean was characterized by a nostalgic approach and emphasized family heritage and rootedness in the region. Mediterranean symbols, such as the olive tree, certain foods, or the specific Mediterranean light were referred to as a source for the comfortable feeling of being at ‘home’ in the region. The personal statements made by the interviewees gathered here, who perceive the Mediterranean region as a home per se, correspond to Fernand Braudel’s observation of the role the sea played for a native of the region in the sixteenth century: “(. . .) a native of the Mediterranean, wherever he might come from, would never feel out of place in any part of the sea. (. . .) On the other hand when a native of the Mediterranean had to leave the shores of the sea, he was uneasy and homesick (. . .).”2 2 Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II (Vol. 1), 237. Needless to say, travel literature also contains examples that depict feelings of great alienation and indifference of Mediterranean travelers toward the ‘Other.’

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Here, some examples will illustrate the very personal role the Mediterranean plays for some of the interviewees. Asked about his personal connection to the sea, the writer Abraham B. Yehoshua declared: That is the home, the origin of my parents and the air that I breathe. (. . .) We need to widen the notion and the region. (. . .) This Yam Tikhoniut gives us a deeper historical dimension, the pride that you live in a place that gave civilization something. (. . .) all these things give you comfort. [Pause, AN ] Food. Of course.

It is interesting to note Meron Benvenisti’s surprisingly emotional answer when he was asked which role the Mediterranean played for him personally. The publicist and former deputy mayor of Jerusalem, Benvenisti is a vehement critic of the Yam Tikhoniut idea and even calls it dangerous and escapist. He ardently explained his very personal connection to the sea, which is connected to his family’s heritage and his strong feeling of belonging to the land. But Benvenisti also emphasized the private character of his affection, which he clearly disconnects from his harsh criticism of Yam Tikhoniut discussed below. I feel at home in Spain. I was raised in that culture of the burned home in Salonika. (. . .) This is a personal thing. (. . .) For me it is very complicated to badmouth the Mediterranean, since it is the essence of my family’s heritage. This is my personal picture album—I do not make it a coffee table book, trying to sell it. This is my own personal heritage. I don’t discuss it, and maybe because of that I am so critical of the fake—Ersatz—kind of thing. Of people who have nothing to do with it, who never felt the real affinity to that inner lake, like myself. When I travel, once I see olive trees from the plane and I know—I am home. When it comes to here, it has always to do with the olive tree. But I will never try to make an ideology out of this.

Shimon Parnas, a popular music host on radio and TV, also emphasized his family’s heritage in the region and its natural affinity for the Mediterranean, which has shaped his approach to the subject: I am a son of a very old Sephardic family, my family is 400 years in Israel. (. . .) I don’t think that it [my interest in the Mediterranean, AN] started anywhere, it was always there inside of me. I was not a child of an immigrant family—I grew up here. I grew up in a house that was pro integration in the region. My roots grew here. (. . .) Israel is part of the Mediterranean (. . .) in habits, mentality, food, music. My family’s house was a place where the Mediterranean was an inherent part.

Another emotional reference to the Mediterranean Sea was heard from former foreign minister Shlomo Ben Ami:

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I can live wonderfully without the plane crossing the Atlantic. I can stop in Gibraltar. (. . .) Every journey to the USA has some sort of a suffering—(. . .) I feel at home only in this area: in the Mediterranean. That will always be the landscape of my homeland [moledet, AN ].

The writer Yoram Kaniuk, who grew up in the ambience of a German cultural heritage in a house located in the Levant, sees a ‘Mediterranean riddle’ behind the olive tree, which symbolizes something very deep. According to Kaniuk, the distinctiveness of the region formed his generation: “My father founded the Tel Aviv Museum, while caravans of camels were passing by going from Alexandria to Beirut. That is the unconsciousness of a culture that formed all of us.” Trying to identify similarities among the interviewees, it became evident throughout this research that those dialogue partners who are actively involved in the public discourse on Yam Tikhoniut generally perceive the Mediterranean as their homeland region. Regardless of the specific stance taken by the respective interview partner within the debate on Yam Tikhoniut, it became clear that the motivation to get involved in the discussion in the first place developed from a deep concern for Israel’s future well-being and a wish to construct a vital future. To risk an oversimplification, it can be argued that the principal involvement in the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut, be it as an advocate or as a critic, derives from a Zionist perspective and is motivated by a strong personal rootedness in the region and love of the land. In general, the special bond Israelis feel to their country is a recurring motif in visual art and literature, and the image of the landscape and the idea of the homeland are prominent themes throughout creative expressions in Israel. This strong link to the land goes back to the Zionist ideal of the ‘New Jew,’ who was supposed to emerge from a symbiosis with the new homeland. Here, the discussants of Yam Tikhoniut share the observation that Israeli culture exhibits a certain indifference to and alienation from the natural environment, and they are engaged in the task of identifying and fostering the social changes that would allow Israel to maintain its character and at the same time open up to the various challenges it faces, both from within and without. The participants in the discussion are motivated by the search for an appropriate expression of the changing times, and a way to enhance cultural dialogue that would encourage Israel to explore what it shares with and what distinguishes it from its Mediterranean neighbors as a way of finding its own position within the region. Yet, there are certainly other ways to explain the exaggerated assertion of a specific personal

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connection to the sea: the interest in constructing personal authenticity and becoming ‘local’ by tracing family roots far back into the history of the region. Discussing the role of intellectuals in the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut, the late literary critic Yoram Bronowski once argued that, ‘Mediterranean advocates’ of Israel today are mostly of European origin, whereas its critics were born in the region. Bronowski explains that those born in the region are more immune to the idea of a Mediterranean utopia and don’t cling to the clichés of the South, like those inspired by the misleading literary metaphors of Heine and Goethe.3 A strong critic of Yam Tikhoniut, the Moroccan-born writer and political scientist Sami Shalom Chetrit, also discusses the role of the intellectuals involved in the debate and sees in the Mediterranean Idea a continuation of a hegemonic Zionism, arguing: “Shavit, Calderon, Malkin, Benvenisti, Ohana—look at them. They are at the Zionist side—this Yam Tikhoniut is a real option for them. This is not a coincidence.” Yet the argument, that supporters and critics of Yam Tikhoniut can be mapped in the discussion according to their ethnic origin, is not congruent with the findings of my field research. Trying to categorize advocates and critics of Yam Tikhoniut according to their ethncity is bound to fail: examples for each perspective were found among both Ashkenazim and Mizrachim. This once again substantiates the claim that Yam Tikhoniut is a universal phenomenon with diverse manifestations, and defies attempts to fit into existing categories. Taking a closer look at the personal arguments of the ‘agents’ and the ‘critics’ of Yam Tikhoniut, it became evident that there are a number of different reasons to embrace or reject the idea. In the following, the driving forces behind the different agendas involved in the discourse will be explored. 2. Locality Model: “Hold on to what there is” Yoram Bronowski, who had his “ups and downs”4 concerning his confidence in the Mediterranean Idea, noted that the strength of this naïve Yoram Bronowski, “Ha-Levantinim (The Levantines),” Haaretz, April 5, 1996. As he noted in a panel discussion on Israel and the Mediterranean at the conference “The Mediterranean Idea” in Jerusalem, organized by Irad Malkin, Center for Mediterranean Civilizations Project at Tel Aviv University and Mishkenot Sha’ananim, January 31, 2001. 3 4

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dream lies in the fact that it connects East and West: “Goethe with Abdel Wahab and Israel Pinkas.”5 Yet a certain indecisiveness is characteristic of Bronowski’s evaluation of the potential of Yam Tikhoniut. He does not hide his conviction that Yam Tikhoniut is an essentially Western and European perception, although, according to Bronowski, this vision is—despite its utopian dimension—characterized by a more comprehensive reality than it appears at first sight. He links his utopia to a specific place and, in 1988, called for the Mediterranean Option: “(. . .) the direction is determined and I believe that it is the right direction. Israel should not turn its face away from the Mediterranean (. . .) but should aim at seeing the Mediterranean as our sea.”6 In 1994 he explained: “Israel needs a utopia, I call it utopia of the Mediterranean.” For him this utopia links Israel with the ancient world of Rome and Greece, and with Alexandria as an ideal cosmopolitan city. Bronowski sees much opposition to the Mediterranean Idea among Israeli intellectuals, and he admits that it is difficult to overcome doubts concerning the still indistinct Mediterranean Idea. Yet, despite widespread disapproval, which he detected in the public discourse, he decided to hang onto the idea7 and emphasized the central assessment of those committed to the ‘Locality Model’: Israel is located at the shores of the Mediterranean sea.8 This ostensibly simple assertion is the core assumption and forms the basis of the ‘Locality Model’ discussed here. Since it gained statehood, Israel has been engaged in meeting the continuous challenge of constructing a local, authentic, native culture. Over the years, different variants of Israel’s national, cultural, and religious identity have been the subject of heated debates. In the founding years, the newly invented, mythological Sabra,9 the native-born Israeli disconnected from his traumatic past, was promoted to homogenize immigrants of diverse cultural backgrounds and create a monolithic

Egyptian composer and oud-player; contemporary Israeli poet, who received the Israel Prize for poetry in 2005. 6 Yoram Bronowski, “Be-heksher ha-yam Tikhoni (In context of the Mediterranean),” Haaretz, November 6, 1988. 7 Id., “Eifo ata, ha-yam ha-Tikhon? (Where are you, Mediterranean?),” Haaretz, September 25, 1994. 8 Id., “Ha-Levantinim.” 9 The term refers to the popular fruit of the prickly pear cactus—prickly on the outside, but sweet on the inside—that is common in Israel today and gave its name to all native-born Israeli Jews. As Oz Almog points out, ironically, the cactus is not native to Israel; it was introduced from South America about two hundred years ago and quickly acclimatized in Israel. See Oz Almog, The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 4. 5

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Hebrew culture. Another variant is the Canaanite approach in the 1950s, which considered the new breed of Hebrews as an integral part of the ‘Semitic region,’ and therefore as natural allies of the Arabs. The Canaanites rejected any connection with Judaism and declared a historical bond with the land, thereby imposing a somewhat neo-imperialistic vision onto the region and reinterpreting history according to their own ideological agenda (for an in-depth discussion of these examples, cf. chapter ‘Looking Back: Revival of the Past’). However, of the different models, the Zionist variant prevailed, offering various frames of reference within a set of Western-oriented values. The Zionist movement was highly ambivalent about the status of Jewish religion and ethnicity: for some, Zionism meant the reconstruction of the ancient kingdoms of David and Solomon; for others it meant the transfer of the East European Shtetl—including Yiddish—onto the shores of the Mediterranean. Still others wanted to create a Central European society in Israel with a bourgeois touch to it, or even a Sovietstyle paradise. None of these variants were fully implemented, nor did they succeed in solving the struggle over the questions: ‘What should constitute native culture and Israeliness?’ and ‘What is the meaning of the Israeli Makom?’ As shown above, Israel is still searching for a model for society and national identity. The ‘Locality Model’ discussed here focuses on Israel’s geographical space and emphasizes its location at the crossroads of different continents and mentalities. Since the ‘Locality Model’ is the most dominant model within the discussion on Yam Tikhoniut, and can be found across the different layers of society, it is presented here in greater depth. Like the other models discussed below, this model too has neither clear-cut borders nor a determined scope, with different intellectuals of diverse biographical backgrounds referring to it. Despite the various facets of this model, one common thread runs through the arguments assembled under the ‘locality’ heading: this perception emphasizes the shared mentalities and similar way of life among the inhabitants of the Mediterranean basin. It is interesting to note that there is an obvious emphasis on similarities with countries like Greece, Turkey, and Italy, whereas North Africa is hardly ever mentioned. It is obvious that North Africa, as opposed to the Southern European countries, is still associated with backwardness and poverty and is therefore not suitable as an exemplary model for identification. In addition, the supporters of the locality model draw on a Yam Tikhoniut that infiltrates everyday life and the natural and spontane-

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ous development of the society’s Mediterranean characteristics, often referring to temperament, gestures, and daily practices. Its features and representations are collected here, though it is important to note that this model does not imply a specific agenda, but rather emerges from within daily life and the unconscious. Former foreign minister Shlomo Ben Ami stresses the geographical factor too, since it is at hand and in proximity: I believe that is the special magic in this Mediterranean Model. It does two things: on the one hand this concept suggests a model, since nobody else suggests a model. On the other hand it presents a model that has a logical inside—we are [ located, AN ] in the Mediterranean geography. When you take a look at the structure and collective mentality of Israeli society you will see that it is not far from Palermo.

A certain inconsistency in his argument becomes apparent when he continues, somewhat condescendingly: “I would have preferred that it was a little closer to Milan—also Barcelona would have been preferable to me. But maybe we will get there one day.” Despite his nostalgic feelings for his city of birth, Tangier (discussed below), which he recalls as a childhood paradise, he stresses his geographical preferences for Spain and southern Italy by linking the Israeli mentality to the northern shores of the Mediterranean. This assertion of Yam Tikhoniut as a starting point, a fertile ground that implies the potential for further development, is another characteristic of this model. The writer Amos Oz, too, draws on this perspective and calls the Mediterranean model the “fertile ground for some more sophisticated and more complex creations.” Since in the context of the evolving Yam Tikhoniut in Israeli public life Amos Oz manifests a prominent example of the ‘Locality Model,’ his complex perception shall be discussed here in greater depth. In his book Poh ve-sham be-Erez Israel, Oz, born in 1939 in Jerusalem, collected conversations and impressions that he had gathered on a journey through Israel during the Lebanon War in 1982. He meets with people of different political and ethnic backgrounds, presenting in a nutshell the diverse worlds that can be found in Israeli society. Toward the end of the book, after traveling through the extremes of the religious fanaticism of Jewish settlers and the occupied lands of biblical aspirations, Oz reaches the southern port city of Ashdod, finds time to take a deep breath and ponder the real character of the state of Israel. For Amos Oz, Ashdod represents the state of Israel. In Ashdod he found the

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down-to-earth face of Israel and formulates his very specific perception of this port city, which is connected to his deep wish for a sane Israel on its way to normality. He explains what he found and what he did not find in Ashdod: [ I did not find, AN ] the ‘Maccabeans reborn’ that Herzl talked of, but a warm-hearted, hot-tempered Mediterranean people that is gradually learning, through great suffering and in a tumult of sound and fury, to find release both from the bloodcurdling nightmares of the past and from delusions of grandeur, both ancient and modern; gradually learning to cling to what it has managed to build here over the course of one hundred difficult years, despite the ‘sand and enemies,’ as the man from Ashdod put it. Gradually learning to hold on by its fingernails to what there is.10

Compared to the outrageous worlds of messianic fervor and heavenly Jerusalem, for Oz, Ashdod is a compromise. It is not an idealized dream, nor a nightmare from the past that keeps haunting the Israeli psyche. For Oz, the ‘pleasant’ and ‘unpretentious’ city of Ashdod became ‘something in between,’ “a city on a human scale on the Mediterranean coast.”11 In the Hebrew original he uses a colloquial, very concise phrase to describe the city’s significance: “Ashdod hi mah she yesh.”12 This sentence—in a loose translation ‘Ashdod, that’s what you get’—refers to the realities on the ground, rather than to any visionary master plan for society. Oz explained in an interview: Ashdod became a model for me in the need to sober up. Not to relinquish all the dreams, (. . .) but to accept and to start liking what we have. I do not like the fact that many Israelis did not like what they actually achieved. I did not see a point in this trendy disappointment.

The Israeli writer Ronit Matalon takes up Oz’s metaphor of Ashdod as the Israeli place and harshly criticizes it. She calls the widespread urge—the ‘national mantra’—to detect normality within Israeli society normopathiut, a pathological obsession to be normal at any cost. In contrast to Oz, she does not perceive Ashdod on a somewhat idealized scale, but rather finds the diverse conflicts of Israeli society within the

10 Literal translation of the Hebrew title: ‘Here and There in the Land of Israel.’ Amos Oz, In the Land of Israel, Harvest Translation (San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1993), 240. 11 Ibid., 241. 12 Amos Oz, Poh ve-sham be-eretz Israel (A journey in Israel. Autumn 1982) (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1983), 190.

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port city as a miniature model of society as a whole.13 Even though Matalon presents her perception of Ashdod as contrary to Oz’s, they both refer to the very same place: Oz interprets the ‘mishmash’ he sees as a criterion for normality and perceives Ashdod as a microcosmos of Israeli realities. Matalon, on the other hand, sees in the ‘obsession’ of calling Ashdod ‘normal’ a dangerous attempt to downplay innerIsraeli conflicts. But since Ashdod, and the things it symbolizes for him have been of crucial interest to Oz over the years, his perception of the Mediterranean model as an option for Israeli society shall be further elaborated here. His biography mirrors important stages of evolving Israeliness: as both an Ashkenazi Kibbutznik and a Sabra, Amos Oz incorporated socialist ideals and, like many of his generation, he ‘flirted’ with the Canaanite ideal and the idea of the ‘New Hebrew.’ Over the years, however, he realized that “modern Zionism is a loose and condensed conglomeration of visions and dreams, fantasies, ideas and master plans (. . .) that were mutually exclusive.” He explains further that he felt a certain alienation from the Israeli locus, seeing the discrepancy between the European Zionist ideologies being transplanted into the Middle East, and the actual geographical space within which Israel is located. All of these were European dreams, whereas this is not Europe. I don’t know exactly what it is—it is a junction. One foot in Africa, one foot in Asia, one in the Mediterranean and one in Europe—but it is not Europe. As I watched this country evolving and changing with the massive immigration of the 1950s, (. . .) I was beginning to see in front of me a very Mediterranean culture. (. . .) By Mediterranean I mean: passionate, warmhearted, noisy, pushy, rough, materialistic, talkative, argumentative, very middle class. And I realize that this country resembles more and more not so much the Arab world, but Athens, Piraeus, Naples, the South of France.

He then positions himself in relation to the emerging Mediterranean culture in Israel, emphasizing again that it is not an aspired ideal, but rather the only realistic option after many other models for Israeli society have failed: So more and more I realized that this is rapidly becoming a Mediterranean country. Then I asked myself if I liked it or not—although I had some

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chapter three hesitations it was in contrast with some of my instructions, some of the family heritage—I actually discovered yes: I do like it. Not that I prefer it, not that I regard it as superior to something else—I like it.

Years later, in the preface of the English translation of the book In the Land of Israel (1993), Oz again refers to Ashdod and states that his hopes connected to his Mediterranean model are already taking shape: “And I still cling to the hopes I expressed in the last few pages of this book. Some of these hopes may seem a little closer these days.”14 Oz continued to be engaged with the symbol of the city of Ashdod, and in 1999 this preoccupation took shape in a different form: he published Oto ha-Yam (The Same Sea), a novel mixing prose and verse; here the sea is no longer presented as a compromise, but as a pleasing reality and a symbol for everyday life and normality in Bat Yam,15 where the novel is set. This book is an aesthetic experiment in which the landscape serves both as an emotional representation of a state of mind and as a main character. It starts with the lines: Not far from the sea, Mr. Albert Danon / lives in Amirim Street, alone. He is fond / of olives and feta; a mild accountant, he lost / his wife not long ago. Nadia Danon died one morning / of ovarian cancer, leaving some clothes, / a dressing table, some finely embroidered / tablemats. Their only son, Enrico David, / has gone off mountaineering in Tibet.16

Oz emphasizes the Mediterranean Option not as a purpose, a goal, or a model, but rather as a geographical reality linked to Israel’s physical location. According to Oz, people often use the term ‘Mediterranean’ as part of a certain ideological agenda, whereas he uses it as one of the terms by which he defines the space in which he lives. In the academic discourse on Yam Tikhoniut—“which I don’t even follow, since I don’t find it particularly exciting”—he sees different strains representing different ideologies and claiming Mediterraneanism as a manifestation of different political concepts. There is, however, no political agenda or disproportionate expectation attached to his model. Instead, he considers Yam Tikhoniut:

Oz, In the Land of Israel, x. The romantic name of the city Bat Yam (literal translation ‘daughter of the sea’) has little to do with the realities on the ground: Bat Yam is a very middle-class neighborhood south of Jaffa, which is known for its social tensions. 16 Amos Oz, The Same Sea (London: Chatto & Windus, 1999), 1. 14

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as fringe benefit, as an extra, if it proves to be a good bridge between Israel and the Arab world—wonderful. If not, I never thought Israel had to adjust to the region. (. . .) If it does not work the Arab neighbors have to learn to live next door to someone [who is, AN ] different.

Oz expresses his Mediterranean model as a prospect for Israeli society, not a final product, but an idea that can be expanded and adapted to the society’s needs. His Mediterranean model refers to the rootedness in the region, the way of life, and state of mind: “I like it, because I like it—because it suits me, my temper, my way of life, and my essentially secular, pluralistic and tolerant perspective.” In a similar vein, the writer and lead singer of the band Tea Packs, Kobi Oz characterizes details of daily life, the ‘facts on the ground,’ as the core elements of Israeliness. For him, for example, balconies, and the outdoors in general, symbolize popular Israeli leisure and ‘good times in the sun.’ He considers watermelon, commonly consumed at family picnics, and the Mangal17 as typical objects and aspects of Israeli day-to-day culture and important components of Israeliness. There are also those voices that don’t specifically refer to Yam Tikhoniut, but call for the return to the local realities, the specific place where Israel is located. Similar to Kobi Oz, the writer Etgar Keret also assigns great importance to the ‘facts on the ground’ and the recognition of Israel’s cultural and geographic realities. Talking about Israeliness, Keret criticizes the fact that the actual locus of Israel is being neglected while some sort of idealized ‘Miniature Europe’ is being created: Israel is like a casino in Las Vegas, you drive in the middle of the desert, it is 40 degrees outside. You reach this place, enter the lobby and they say: ‘Welcome to Europe!’ First floor: Eiffel tower, second floor: Pisa tower, third floor: Coliseum. I am in a fucking desert, why does everybody pretend they are in Europe?

17 Mangal refers to the typically Israeli barbecue culture. Barbecuing is a national leisure time activity, especially on national holidays like Independence Day. The Mangal, usually set in a park, forest, or at the seashore, is associated with the middle and lower middle class of Israeli society. Yet, in the case of Mangal the issue of cultural appropriation must be raised since the Mangal, an important element in Israeli leisure culture, is not genuinely Israeli. In Hebrew the slang word for Mangal is al ha esh, which is in Arabic the word for barbecue, indicating its practice in Arabic food culture as well. Grilling and barbecuing are also common leisure time activities in the U.S. and the Balkan, but also in Turkey and Greece.

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The various manifestations of this locality approach present very realistic and levelheaded perceptions because they have determined—sometimes in a disillusioned and painful manner—that there is no escape from the locus, and that the practical geography speaks for itself. This approach turns its back on idealistic and far-fetched blueprints for society, the visions of the prophets and the different master plans that have been projected onto the country over the decades. It addresses the ‘facts on the ground,’ therein seeing a potential starting point for further developments. The novelty and significance of the ‘Locality Model’ is striking: in the Zionist stratum, for decades the raison d’être of the Jewish people was proclaimed through connection to antiquity. The ‘seh mah she yesh’ (That’s what you get) attitude of the ‘Locality Model’ stands in stark contrast to the visionary approach to the land, as it refers to a given reality, which is neither fabricated nor tuned to a specific political agenda. The ‘Locality Model’ is unimposingly being integrated into daily life and simply being lived, whereas the ‘Synthesis Model,’ discussed below, is rather goal-oriented by character and often actively promoted by its advocates. 3. Synthesis Model: “A cultural bridge enhancing political dialogue” Starting from the assessment that “Israel is too much a tapestry of cultures, colors, and ethnicities to be defined in either/or terms of any traits,”18 the ‘Synthesis Model’ is characterized by the idea that Yam Tikhoniut can serve as a mediator between polarized elements within the society. These diverse ‘cultures, colors, and ethnicities,’ which come together in Israel, have resulted in manifold ethnic conflicts and numerous inequalities between Ashkenasim and Mizrahim. Since the 1970s, however, the demand for equal rights for all citizens has increased, accompanied by a debate on the patronizing attitude of the Ashkenazi-Zionist establishment toward the Mizrahim during the state’s founding. Moreover, by emphasizing togetherness rather than division, the supporters of the ‘Synthesis Model’ see in this approach a possibility of mending the ethnic cleavages between Ashkenazim and Mizrahim. In 1978, well-known Israeli sociologist Sammy Smooha pondered

18

Rejwan, Israel in Search of Identity, 148.

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utopias and new directions, and discussed what should and could be done to make Israel a better society. He stressed a pluralist approach and emphasized the need for Israeli society to open up to the diverse influences to which it is exposed, both from within and without: A full recognition of the pluralistic structure implies that Israel should end its identification with the Ashkenazi dominant minority and face the reality of the existence of diverse groups with different needs. While remaining a Jewish-Zionist state, Israel has to open its national culture to diverse influences (including Middle Eastern ones) and to let all its constituent groups (Orientals and Arabs included) take part in the culturebuilding process.19

Nissim Rejwan, an Israeli writer of Iraqi descent, warned against the promotion of a polarized perception of Israeli society, and argued that “any attempt to determine a cultural ‘infrastructure’ based on the alleged dichotomy between East and West is bound to lead to something dangerously akin to cultural coercion of the worst kind.”20 The idea behind this programmatic synthesis concept is to dissolve the ongoing polarization between a Western cultural heritage and an oriental one by introducing a third model that unites all norms and supplements existing individual identities. It is hoped that this will help put an end to the lengthy ethnic conflict, and put a name to what has been created jointly by all sections of the population over the past decades. In this case, Yam Tikhoniut has become a kind of ‘magic formula’ for a pluralist society, with the power to reconcile cultural differences. This visionary concept considers the Mediterranean as a common cultural platform that assigns Israel to a historical region, which is neither Western nor oriental. From this point of view, the Mediterranean Idea functions not only as a tool for resolving social dichotomies, but in the long run, could also foster a truly multicultural coexistence in the geographical space. Despite the multiplicity and diversity of the region there is, according to the supporters of this view, a broad common denominator, indeed homogeneity. David Ohana, historian and founding director of The Israeli Forum for Mediterranean Culture at Jerusalem’s Van Leer Institute in 1996, was among the first Israeli intellectuals to express confidence in the capacity

19 Sammy Smooha, Israel: Pluralism and Conflict (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978), 255–56. 20 Rejwan, Israel in Search of Identity, 173.

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of the Mediterranean Idea to function as a reconciling model for Israeli society. The starting point for his dedicated promotion of Yam Tikhoniut was this rather disenchanted account of the significance of the ‘East’ within Israeli society: The East was and remains foreign to many Israelis—whether to those who wanted to touch it, become part of it and internalize it, or (all the more so) to those who wanted nothing to do with it. The oriental tradition was never adopted by the Zionist settlers in Palestine, but was simply a spice in the new national popular recipe. The pioneering society remained essentially Eurocentric and regarded itself as an extension of European culture and not a product of Mediterranean culture and certainly not of Arab culture. In practice, this represented the abandonment of eastern culture in favor of western values and modernity.21

In 2000, Ohana argued that the Oslo Accords created a revolutionary opening for dialogue. Linking Yam Tikhoniut to ongoing political developments, the concept offered a chance for engaged conversation, productive, enduring political relationships with Israel’s neighbors, and eventually a vehicle for peace in the region. Promoting the Mediterranean Option on the level of civil society rather than among governments could, according to Ohana, create a reservoir of common interests among people, and especially among the civil societies of the region. The Mediterranean option is not a call for ethnic isolation or a return to roots, but for an Israeli ethos which would constitute a common cultural platform for the discussion of tensions and separate identities. It is too ancient, important and central to be one more reason for ethnic denial, for the nursing of sectorial interests, folkloristic tendencies or sentimental longings.22

Ohana has been involved in the Yam Tikhoniut discourse for many years. Like other colleagues of his, he is not only a researcher of Yam Tikhoniut, but also takes an active part in the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut, is indeed an integral part of it. He is well aware of the fact that his motivation for promoting Yam Tikhoniut cannot only be explained by his academic fascination with the subject, but is also linked to a

Ohana, Humanist ba-shemesh, 138. See David Ohana, “Israel and the Mediterranean Option,” Palestinian Academic Society for the Study of International Affairs (PASSIA), http://www.passia.org/seminars/2000/ israel/part11.html (accessed November 22, 2007). The same article appeared in the volume Israel: State, Society and Politics ( Jerusalem: PASSIA, Palestinian Academic Society for the Study of International Affairs, 2000). 21 22

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strong personal investment. With the open model of Yam Tikhoniut, he hopes to resolve the East-West paradox of Israeli society, as well as to end Israel’s isolation from the Arab world.23 Ohana makes no secret of his Moroccan origins nor of his Zionist Weltanschauung and his deep concern for Israel’s well-being and peaceful future in the region. He expects that Yam Tikhoniut, this interplay of neighborhood, openness, and self-assertion, would ideally contribute to the formation of a cultural identity, and in the long run to peace and stability in the region. Because the Middle East is perceived as a political rather than a cultural milieu, and because political dialogue is much more effective when preceded by cultural and sociological discourse, Israelis need to look for partners—and, if they do not exist, to create them among social and cultural actors and institutions, in order to conduct this cultural discourse. This is one of the classic roles of civil society: to promote collaboration among institutions and create common themes and messages based on shared problems and interests.24

The late literature professor and co-founder of the NGO ‘East for Peace,’25 Shlomo Elbaz, also calls for Israel to end the stereotyping of the East and the violent relationships with its neighbors, thereby embracing locality instead of longing for abstract faraway places. “Reoriented (or re-Oriented), Israel could discover its true vocation as a nation simultaneously Mediterranean and modern.”26 Elbaz emphasizes the key role the culturally long neglected Mizrahim have in constituting a new cultural direction for Israeli society: There were a few exceptions and a few ‘converts’ who recognized the Sephardi-oriental sector which was demographically in the majority in the Jewish population, but was culturally devalued. These understood that Israel’s future is linked to its Mediterranean destiny. (. . .) Apart from the problems of their integration into the social and economic fabric of their new nation, the Oriental and Maghreb Jews did not play the role which should naturally and historically have been theirs: to constitute a bridge between a composite Jewish society and the Arab world, a cultural

23 His latest publication summarizes this position exemplarily, see especially pages 349–405: David Ohana, Lo Knanaim, lo zalbanim: Mekorot ha-mithologia ha-Israelit (Neither Canaanites nor crusaders: The origins of Israeli mythology) ( Jerusalem: Keter, 2008). 24 Ohana, “Israel and the Mediterranean Option.” 25 The NGO East for Peace (Ha-Mizrach el ha-shalom) is an Israeli peace movement founded by Mizrahim. The late Shlomo Elbaz was co-founder and chairman of this organization. 26 Shlomo Elbaz, “Israel, the Jews and the Mediterranean. Dilemmas of a Cultural Identity,” Palestine-Israel Journal 2, no. 4 (1995): 84.

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chapter three bridge preparing and enhancing a political dialogue based on mutual knowledge and respect, as well as on the experience of coexistence in Islamic countries where the Jews had enjoyed an infinitely greater tolerance than in Christian lands.27

From this new cultural perspective, which involves identification with the region and a distancing from European influences, Elbaz sees the potential for reconciling with Arab neighbors. For Elbaz, Yam Tikhoniut is a platform from which to launch cooperation between Arabs and Israelis: I feel very deeply that the efforts to identify ourselves either with the Mediterranean or the Levant can only help the rapprochement between us and the Arabs. The more we distance ourselves from Europe the more we have a chance to find our life with the neighbors here in the region.

The ideals of pluralism and multiculturalism flow into this ‘Synthesis Model’ and are, strictly speaking, a counterpoint to the Zionist idea, which promoted a society of one ethnicity, one religion, one language, and one culture. Shlomo Ben Ami recalls his childhood in Tangier and idealizes his place of birth as a multiculturalist model: There is something that you cannot ignore—in the Mediterranean there is some sort of softness. When I speak about multiculturalism I always think of Tangier, the city where I was born. An international city. I lived in a house that was the incarnation of multiculturalism. (. . .) That is my memory of multiculturalism and that was a soft way of life. I really believe that this thing [ Yam Tikhoniut, AN ] is right as a model for Israeli society, and also as a model for the approach to our surroundings.

Writer and literature professor Nissim Calderon’s promotion of Israel’s integration into the Mediterranean region also positions him within the ‘Synthesis Model.’ From his point of view, the Arabs will always fear Israel as an economic colonialist because of the great economic imbalance between Israel and its Arab neighbors. Thus, contrary to Shimon Peres’ vision of the ‘New Middle East,’ Calderon dreams of Israel being connected to Spain, Italy, and France, and advocates for closer ties to the European Mediterranean countries. Asked about Mediterranean culture in Israel, he rejects the sentimentality he finds in Mediterranean songs, which are in his eyes the cheapest, most vulgar, 27 Shlomo Elbaz, “Israel, les Juifs et la Méditerranée ou: Une Identité Culturelle à Califourchon,” Journal of Mediterranean Studies 2, no. 4 (1994). Here quoted from a shortened English version: Elbaz, “Israel, the Jews and the Mediterranean,” 84.

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superficial, and most commercial attempts to create something that tourists would expect to find in the region. Yet, literature according to Calderon, provides a kind of a remote vision of what the Mediterranean really has to offer. He explains how writers develop new perspectives, although these blueprints cannot be used immediately, but must be evaluated from the perspective of the longue durée. These concepts are, according to Calderon, elitist and not political. As he explains, “Brisa [ Israeli Mediterranean Television Channel, AN] is superficial and vulgar and is destroying the Mediterranean concept.” The Mediterranean Idea cannot be converted into an “Israeli Hollywood.” According to Calderon something new has been created in the last twenty years within Israeli society, a kind of pluralism rather than the uniformity of the melting pot, which failed. Moreover, he argues, there is no single direction in which cultural developments in Israel are moving, but rather many different currents.28 Baruch Kimmerling also argues along these lines, stating: “Within the Israeli state, a system of cultural and social plurality is emerging, but in the absence of a concept or ideology of multiculturalism.”29 For the writer Abraham B. Yehoshua, the Mediterranean identity offers the opportunity to reconcile the East-West tension within Israeli society and develop a multicultural society: “The Mediterranean—the Mediterranean identity, composed of Greece, Italy, Egypt, Turkey. This is our identity, and I think this identity will compose the two elements of East and West together.”30 He also draws on the idea of multiculturalism and emphasizes the physical proximity within the region: Yam Tikhoniut means ancient and very important cultures that are the basic cultures of the world, the Greek-Roman culture. (. . .) These basic cultures are to be found within each other, all of this (different ruins on top of each other) is to be found here, in direct physical neighborhood. These things could very well be a model for multiculturalism, (. . .) it can also serve as a mission for the world (. . .): cultures can be together, without any conflict.

28 Nissim Calderon, Pluralistim be’al-corcham: Al ribui ha-tarbuiot shel ha-Israelim (Multiculturalism versus pluralism in Israel) (Haifa: Haifa University Press & Zmora-Bitan, 2000), 224. 29 Kimmerling, The Invention and Decline of Israeliness, 2. 30 Rebecca Honig, “Art, History, and the Search for an Israeli Identity (Interview with Abraham B. Yehoshua),” Yale Israel Journal 2 (2003), http://www.yaleisraeljournal .com/fall2003/interview.php (accessed November 22, 2007).

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Yehoshua goes even further by arguing that Yam Tikhoniut is a concept necessary to the survival of the Israeli state. For him, the Arabs are part of a Mediterranean identity, the Israeli Arabs even more so since they are also familiar with the Israeli codes of behavior. This identity question is today a question of life or death for us. (. . .) Investment in this [ Mediterranean, AN ] identity is a question of life for us. We need to explain to the Arabs that we are not Westerners here. We are part of this Yam Tikhoniut and we need to speak to them about these notions. (. . .) I call on Europe to enter this issue, Europe could give the keys, that is one of the big roles of Europe, to include them to take part in this, in order to neutralize these mines.

The Algerian-born writer Erez Bitton designed a blueprint for society and described his vision of Yam Tikhoniut in an article published in 1983 in his literary journal Apirion—Cultural and Social Review.31 His vision is geared toward the Mediterranean and presents a solution to inner-Israeli divisions. Bitton emphasizes that for him the difference between Yam Tikhoniut and Mizrahiut is purely semantic: “My use of the term Mediterraneanism is chiefly due to the fact that this term is likely to be more easily accepted in the very polarized situation in which we find ourselves.”32 According to Erez Bitton, Yam Tikhoniut is a chance to soften the impact of the constantly colliding concepts of Orient and Occident and to constitute a common concept within society, one that blends both approaches. In this amalgamation, Erez Bitton wishes for both: the warm-hearted characteristics of the Mediterranean societies, such as hospitality, openness, and an emphasis on family, as well as proven achievements of Western-style democracies. This synthesis, so Bitton argues, would enable an integration of the conflicting poles within Israeli society. The fact that he uses a personal metaphor to explain his point illustrates his personal involvement in promoting the idea of Yam Tikhoniut: I am like a house with three floors. The first floor is the Islamic-EasternJewish culture. The second floor is the Israeli culture. The third floor is the interaction between the first two—a universal synthesis between all elements.

According to Erez Bitton, the purpose of his journal Apirion (Heb. canopy) is to express the Mediterranean orientation of literary works created in Israel and other countries of the region, thereby providing a platform for exchange and dialogue. 32 Erez Bitton, “Davar ha-orekh (Editorial),” Apirion 2 (1983/84). 31

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As for the contemporary discussion on Yam Tikhoniut, Bitton criticizes the mostly Ashkenazi intellectuals, who are driven by their fear of the continuous Orientalization of Israeli society, remarking: “Physically they live here, but not mentally.” In addition, he sharply criticizes the search for the smallest common denominator on the level of popular culture, which basically results in “Falafel and big emotions.” As seen above, the claim that it is primarily Ashkenazi intellectuals who cling to the concept of Yam Tikhoniut is far too simple. If one wants to find a common thread that runs through this ‘Synthesis Model,’ the strong desire to overcome Israel’s diverse conflicts and eventually find a way to integrate into the region is where it can be found. Along the same lines, German-born industrialist Stef Wertheimer articulates a new economic vision for Israeli society. His initiative touches on the themes discussed above, the Israeli locus as well as the synthesis idea, but forms a new approach, due to its essentially economic focus. 4. Socioeconomic Model: “To turn points of friction into points of partnership” In 1993, former Israeli foreign minister Shimon Peres formulated his vision of a ‘New Middle East’,33 one that promoted economic cooperation and a common market as a means for rapprochement and dialogue between nations and people in the region. Likewise, Stef Wertheimer developed an approach to the region that does not start from common historical roots, but sees Israel as part of a larger socioeconomic zone. Wertheimer, who immigrated to Palestine in 1936, sees the Mediterranean region as one economic unit and developed a model, based on industry, settlement, and education that he expects will redraw the map of the Middle East. In Teffen, about a two and a half hour drive from Tel Aviv, in the hills of the Galilee, Wertheimer is realizing his personal Zionist utopia, “the third phase of Zionism,” which should create a “normal country, even if the people are not always normal.” Similar to Peres’s vision of a ‘New Middle East,’ Wertheimer’s ideas develop a new regional framework for Israel. But by suggesting and implementing specific projects, Wertheimer’s ideas go beyond mere theory. Starting from the observation that Israel is more European

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Shimon Peres, The New Middle East (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 2003).

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than Middle Eastern, and therefore remaining rather isolated in the region, he reasons that it is necessary to develop structures for regional economic cooperation. Wertheimer formulated a social and economic model to ideally serve as a blueprint for a “new Israel.” Oz Almog argues that this socioeconomic model for ‘idealistic industry’ already has been taken up by society and indicates a new belief in the democratic values of equal rights, individual competition, and private enterprise: “These new values have effectively inaugurated a new secular religion, which is being adopted by growing segments of the Israeli population: the ‘democratic faith.’ ”34 Looking at the potential of this plan, Wertheimer argues that over the long haul this model can serve as an integrating force for the whole Mediterranean region, thereby promoting peace between Israel and its neighbors, an argument that also played an important role within the framework of the Oslo Accords. Wertheimer believes that aspirations to success and desire for prosperity create a common economic goal among Israel and its neighbors, reduce envy, and foster economic progress. The creation of a common interest is both his goal and tool to “make peace in a capitalistic way.” His vision to “turn points of friction into points of partnership” starts with cross-border industrial parks in Jordan and Israel, and then expands further to include the Palestinians, the Lebanese, and other neighbors seeking a higher standard of living. He has already started to establish an industrial park in Turkey, as well as one in Rafah, the border area between Egypt, Israel, and the Gaza Strip, whose extension has been hampered by the outbreak of the second Intifada. Precisely because of the political drawback in the years after the outbreak of the Intifada, Wertheimer continues to stick to his motto of investing in peace: “It is less expensive to finance industrial parks than fighter aircraft and tanks.” Despite the disenchanting political developments after the second Intifada, Wertheimer still has faith in his ideals and sees Israel as part of the Mediterranean region, which reaches from the Maghreb to Turkey and Spain. He is deeply motivated by his Zionist convictions and wants to make Israel a peaceful, prosperous, and livable space, with a society that is geared toward the Mediterranean. In general, this motivation is, to a greater or lesser extent, a prevalent trait among those who feel drawn to the Mediterranean Idea.

34 Oz Almog, “Shifting the Centre from National to Individual and Universe: The New ‘Democratic Faith’ of Israel,” Israel Affairs 8 (2002): 32.

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I see the whole problem basically in the question: how does one make a lived space out of Israel? Fact is, we sit here at the shores of the Mediterranean and also in the Middle East. Fact is also, that through cultural and economic development we are closer to Europe, since we don’t have any oil. (. . .) It is all about the search for a healthy place for Israel.

Stef Wertheimer stands out among the people interviewed for this analysis since he actively participates in neither the intellectual nor academic discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in the Israeli public, nor is his economic blueprint widely known by those involved in the discourse. What makes his vision so central for the context analyzed here is that at the heart of his economic blueprint stands the Mediterranean Sea, which functions as the model’s backbone. The basis for his economic vision is the locus, the very place where Israel is located. Starting from the realities on the ground, he develops his central assessment, i.e., economically Israel’s future has to be linked to the Mediterranean, even though his personal preferences clearly lie in the direction of the Southern European part of the Mediterranean (see fig. 29, page 298). Deeply rooted in his German background, Wertheimer founded the Museum des Deutschsprachigen Judentums in Teffen, a museum dedicated to the achievements of the German-speaking immigrants of the Fifth Aliya, the so-called Yekkes, who left a remarkable imprint on the emerging society in Palestine. This suggests that his activities concerning Israel’s new regional affiliation derive from a deep Zionist conviction and his wish to economically adjust the great imbalance between Israel and its neighbors. In addition, an improved quality of life in Israel will help to ease conflicts within society. By means of this “Mediterranean renaissance” and this “Mediterranean revival through export industries” he hopes to create equal counterparts among Israel’s neighbors in order to foster peace in the region. 5. Critical Voices The following section introduces those voices that are critical of the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut. Each of the critics discussed in this chapter frames his or her arguments in different ways and focuses on different issues. Due to their variety, and since no overarching larger theme could be identified among them, these critics are subsumed in this general subchapter. However, an argument shared by most of them is that Yam Tikhoniut is a proxy argument that distracts from or covers-up the burning issues of the time.

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a) Romanticized Model: “An invention by outside observers and imposed on Israeli society” The most prominent exponent of this perspective is the historian Yaacov Shavit, who is basically suspicious of the Mediterranean Idea and criticizes what he considers to be an overblown sense of importance and meaning in the present debate. Despite his criticism, Shavit has actively been engaged in the discussion since its beginning, and in 1988 he wrote the essay: The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism’: The Origins, Meaning, and Application of a Geo-Cultural Notion in Israel,35 which was an important marker in the discussion analyzed here. Several essays followed in which Shavit explained his skeptical attitude toward the Mediterranean Idea: he believes it is artificial, an invention of outside observers like “visitors, tourists, immigrants and minorities.”36 He claims that the Mediterranean Idea derived from the pink-tinted glasses of European travelers, who created a myth from the outside that was projected onto the region and later was adapted by its inhabitants: (. . .) a cultural fiction, by force of repetition becomes an accepted cultural ideal. The unity of the culture and the unity of the consciousness of the ‘Mediterranean region’ exist mainly in the imagination of the ‘outside’ observer, and it is this observer who has attached this image to the Mediterranean cultures so that they will adopt it as a definition of self identity.37

Shavit’s central argument focuses on the outsider’s view of the Mediterranean, which results in idealization. In his Mediterranean Anthology (2004) he presents a collection of texts that investigate the sources of this Mediterranean imagery and analyze its developments and acceptance over time. Thus, he explains that the Mediterranean has a great romantic aura and many authors were enchanted by the Mediterranean characteristics and yearned for its scenery. The frequently described clarity of light has excited Northern European travelers for centuries, tempting them to flee from the dark and cold winters of their homelands. In their literary and artistic works they created a typical inhabitant Shavit, “The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism.’ ” Yaacov Shavit, “Idea mesha’asha’at ve-af meta’ata’at (An amusing and misleading idea),” Ma’ariv, Pessach Supplement 1996. As to Shavit’s assertion that immigrants and minorities are outsiders, it should be critically noted here that Israeli society consists mostly of immigrants, and each ethnic group forms a minority vis-à-vis the other. 37 Yaacov Shavit, “Mediterranean History and the History of the Mediterranean: Further Reflections,” Journal of Mediterranean Studies 4, no. 2 (1994): 325. 35 36

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of the region who fit their stereotypes and fulfilled their longings for an ideal Mediterranean scenery.38 Shavit sees the Mediterranean Idea as an outlet for the nostalgia that arose north of the Alps, and as an imaginary product of people who yearned for the Mediterranean landscape and lemon tree, the light, air, and water.39 Shavit stresses the revival of European romanticism, which played a central role in the transformation of the Mediterranean into a model of humanistic existence, a synthesis of antique worlds and ideals. Elsewhere, he calls this romantic idealization and glorification of the Mediterranean “Philo Yam Tikhoniut.” In Shavit’s eyes, the inclination—or obsession as he calls it—to identify a cultural ideal with a limited geographical space, and to label this ideal with the name of the region is a futile play on words.40 I am of the opinion that this presumed unity and uniformity have been created mainly at the historian’s and geographer’s desks and in the imagination of artists and men of letters, who created a geo-cultural image and metaphor rather than a ‘real’ geo-cultural profile.41

He does not reject the thesis that the Mediterranean world created similar lifestyles in the region; his main criticism is aimed at the use of the Mediterranean image and certain Mediterranean characteristics “in cultural polemics concerning both national identity and belonging.”42 Apart from all these coherent reflections it remains unclear which position Shavit really holds on the contemporary phenomenon of Yam Tikhoniut as an option for Israeli society. On the one hand, Shavit calls the Mediterranean Idea a myth, invented by outside observers and imposed on Israeli society, thereby continuously unmasking those wearers of pink-tinted glasses. On the other hand, there is no doubt that he is also fascinated by the manifestations of Yam Tikhoniut in Israeli daily life, invented or not: for decades in his academic work he closely observed the increasing references to the phenomenon. His observations are enriched by examples of Yam Tikhoniut’s manifestations, which he has taken from the vast collection of newspaper clippings he has gathered over the years. Despite the fact that Shavit criticizes the 38 Id., ed., Anthologia yam-Tikhonit (A Mediterranean anthology), Ha-sidrah ha-yam-Tikhonit (Tel Aviv: Yedioth Ahronoth, 2004). 39 Id., “Mediterranean History and the History of the Mediterranean,” 314. 40 Id., “Tel Aviv al ha-yam ha-Tikhon.” 41 Id., “The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism,’ ” 98. 42 Ibid., 105.

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airiness of the Mediterranean concept, he admits that it has become popular and even useful: “(. . .) the very fact that the Mediterranean world is so multifaceted enables everyone to invent a Mediterranean of his own.”43 Shavit calls the Mediterranean Idea “fashionable” and terms the expressions common to the discourse extremely “vague and obscure.”44 However, what specific stand he has toward the potential of Yam Tikhoniut as an option for Israeli society is not entirely comprehensible. His dedication to the subject and his frequent clashes with ‘agents’ of Yam Tikhoniut, who, according to Shavit, connect a specific agenda to its promotion, show his interest and somewhat compassionate position on the Mediterranean Idea and its reception. Yet, the most interesting aspects for my research context are Shavit’s remarks concerning the circumstances in which the increased reference to Yam Tikhoniut occurs. Yam Tikhoniut, according to Shavit, is nothing else but a cultural metaphor. The observer’s relation to this metaphor should not focus on the question of whether it represents fiction or reality, but how we look at the new reality that creates this kind of cultural metaphor.45 Along with Shavit, it is argued here that the cultural realities in which the idea of Yam Tikhoniut surfaces is of particular interest and reveals the symptoms of the general changes taking place in Israel. b) Escapism: “A Mediterranean Pleasure Cruise” Those who charge escapism perceive Yam Tikhoniut both as a convenient cultural utopia and a dangerous flight from reality. The prominent exponent of this position is the orientalist, publicist, and former deputy mayor of Jerusalem Meron Benvenisti, who argues that the Mediterranean’s cultural identity is merely a fiction, actually a “Mediterranean pleasure cruise.”46 In the following, the focus is on his argumentation since it incorporates many relevant aspects for this model: his rationale is characterized by a purely political approach and

43 Shavit, “Mediterranean History and the History of the Mediterranean: Further Reflections,” 325. 44 Id., “The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism,’ ” 97. 45 Id., “Tel Aviv al ha-yam ha-Tikhon,” 14. 46 Meron Benvenisti, “Namal yam Tikhoni kusav (False Mediterranean port),” Haaretz, March 21, 1996.

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is driven by the painful realization that Israel is part of the region, with all the complications that implies. As we saw before in the ‘Synthesis Model,’ which considers Yam Tikhoniut as a solution for the East-West paradoxes, both within society and, in the long run, also between Israel and its neighbors, Benvenisti reverses this argument. He harshly rejects the concept arguing that it is a flight from the ‘real option.’ Asked what constitutes the real option, he explained: The real option for Israelis is to stop being immigrants, to stop having an immigrant culture and to begin to realize, that we belong to this land. To begin to measure it by the cultural affinity and relationships to the Arabs, who are legitimates, natives. As long as they [the advocates of Yam Tikhoniut, AN ] insist on cultural disengagement with the area in which they live, the whole thing is meaningless for me.

As discussed above, Benvenisti personally sees himself linked to the Mediterranean, belonging to this region, “(. . .) the Mediterranean is the essence of my family’s heritage.” He nevertheless strongly discards the Mediterranean Idea because he sees it as a distraction from the genuine cleavages in society. Arguing that reconciliation with its closest neighbors, the Palestinians, is the most important mission for Israeli society, he clearly links his rejection of Yam Tikhoniut to the unresolved Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Due to its orientation seaward and its concomitant turning away from the conflict, Yam Tikhoniut is in his eyes disqualified from being a real option. He becomes agitated when talking about the escapist Mediterranean fashion. In order to visualize his point of view, he takes me out onto his balcony, pointing at the Palestinian houses standing in close proximity to his own house, which is situated near the Green Line in the neighborhood of Mount Scopus in Jerusalem: I am a Mediterranean person and my families never left the Mediterranean shores. So this idea must flow in my veins. But I do not buy that. I don’t think I identify with Spain or Greece. (. . .) I belong here. This [ Yam Tikhoniut, AN ] is a very convenient philosophy (. . .). The real issue is my relationships with the villages about 500 yards from my balcony.

He goes even further and sees in Yam Tikhoniut not only a fashion, but a real danger of turning your back to and escaping from the harsh realities in the Middle East. By constructing a comfortable cultural utopia, the burning issues of the times are neglected: “(. . .) the cultural existence of the Hebrew Israeli entity depends on confrontation with

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the real cultural gap and with an unsolved conflict and there is no possibility to run away to the sea.”47 Yam Tikhoniut in his eyes is doomed to failure: “who believes in the Mediterranean detour won’t come further than a gulp of Arak.”48 I want writers, authors to face the cultural dilemmas of Israel. Not find a way ‘out’ by identifying with the cultures of the cafés at the sea shore. (. . .) The whole situation is so complicated that the escapism to the Mediterranean is only the symptom, not the solution.49

It became evident that there is a discrepancy between feeling at home in the Mediterranean and Benvenisti’s criticism of Israel’s policies toward the Palestinians. Deeply troubled by the contradictions between Israel’s professed humanistic and democratic values, and the colonialist character of Zionist settlement, his vehement rejection of Yam Tikhoniut can be traced back to his perception that this concept is just a continuation of the Israeli disregard of the landscape’s memory, “a land that never forgets any of her sons or daughters.”50 With great pain Benvenisti, who was once an integral part of the Zionist labor movement, discusses the power effects of mapping spaces according to an ideology, or the “Hebraization of the landscape,”51 and thereby the process of appropriating Palestinian land. Despite Benvenisti’s criticism of Zionist settlement policies, he remains on the Zionist side by emphasizing his “birthright to this land” and rejects the interpretation that his “birth in this land was an imperialist sin.” His refusal of Yam Tikhoniut and his reflections are motivated by a strong desire for a peaceful future in a shared homeland: Perhaps my genuine affinity and shared nostalgia, my willingness to assure responsibility by openly expressing a sense of guilt for wrongdoings and compassion for suffering will help rekindle hope for a better, more equitable coexistence in our common homeland.52

47 Id., “Eskapism se nigmar be-legimat Arak (Escapism that ends with a gulp of Arak),” Ma’ariv, Pessah Supplement 1996. 48 Ibid. 49 Benvenisti, “Namal yam Tikhoni kusav.” 50 Meron Benvenisti, Sacred Landscape: The Buried History of the Holy Land Since 1948 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 9. Laurence L. Silberstein provides an in-depth interpretation of the disillusionment that becomes apparent in Benvenisti’s writings, see Laurence J. Silberstein, The Postzionism Debates: Knowledge and Power in Israeli Culture (London: Routledge, 1999), 58–65. 51 Benvenisti, Sacred Landscape, 37. 52 Ibid., 5.

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Meron Benvenisti’s reaction to the Yam Tikhoniut idea is rigid and almost dogmatic. His strong denial of Yam Tikhoniut and his pleadings to direct attention to the unsettled Israeli-Palestinian conflict instead, might seem to express his conviction that one has to choose one of the two options. Yet, this perception runs contrary to the Yam Tikhoniut idea, which emphasizes simultaneousness as well as nonexclusive approaches that supplement rather than replace existing modes. c) Fear of Levantinization: “We will be lost within a terrible Levantine dunghill” This position equates the discourse on Mediterraneanism with Orientalization, Arabization, and Levantinization. According to a prevailing sentiment among those who fear Levantinization, Yam Tikhoniut is the lowest common denominator and represents vulgar folklore rather than culture. There is a strong emotional reaction, especially among the older Ashkenazi generation, but also among Russian immigrants, to this growing Levantinization, which they perceive as a threat. The manifestation of these reactions is best found in discussions that take place in the coffeehouses, which to this day are gathering places for those who founded the state, the so-called Ashkenazi elite or generation of the Palmach. The members of this group fear the continuous ‘Orientalizing’ and ‘Levantinizing’ of Israeli society, with all the unpleasant connotations these words include: corruption, dictatorship, backwardness, poverty, and retrogression. They fear a takeover of Western-shaped Israeli culture by Yam Tikhoniut, which to them symbolizes the antithesis of elite culture, as well as the wishful thinking of leftist intellectuals. Some even believe that the alleged discrimination of Mizrahim in the founding years of the state by the Ashkenazi elite is now being reversed. The writer Yoram Kaniuk polemically argues that the conflict is about “Beethoven versus Umm-Khoulthoum, the Salzburg Festival versus Ezel Parnas ba-Taverna.” In the stand of the Ashkenazi veterans, characterized by polemics and a black and white depiction, the continuous Levantinization began with the mass immigration of non-European Jews to Israel after the foundation of the state. The late Baruch Kimmerling described how the immigration from oriental countries fundamentally changed the character of Israeli society. The wave of immigration reshaped the perception of collective identity by adding new ethnic and cultural components that were alien to the veteran ‘old guard’ of the establishment.

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Kimmerling evaluated the impact of this wave of immigrants from non-European countries as follows: The mass immigration of non-European Jews had the potential to fundamentally change the system through ‘Levantinization,’ and, from the perspective of the European veterans, to downgrade it to the ‘low quality’ of the surrounding Arab states and societies. In stereotypical terms, these immigrants were perceived as possessing a certain premodern biblical Jewish authenticity, although at the same time seen as aggressive, alcoholic, cunning, immoral, lazy, noisy, and unhygienic.53

This anxiety has increased since the Knesset elections in 1977, which were already indicating a polarization within society on the ethnic level. In the eyes of the Ashkenazi veterans, the continuous Levantinization involves a downgrading of their cultural accomplishments, and they fear the country will become just another Middle Eastern state. The party Shinui (Change), (re-)founded in 1999 by the late journalist Josef (‘Tommy’) Lapid, the last Holocaust survivor in the Knesset, is often referred to as (secular) neo-Zionist, as it has a strong hawk position concerning the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and stands for militant anti-religious positions. The central principle behind his party, which entered the coalition after wining 15 seats (out of 120) in the Knesset in the 2003 elections, is the separation between state and religion, and the primary goal is winning the fight against the influential ultraorthodox parties in the Knesset. Shinui claims that the main threat to Israel’s existence, next to Haredim (ultra-orthodox Jews) and Palestinians, is the Russification, Orientalization, and Levantinization of Israeli society. The Eurocentric, chauvinistic, and anti-Mizrahi statements of Josef Lapid were colorful and numerous. Here is but one example: Levantiniut is a thin layer of European varnish spread over Mizrahi decadence. And under the Levantine tranquility, the lava of Arab nationalism and Islamic fundamentalism is simmering. We don’t have anything to look for in this culture and we have no reason to yearn for it. Israel exists thanks to her being a western state, a state of high tech, a country that has adapted itself to the values of European culture and the concepts of Anglo Saxon democracy which are the total contrast to Levantine contamination, that some (. . .) people long for.54

Kimmerling, The Invention and Decline of Israeliness, 230. Josef Lapid, Od ani medaber (As long as I am speaking) ( Jerusalem: Keter, 1998), 355–56. 53

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Although Lapid’s statements do not refer directly to Yam Tikhoniut, but rather to Levantiniut and Mizrahiut in general, his assertions are still relevant here. His extreme position describes the general fear of ‘the Other’ and can also be applied to the different manifestations of Yam Tikhoniut discussed in this analysis: (. . .) we are in a corrupt, lazy, backward Middle Eastern environment. What keeps us above water is our cultural difference. The fact that we are a forward outpost of Western civilization. If our Westernism erodes, we won’t have a chance. If we let the Eastern European ghetto and the North African ghetto take over, we will have nothing to float on. We will blend into the Semitic region and be lost within a terrible Levantine dunghill.55

This model has many varieties and cannot be reduced to one specific argument. Generally speaking, the different manifestations of ‘the Other’ in Israeli society are perceived as threats to long-established structures. Thus, the post-Zionist thinkers’ claim has over the years been to be open to the voices of ‘the Other’ in Israeli society, i.e., Mizrahim, women, Israeli Arabs, etc. This ‘Fear of Levantinization’ is one variant of the deep ethnic divide that is still present in Israeli society, whereas Yam Tikhoniut is being lumped together here with every other non-Western cultural expression. d) Diluted Mizrahiut: “Polishing up the Mizrahi Image” This category breaks rank, since it did not surface, like those models discussed above, in the recent discussion on Israel’s cultural place in the region. The perception of Yam Tikhoniut as ‘Diluted Mizrahiut’ distinguishes this model from the others discussed above: here it is a matter of re-labeling a familiar phenomenon (Mizrahiut), which is already part of the Israeli discussion. Some commentators argue that the discussion on Yam Tikhoniut is not a recent phenomenon, but has been part of the political discourse in Israel since the 1950s—in the guise of ‘ethnic oriental Israeliness,’ which is called here Mizrahiut. The term Mizrahiut implies, according to the prevailing sentiment among Mizrahim themselves, a position of ethnicity. The notion Yam Tikhoniut resurfaced in the context of polishing up the Mizrahi image. Over the years, Mizrahi culture was forced into the inferior position of ‘ethnic’ culture vis-à-vis ‘elite’ culture. The label of ethnicity is 55

Tommy Lapid quoted in Ari Shavit, “Be Afraid,” Haaretz, December 20, 2002.

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often seen as stigmatizing, whereas the term Yam Tikhoniut carries fewer derogatory connotations: it is less oriental, more European, and overlaid with the Western images of ‘classic’ culture. Naming a TV channel “Brisa,” (Israeli Mediterranean Television Channel), which was actually aimed at the Mizrahi segment of the population, instead of Mizrahi Channel, is a prime example for this practice of subversive labeling and the ‘diluting’ of unpleasant connotations. The critics of this practice argue that this ‘Diluted Mizrahiut’ is a convenient way to overcome the ethnic divide within society without acknowledging the Arab component of Mizrahiut. Among Mizrahi intellectuals, the discussion of Yam Tikhoniut is often dismissed for the reason that it is nothing more than an attempt to find the lowest common denominator. It has been regretted that the TV channel Brisa and the music genre Taverna became almost the only prominent symbols of Mizrahiut, thereby obscuring the richness of Mizrahi culture. Moroccanborn teacher and poet Sami Shalom Chetrit cynically explains why intellectuals, mostly with Ashkenazi and Zionist background, feel so attracted to Yam Tikhoniut, which is for him a euphemistic version of Middle Easternism: [ Yam Tikhoniut, AN ] is much more comfortable. Mentally—Zionism relates to the Middle East as a foreign entity inside a body that pushes us away. From there come people that blow themselves up, planes that blow up. Many things that are simply not comfortable. This is much more than escapism, there is no other option for this country but the sea. It is a mental process, it is difficult not to understand this. People look outside and they only see the sea.

In its main features, Chetrit sees Yam Tikhoniut as a Western-oriented model that is less oriental and more European. He cynically remarks that the term Yam Tikhoniut is being used in order not to say Mizrahiut, Arabness, Levantiniut, etc., terms that have negative, even derogatory meanings: We are all Israelis at the Mediterranean, with salad and listen to Greek music. (. . .) You don’t have to feel threatened by foreignness; this Yam Tikhoniut is almost Europe. (. . .) They want to offer something that integrates with softness, and that enables the whole country to sing together at the Independence Day concert.

“With the concept of Yam Tikhoniut, they,” he says, thereby distancing himself from the Zionist hegemonic elite, which in his eyes develops blueprints for Israeli society, “are trying to find a way to narrow the

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ethnic tensions, a comfortable compromise. (. . .) Why shall I all of a sudden decide that I am Greek? What about all the Syrian, Iraqi, Yemenite history?” According to Chetrit, Yam Tikhoniut erases history since it neglects many important components of Mizrahi identity. From this point of view Yam Tikhoniut, articulated and promoted by the establishment, is a continuation of the Zionist narrative of denial, erasure, and exclusion of Mizrahi historical identity. It became evident in this chapter that the reaction to Yam Tikhoniut is not dependent on the ethnic origin of an individual. As shown, there are diverse reasons beyond one’s own self-perception to embrace or reject Yam Tikhoniut. Notwithhstanding the risk of oversimplification, it is argued here that the strong rejection, as exemplified above by Sami Shalom Chetrit’s comments, is a recurring reaction among Mizrahi intellectuals. Generally, Mizrahi intellectuals claim that the rich cultural heritage of Mizrahim is subject to continuous diminution by the patronizing perceptions of the establishment. Because of the misleading confusion of Yam Tikhoniut with Mizrahiut, and the common use of both as interchangeable terms, the concept of Yam Tikhoniut is perceived as a continuation of the marginalization of Mizrahi culture to mere folklore. e) Yam Tikhoniut as Anti-Americanism? “Resistance to global ‘McDonaldization’ ” In this context of ‘belonging’ it should be mentioned briefly, that Yam Tikhoniut is not the only blueprint discussed in Israel. Other models, like the traditional Zionist model, the Orthodox model (‘Judaization’), and theories of post-Zionism and neo-Zionism56 offer their own perceptions of society, and are in constant struggle to shape and re-shape Israeli cultural identity. In the light of other powerful trends in society, like growing Americanization and globalization, the Mediterranean Option has exerted a comparatively marginal influence on Israeli society. Yet, the discourse on the Mediterranean analyzed here is interconnected with the continuous Americanization of Israeli society and plays an important role within the context of globalization versus the crucial role of the local. 56 On the subject of the polar foci of Israeli identity see in detail: Ram, “The State of the Nation.”

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The French scholar Thierry Fabre argues that the Mediterranean way of life, which is above all an art of living as he states, is on the one hand the expression of a rejection of the growing influences of globalization, and of cultural uniformity and homogeneity, yet at the same time a supreme affirmation of global exchange. “The Mediterranean way of life (. . .) is the affirmation of a polyphonic culture, the expression of a culture of our times, of an era of global exchange: an era of Tout Monde (All the World) and of ‘creolization.’ ”57 In view of the emerging Yam Tikhoniut, the local is being emphasized, with some people going so far as to argue that Yam Tikhoniut can be seen as a counter-movement to overall globalization: “(. . .) one may even argue that in the Israeli context Mediterraneanism can be also interpreted as an oblique, even unconscious form of resistance to global ‘MacDonaldization’ ”58 In the light of what has been emphasized before, that every goal-oriented act is contrary to the nature of Yam Tikhoniut, this interpretation seems to be overstated. Nevertheless, the American influences on Israeli daily culture and lifestyle, as well as in literature and art, are omnipresent. This process of progressive Americanization has to be explained with the general Western inclination to globalization and a fascination with American (Western) popular culture and the ‘American way of life,’ which promises freedom, democracy, and equality. As art and literature critics have shown, American themes, characters, and landscapes had entered the Israeli literary and art scene by the 1960s and had long-term effects on the development of the avant-garde. This trend was reinforced and expanded into the field of daily life and popular culture with the introduction of cable TV in Israel in the early 1990s, as well as the ubiquitous Internet virtual reality. The American spirit of political correctness can also be sensed in the current discourse in Israel, especially with regard to the role of minorities. The evolution of additional concepts, here most dominantly related to American or to Western culture, reflects, among other things, the decline of Zionist hegemonic culture.59 57 Thierry Fabre, “American Way of Life vs. Ways of Life in the Mediterranean,” Rive—Review of Mediterranean Politics and Culture, no. 1 (1996): 84. 58 Seroussi, “ ‘Mediterraneanism’ in Israeli Music: An Idea and Its Permutations.” See also the website of the “Dipartimento di Musica e Spettacolo,” Bologna, http://www .muspe.unibo.it/period/ma/index/number7/seroussi/ser_00.htm (accessed November 22, 2007). 59 For the fascination with global (mostly western) fashion as well as the import and

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Apart from the direct import of American culture into Israeli culture, which is part of a global phenomenon and has many parallels in the international context, there are those examples where American themes are adapted to the local conditions: for example, the popular fast-food hamburger chain McDavid was established in Israel in the late 1970s, long before McDonalds was introduced to the country. The geographer Maoz Azaryahu argues that this phenomenon is an interplay between the American model and local conditions, actually a local variation on a global theme: “What seems to be a global process of Americanization is actually a set of different Americanizations, each representing the impact of America and American popular culture on the local cultural context.”60 In his opening lecture of the international conference Spatial Identity: Israeli Culture in the Mediterranean Basin in 2001, the poet Meir Wieseltier emphasizes Israel’s Mediterranean orientation as a self-contained mode, which is not characterized by an American orientation. Moreover, Wieseltier calls for an emancipation from American influence and sees in the Israeli orientation to the Mediterranean a vital necessity for the future of the state. He strongly promotes Israel’s orientation toward the sea: Our geopolitical and geo-cultural location governs the nature of our attachments. Israel was never the fifty-something state of the United States of America, as the old dream of some fools in the Israeli elites would have it. And woe be unto us if we see ourselves as the carrier of American aircraft stationed in the eastern Mediterranean! The constant development of Israel’s Mediterranean identity from all points of view—economic, political and cultural—is a vital necessity for the future of this state. And first of all, we have to accept our affinity with the region and with the Mediterranean wholeheartedly. We must treat it seriously. And until this miracle occurs, we have much work to do in the sphere of culture and cultural dialogue.61

The discourse on the continuous Americanization and globalization of Israeli society is not completely detached from the discussion on Yam

copy of trends, see Oz Almog, “Tattooing the Taboo: The Tattoo Trend in Israel,” Israel Studies Forum 19, no. 1 (2003): 123–35. 60 Maoz Azaryahu, “McIsrael? On The ‘Americanization of Israel,’ ” Israel Studies 5, no. 1 (2000): 42. 61 Meir Wieseltier, “Being Mediterranean: A Threat, a Hope or a Refuge?” (opening lecture presented at the conference Spatial Identity: Israeli Culture in the Mediterranean Basin, Sde Boker, Be’er Sheva, 2001). Manuscript by the courtesy of the author.

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Tikhoniut, but rather one variation within the discourse of belonging and finding a place. Yet, it would be insufficient to equate the universal phenomenon of Americanization with Yam Tikhoniut, as both have different features: the continuous Americanization in the global context entails a loss of sense of place; everything seems to be in flux. By contrast, Yam Tikhoniut emphasizes the local and regional specifics. In keeping with Azaryahu’s position, it is argued here that in light of the growing Americanization of Israeli society, the regional element is of increasing importance and is used as a counterpoint to the global. One can even argue that the emphasis of the local and the idea of Mediterraneanism in the region are enhanced by the growing influences of Americanization. In the Mediterranean region this interdependence is creating a certain unity, despite the diversity, as the Lebanese writer Elias Khoury explains. He sees diffuse bonds, fostered by the growing Americanization, which unite all countries of the Mediterranean: I think the Mediterranean has its own identity. The Mediterranean region is only a small region in comparison to other regions of the world. And yet it offers unique variety. The USA is much bigger, but has one single dominating culture. (. . .) Here [in the Mediterranean region, AN] we find, despite the many different cultures, an unexplained, neither political nor religious unity, that does not emerge from one single country. This unity emerges from the specific features of lifestyles. There is a unity within diversity.62

Conclusion The diverse positions regarding Yam Tikhoniut illustrate once more the multifaceted character of the disputed phenomenon, which is challenged from many sides. The examples collected here illustrate the extent to which the discussion is charged with paradoxical meaning: for some, Yam Tikhoniut incorporates the ‘social glue’ necessary for resolving disputed identity issues, for others it represents a great danger, even a threat to Israel. While some deny the existence of Yam Tikhoniut, others claim that Israel is in the midst of a Mediterranean renaissance. Despite the protracted dispute over the content of Yam Tikhoniut,

62 Elias Khoury in a TV-documentary: Jean-Denis Bonan, Mahamed Charbagi, and Thierry Fabre, “Mittelmeer: An ungezählten Ufern. Mosaik der Völker,” Themenabend Mittelmeer (1997), ARTE (aired on May 28, 2000).

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these conflicting readings of Yam Tikhoniut also provide evidence for the potential this model holds for Israeli society: it does not impose a distinct set of values, but rather wants to supplement existing modes of culture, politics, and everyday life by adding new aspects to available, and well-proven structures. Moreover, the discourse depicted here is evidence for the symptoms of a general change of values and an illustration of the internal disruption of Israeli society. It became apparent that a clear distinction had to be made between those ‘agents’ who want to promote the concept, like those discussed in the ‘Synthesis Model,’ and those who ‘just live it,’ as discussed in the ‘Locality Model.’ Further, the voices gathered here demonstrate the difficulties in finding clear categories with which to judge and evaluate the discourse since the voices presented here not only comment on the discourse from the outside, but themselves play an active part in it at the same time. However, it is argued here that Yam Tikhoniut is best understood as an ongoing process of construction and that those who participate in the debate simultaneously participate in its construction.

CHAPTER FOUR

PERCEPTIONS OF THE MEDITERRANEAN REGION While tracing the complex phenomenon of Mediterraneanism and concentrating on the contemporary discussion in Israel, it became more and more evident that the historical perspectives on the Mediterranean Idea are interconnected with the present-day discourse in Israel. Thus, this last chapter looks at different historical perceptions of the Mediterranean region in relation to the present discourse on Yam Tikhoniut. This chapter deals with the Mediterranean Idea as a constructive mode, which stresses connectedness and is used as a cultural metaphor. As will be shown, the Mediterranean paradigm has been—and still is being—used in different national and religious contexts with the aim of constituting societal concepts, cultural identity, or political realities. Below, the focus is on different historical perceptions of the Mediterranean region and on those cases in which the Mediterranean paradigm has been used in order to describe an area of connectedness and exchange. Diverse historical expressions of Mediterraneanism illustrate the potential of the Mediterranean Idea, both within and beyond the specific Israeli context. For the general discussion of history, the Mediterranean paradigm offers new perspectives and is more and more becoming a viable mode for observing the past. Firstly, the discrepancies between Real and Imagined Places that can be found in the general implications of the notions Mediterranean, Orient, and Levant will be explored. The gap between real and imagined place is especially relevant within the context of the ambivalence toward the region found within the Zionist narrative. The duality within Israeli culture to merge into the East and become part of it, and on the other hand to be distinguished from it, continues to be a common feature. Secondly, some examples for the construction of a regionally based cultural identity in the countries of the Levant were collected and will help to investigate different historical approaches to the region, two of them in greater depth: the Canaanites’ approach to the region with the idea of the Merhav ha-Shemi (Heb.: Semitic Space) and Jacqueline Kahanoff ’s model of Levantiniut. Some examples from other Mediterranean societies show that the perception of the region as a whole in

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terms of cultural connectedness that transcends national boundaries is not a novel one. In fact, intellectuals throughout the region and in different periods of the twentieth century perceived the region, its cultural and historical roots beyond national boundaries. Some of them, like the Egyptian-born Kahanoff, were far ahead of their times and even anticipated the postmodernist discourse. The examples collected here show the strong association between past and present, as they often relate modern civilization to ancient cultural traditions. However, this general discussion on the historical perceptions of the Mediterranean Idea in the nineteenth and twentieth century, and the discussion about a common culture and identity in the Mediterranean region will be evaluated with regard to the specific research context of this study. Thirdly, the specific political locus of the Mediterranean Idea, which illustrates the superordinate interest in the Mediterranean network within the context of the European Union’s policies will also be examined. In this section the inner-Israeli context beyond the political implications of the Mediterranean will be discussed and it will be shown how practical policies are perceived in the region. The EuroMediterranean Partnership of November 1995—the so-called Barcelona Process—is an outside force emphasizing new regionalism and enhancing multilateral dialogue within the region. In relation to Israel, the EU’s activities support Israel’s quest for cultural integration and its search for a place within the region. At the outset of these reflections, Thierry Fabre shall be quoted, a scholar at the Maison Méditerranéenne des Sciences de l’Homme in Aixen-Provence who impressively describes the manifold attributes and ambivalences of the Mediterranean, which also become apparent in the following chapter on the diverse perceptions of the Mediterranean. He presents the Mediterranean as a complex and poetic space with diverse forms of appearances, with manifestations in the imagination as well as in reality. This perception is presented in great detail in Fabre’s remarkable volume Les Représentations de la Méditerranée, which gives voice to the manifold characteristics of the Mediterranean.1 In the following quote, he proposes to move away from the binary either/or categorizations of the region, which have not, in any case, been helpful in grasping its

1 Thierry Fabre and Robert Ilbert, ed., Les Représentations de la Méditerranée (Paris: Maisonneuve Larose, 2000).

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various features, and suggests taking the ostensibly contradictory elements of the region as a starting point for its apprehension. What about the Mediterranean? It is often perceived in fractured form, full of contradictions. It seems at once a region overflowing with conflicts as well as a united, almost idyllic whole where all its peoples are called upon to partake of the same rosy future. (. . .) Both the conflicts and the positive exchanges contribute to cloak the Mediterranean world with a sense of being and identity. The history of the Mediterranean is made up of these perpetual intertwinings, these comings and goings between agreement and disagreement, trade and war, the two main vectors of exchange. We must therefore try to perceive the Mediterranean in all its complexity and not merely in terms of the binary logic of ‘it exists/it doesn’t exist.’ We must try to understand the Mediterranean both as a frontier and a passage incorporating both the opaque and the porous, seams as well as openings.2

It is exactly due to this feature of breaking existing poles and serving as the middle ground Fabre describes here, that the Mediterranean is a viable metaphor, which used to serve—and still serves—as a constructive mode. 1. Real and Imagined Places: Mediterranean, Orient, and Levant The Mediterranean is an almost closed body of water, extending from Gibraltar in the west, to the coast of the Levant in the east, and from southern Europe to the Maghreb in the north of Africa. But the purely geographical definition does not meet the richness of the notion: the Mediterranean is also a way of life, an adjective to describe all sorts of objects, a state of mind, a mood, a vision and a belief, as the specific examples gathered in this study have illustrated. Looking at the image of the Mediterranean and the Mediterranean itself, we realize the big gap that exists between these two entities.3 The associations and symbols connected to the Mediterranean are multifaceted; they vary from the stereotypes of colors, sun, olive oil, sheep, and turquoise doors, to the negative images associated with the terms Levant and Orient, the dark side of the picturesque world of ‘Arabian Nights’: shady deals, dark alleys, filth, and a hotbed of political conflict. In the following, a closer

2 3

Fabre, “Frontiers and Passages,” 10. See Portugali, “The Mediterranean as a Cognitive Map.”

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look at the ambiguous contents of the notions Mediterranean, Orient, and Levant 4 will be taken, all of which form the mental background of the discussion on Yam Tikhoniut in Israel. The linguistic roots of all these terms are Latin: Orient and Levant refer to the direction of the rising sun, the East. This clearly indicates the European origin of the terms since these descriptions indicate that the geographical position of the viewer is in the West. The important role played by the Mediterranean in the development of Europe—and of civilization as a whole—since ancient times has been described often and in great detail. The French historian Georges Duby, for instance wrote: “In the Mediterranean region, we have the source, the innermost source of culture, from which our civilization nourishes itself.”5 In his Mediteranski Brevijar, the Croatian historian Predrag Matvejevic invites his readers to accompany him on a lively, lyrical journey through time and space, passing harbors, cities, bays, straits, islands, fisheries, shipyards, and other places. In his descriptions, the ambivalence and intensity of the region becomes apparent as he brings us closer to the diverse faces of the Mediterranean: “Over centuries, peoples and races merged, formed alliances and fought wars here, probably more than anywhere else on the planet (. . .).”6 Looking at the importance of the Mediterranean within the Zionist narrative, the sea itself was not important. In the process of moving from the Diaspora to the new homeland, the sea was the space through which one traveled in order to reach the desired homeland. However, Zionism was strongly ambivalent about the geographical region in which the ancient homeland was located: On the one hand there was the desire to blend into the region in order to become a ‘natural’ part of it. Yet on the other hand, since the Levant was perceived as uncultured and backward, the desire to maintain Western cultural standards, which derived from the Diaspora, was very much in evidence during those years. David Ben-Gurion once described the Mediterranean basin as “central in mankind’s cultural and spiritual and economic progress, of which Israel, Greece, and Rome were in ancient days the threefold 4 The linguistic roots of these terms are Latin. Orient: ‘oriens’ (East); Levant: ‘levare’ (to rise); Mediterranean: ‘medius’ (middle) and ‘terra’ (land), ‘mediterraneus’ (inland). 5 Georges Duby, “Das Erbe,” in Die Welt des Mittelmeeres: Zur Geschichte und Geographie kultureller Lebensformen, ed. Fernand Braudel, Georges Duby, and Maurice Aymard (Frankfurt am Main: 1990), 173. 6 Matvejevic, Der Mediterran, 19. This book has also been translated into Hebrew and was published by Yedioth Ahronoth’s ‘Mediterranean Series’ in 2002.

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instrument.”7 Here, the Mediterranean conveniently linked Israel with the rich cultural heritage of the classical world of Athens and Rome, whereas the terms Levant or Orient provoked completely different reactions. For centuries the Mediterranean was perceived as a place full of contradictions and ambiguities. It was depicted as a compilation of ruins, a constant reminder of a great historical past, a center of many-layered conflicts with tinderbox potential, and as a patchwork of incompatible religious and ethnic groupings. The historian Yaacov Shavit explains: “The Mediterranean region was often portrayed as sentimental, lacking in depth, crowded and vulgar: an integral part of the Levant.”8 Yet, in the nineteenth century, the Mediterranean increasingly became an area of interest for the colonial powers and an object of study for North European scholars, who used the region as a screen for their projections. From the nineteenth century on, travelers, poets, painters, and photographers have often idealized the geo-cultural space of the Mediterranean, depicting it as a kind of Arcadia bathed in light, as the cradle of civilization, and as a Dionysian realm. By the 1850s, growing waves of tourists and pilgrims to the Holy Land catalyzed the emergence of commercial travel photography along the region’s main travel routes. The increasing demand of travelers to take home with them a piece of the exotic resulted in the rapid expansion of commercial travel photography featuring ‘orientalized’ images. The powerful medium of photography shaped the way the region was perceived in the home countries of those travelers, who had pictures taken of themselves as ‘natives’ dressed in traditional garments and wearing local accessories. As a consequence, the image of the Mediterranean was transformed by ‘outsiders’, and a new romantic approach to the region was created, characterized by yearning and nostalgia, and embracing a repertoire from the past. This repertoire consisted and still consists of clichés and idealized images, as the Mediterranean was often referred to as the ‘cradle of humanity,’ the ‘birthplace and meeting point of three monotheistic religions and great cultures,’ as well as an area of ‘crosscultural fertilization.’ Despite the fact that the fabricated image of the Mediterranean and the Mediterranean itself bear little resemblance, the projections of the North onto the South formed the Mediterranean

7 8

Ben-Gurion, Israel: Years of Challenge, 215. Shavit, “The Mediterranean World and ‘Mediterraneanism,’” 104.

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iconography and still significantly influence our mental mapping of the region up to the present day. Looking at the term Orient, another expression for the region under observation here, one might argue as well that the real, geographical space has little in common with the Orient of the imagination, and associations that accompany the term bear little resemblance to the realities on the ground. A certain geographic indistinctness is characteristic for the notion Orient, which is commonly used to refer to countries of the Near, Middle, or Far East, making it overly vague. For the Western world, the Orient has always been a source of fascination, but also a source of anxiety—a region of polarities and ambivalence. ‘The Arab’ symbolizes closeness to nature and fascinated outsiders with his aura of primordial eroticism, which stands in contrast to the civilized, moral West. According to Edward Said: “The Orient was almost a European invention, and had been since antiquity a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories and landscapes, remarkable experiences.”9 For the Zionists in Erez Israel the Orient served as a projection screen for their desires up to the 1930s—desires that were twinned with a latent feeling of being threatened by the foreign and the exotic. In 1929, during the Arab uprisings in Palestine, over 130 Jews were murdered and the dream of harmoniously merging into the Arab world was shattered. These events marked the advent of a new relationship between the Jewish and Arab-Palestinian communities in Palestine. The new era was characterized by skepticism and dissociation, an inclination that was also reflected in visual arts. In recent times, especially after the terror attacks of September 11, 2001, the Orient became increasingly associated with political extremism and backwardness. Catchwords like ‘Islamist Terror,’ despotism, and religious fanaticism dominate the associations and cast a cloud over the image of the Orient as a mystical-mythical land of wonders, as well as an actual environment in which millions of different people live their daily lives. Increasingly, the Orient becomes the negative counter-image of the enlightened Western world. Unlike the ambivalent terms Orient and Mediterranean, the connotations of the term Levant were once purely negative. Geographically, the countries of the eastern Mediterranean are subsumed under the heading Levant, yet here also there is no uniform geographical

9

Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Penguin Books, 1978), 1.

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definition as to which specific countries are located in the Levant.10 As European travel literature has shown in great detail, the pejorative notion Levant is a generic term to indicate a state of anti-values and anti-culture. The ‘typical Levantine’ and Levantinism in general are associated with impurity and seen as threats to a Western value system. This perception can be found throughout the journalistic and literary texts dealing with the threat of Levantinizing an entire people. There are numerous examples of the negative Zionist perception of the Levant and the undesirable process of Levantinization, which was perceived as a social peril. David Ben-Gurion, deeply rooted in European culture, saw the Levant as a dangerous and corrupting place and is quoted as saying: “We are duty bound to fight against the spirit of the Levant, which corrupts individuals and societies.”11 As discussed above, this perception is still held among certain segments of the Israeli population. Journalist and Knesset member “Tommy” Lapid, for instance, stated in an interview with the German weekly Die Zeit: Israel will not survive if the Levantine culture, which surrounds us from the Atlantic to the Persian Gulf, also prevails here. This culture did not succeed in creating liberal institutions, democracy, and equal rights for women. We can only persist through the quality of our society.12

Since the Levantines—another pejorative term—have always been forced to survive in a heavily fluctuating environment marked by trade, seafaring, and wars, the stigma of fickleness and opportunism continues to be attached to them. The fluid movement between cultures, the mixing and mingling are what stigmatize a Levantine as suspect or even dangerous in the eyes of the Western beholder. One can argue that the criticism inherent in the term Levant “draws its strength from an unease about mixtures, a longing for clear definitions and boundaries.”13 On the other hand the Levant forms an interface between trade routes on sea and land as well as between large political and religious 10 There are those authors who limit the countries of the Levant to Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon. Others, like Ammiel Alcalay, argue that all the countries along the borders of classical Andalusian culture, including Portugal, Spain, Italy, Palestine, Egypt, Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Libya etc., make up the Levant. See Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 21. 11 Quoted after Smooha, Israel: Pluralism and Conflict, 88. 12 Josef Joffe, “ ‘Ghetto-Tore Öffnen’: Israels Justizminister Tommy Lapid über den Siedlungsstopp, die Privilegien für Religiöse und den Irak-Krieg,” Die Zeit, March 20, 2003. 13 See Schlör, Tel Aviv, 176.

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blocks. For centuries, it has been a place of encounter and cultural osmosis between the peoples of Asia, Africa, and Europe. The Levant is an imaginary geographical space, which only took shape as a result of encounter, exchange, and interaction between the various cultural worlds, between East and West. It is argued that this region offers, in addition to the concentration of national, religious, ethnic, and cultural conflicts, just as the Mediterranean does as a whole, opportunities for dialogue and multicultural coexistence. The Levantines are characterized by great cultural flexibility, and are regarded as intermediaries and go-betweens who are able to blend into a variety of environments. This positive discourse linked to Levantine characteristics can be found, for example, in the description of the ideal cultural metropolis of Alexandria: there we find hedonism and fluctuation as a condition of and for multiculturalism, openness, cosmopolitanism, and creativity. The case of Alexandria shows that the reverse image of the Levant offers the beholder a different sight of precisely this—often criticized—tangled structure, this tradition of variety and mixture. The heterogeneity, fluidity, and the constant exchange among countries does not detract from the positive perception of the region implied above, but sees in these characteristics a unique feature with a constructive potential. In 1924, for example, the first Levant Fair took place in Tel Aviv, which aimed to turn the city into a commercial gateway between two worlds and a center of commerce and trade in the Near East. Leading architects of the country presented their constructions on the fair grounds north of the city, and received international recognition. The organizers of the exhibition, which had a flying camel as its logo, used the name Levant Fair intentionally, as they wanted to revive a tradition of trade and exchange in the region. In the title Levant Fair the negative undertone was missing and the constructive qualities of the region were evoked: the Levant as an area of exchange, connectedness, and reciprocal contacts. The derogatory connotation of the term Levant was reexamined by the Cairo-born Jewish writer Jacqueline Kahanoff, who promoted an open, pluralistic society in the Levant and saw Israel as an integral part of the Mediterranean and the Levantine world. She introduced her model of Levantiniut and thereby shifted the colonialist connotations of the term Levant to a new cultural position. Kahanoff reevaluated the term Levant by emphasizing the region’s rich cultural heritage and by describing a fascinating microcosm of multiculturalism:

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Because of its diversity, the Levant has been compared to a mosaic—bits of stone of different colors assembled into a flat picture. To me it is more like a prism whose various facets are joined by the sharp edge of differences, but each of which, according to its position in a time-space continuum, reflects or refracts light. Indeed, the concept of light is contained in the word Levant as in the word Mizrach, and perhaps the time has come for the Levant to reevaluate itself by its own lights, rather than see itself through Europe’s sights, as something quaintly exotic, tired, sick and almost lifeless.14

Ammiel Alcalay, too, approaches the region of the Levant from a different angle and discusses it beyond the traditional dichotomy of Jewish versus Arab cultural heritage. For Alcalay the Levant is part of a diverse and rich cultural past: “The ancient East. The Fertile Crescent, the world of classical antiquity, various Islamic empires, the Middle East.”15 He challenges the dominant narrative of two opposing approaches to the region by arguing that Jews, just like Arabs, are native to the Levant, and thus share the same living space and experience. In Kobi Oz’s definition of the term Levant, none of the derogatory tendencies can be detected. Oz, the singer and songwriter of the ethno-pop group Tea Packs, reverses the popular accusation that being a Levantine means being everything at once and nothing in particular, thereby emphasizing that the partaking in different worlds offers manifold possibilities: “This is what Levantinism is all about—the ability to see all sorts of different things at the same time. (. . .) the availability to enjoy all worlds; it’s the ultimate form of post-modernism.”16 Along the lines with a process of reevaluating the former derogatory connotation of the term Levant it is interesting to note that Ammiel Alcalay is not the only one who sees the Levant as a contemporary cultural space and as a shared living space of Jews and Arabs. The increasingly positive use of the term Levant is especially prevalent in the academic context. In recent conferences and publications on the development of literature in the region, Arabic as well as Hebrew writers have been bracketed with the term ‘Levant’ or ‘Levantine

14 Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 72. See also Jacqueline Kahanoff, “Mizrah Shemesh (East of the sun),” (Tel Aviv: 1968), 5. I am thankful to Sasson Somekh, who generously provided me with this valuable material. 15 Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 2. 16 Livneh, “Call Me Levantine.”

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Literatures’.17 The reference to the Levant as a constructive mode in order to subsume interconnected literary expressions of diverse, often incompatible national backgrounds, clearly indicates that the Levant is now being more and more perceived as a an area of exchange and possible dialogue. In this narrative, the Levant is being rehabilitated and presented as an alternative, even a conciliatory way to approach the different existing maps of the region. 2. Zionism and Its Perceptions of the ‘East’ Ever since the destruction of the temple by the Romans in 70 CE, the longing for Zion, the hope of returning to Jerusalem and reconstructing the Jewish sanctuary have been major aspects of traditional Jewish religion and identity. For that reason, the spiritual and material longings of the Jewish people have always been directed eastwards—even if geographically speaking Jerusalem was not located on the Eastern point of the compass. The longing was directed toward a return to the ‘promised land,’ the ‘land of the fathers,’ the birthplace of Jewish life, to Zion, which became a synonym for Jerusalem.18 The affinity with the East was an integral part of a Zionist ideology that stressed the necessity of the dispersed Jewish people—who were once an oriental people before they were exiled to the West—to return to the ancient homeland and establish a national home for the Jews. However, as already noted, Zionism had an ambivalent, even conflicting relationship to the Orient from the very start, and its approach ranged from total dissociation from the geographical region to harmonious unity. The stereotyped characteristics of the East have, compared to what actually exists there, been disproportionately projected onto the region through the eyes of the beholder. As discussed above, the categories Orient 17 See, e.g., Ken Seigneurie, ed., Crises and Memory: The Representations of Space in Modern Levantine Narrative (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2003); Gil Hochberg, “The Dispossession of (Cultural) Authenticity: Readings in Contemporary Levantine Literature” (Doctoral Diss., University of California, 2002); Starr, “Ambivalent Levantines/Levantine Ambivalences.” 18 The manifestations of this longing in Israeli art were presented in an impressive exhibition, ‘To the East: Orientalism in the Arts in Israel,’ at the Israel Museum. In the accompanying catalogue, Yigal Zalmona describes the changing and often contradictory perceptions of ‘the East’ within the Israeli narrative. Yigal Zalmona, ed., To the East: Orientalism in the Arts in Israel, Exhibition Catalogue ( Jerusalem: The Israel Museum, 1998). See also chapter ‘Art and Popular Culture’ in this book.

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and Occident do not reflect reality: they are terms associated with a number of ideas, expectations, and views, and with countless images, many of which have been idealized or instrumentalized over time. Yet, the question of whether Israel can be an integral part of the Middle East has always accompanied Zionist thinking; it became particularly relevant during the emerging peace process in the 1990s. Indeed, the duality within Israeli culture to merge into the East and become part of it, and on the other hand to be distinguished from it, remains at the center of the discussion about the concept of Israeliness. The perception of the East has also always been connected to the question of the status of oriental Jews within the Zionist narrative. The historical awareness of being the ‘chosen people’ outside of the ‘promised land’ was maintained in the Jewish Diaspora for more than two thousand years and many Zionist ideologues dreamt of the establishment of an exemplary society that would be a guiding light for other nations. The historical rootedness in the land and the wish to ‘return to Zion’ was so strong that suggestions to temporarily replace Zion by Uganda, Argentina, or Madagascar were quickly suppressed by the Zionists. For Theodor Herzl, Palestine was the ‘unforgettable historical homeland.’ Regarding its future role he declared: “Für Europa würden wir dort [in Palästina, AN] ein Stück des Walles gegen Asien bilden, wir würden den Vorpostendienst der Cultur gegen die Barbarei besorgen.”19 Still, Herzl’s approach to the region was European, liberal, and secular; he never envisioned the future Jewish state as being Hebrew-speaking, nor in constant war with its neighbors, and surely not characterized by Mediterranean or Middle Eastern flair. “Thatsächlich ist es ja ein Element von deutscher Cultur, das mit den Juden nach dem östlichen Ufer des Mittelmeeres käme.”20 Herzl was convinced that the return of the Jews to Palestine would improve the primitive living conditions in the region: “Die Rückkehr selbst der halbasiatischen Juden unter der Führung vollständig moderner Menschen müsste zweifellos die Assanirung dieses verwahrlosten Orientwinkels bedeuten. Cultur u.

19 Theodor Herzl, Der Judenstaat (Wien: Löwit, 1933), 36. English translation: “For Europe, we would form part of the ramparts against Asia, we would act as an outpost of culture against barbarism.” 20 Alex Bein et al., ed., Theodor Herzl: Zionistisches Tagebuch 1895–1899, vol. 2 (Berlin: Propyläen, 1983), 616. English translation: “In fact, together with the Jews an element of German culture would come to the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean.”

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Ordnung käme dahin.”21 He was indeed dreaming, as a popular saying goes, about ‘Vienna at the Yarkon river,’ or as Robert Wistrich puts it: “Herzl’s vision of Israel was thoroughly European, rational, liberalutopian and modernist. It was to be a transplant of the best Western European culture (including Viennese opera, Parisian cafés, German culture and English sports) to the Eastern Mediterranean.”22 When reading Emil Ludwig’s travel impressions, written upon his return from a journey around the Mediterranean in 1927, one might think that Herzl’s vision had actually been realized. In Ludwig’s book, Am Mittelmeer, he indulges in rich descriptions of the Mediterranean coasts he traveled, whereas in a subchapter on Palestine, he portrays Tel Aviv with a single sentence, indicating how ‘out of place’ the city appeared to him: “In Tel-Awiv, der buntesten und häßlichsten Zionistenstätte, ist vollends alles wie am Kurfürstendamm, man hat es in einem Jahrzehnt auf 30 000 Einwohner und auch mehr gebracht, aber die Jugend haßt diese Stadt.”23 De facto, the Jewish state only came into being about fifty years after Herzl published his significant booklet Der Judenstaat, but it looked quite different from what Herzl envisioned. Amnon Rubinstein describes the gap between ideal and reality as follows: (. . .) the state came into being only after the bulk of European Jewry was exterminated—by members of the same Kultur that Herzl so greatly admired. They did not come on luxury ocean liners with bands playing classical music in the background, as envisaged by Herzl, but in broken down boats, some of which sank or were sunk along the way.24

In contrast to this Eurocentric view, the ideal model of society seeks to situate Israel in the Orient or the Levant. Facing growing anti-Semitism, German writer and Zionist Arnold Zweig promoted orientation towards Palestine. He was convinced that the climate of the Eastern Mediterranean would unite the region and form the Jews, just as it did other

21 Ibid., 617. English translation: “The return, even of the semi-Asiatic Jews under the supervision of entirely modern people would certainly mean an improvement for this bedraggled corner of the Orient. Culture and order would come there.” 22 Robert Wistrich, “Theodor Herzl: Zionist Icon, Myth-Maker, and Social Utopian,” Israel Affairs 1, no. 3 (1995): 33. 23 Emil Ludwig, Am Mittelmeer (Berlin: Ernst Rowohlt, 1927), 195. English translation: “In Tel Aviv, the gaudiest and ugliest Zionist settlement, everything is exactly as it is on the Kurfürstendamm; in a decade they have managed to attain a population of 30.000 or even more, but young people hate this town.” 24 Rubinstein, From Herzl to Rabin, 6.

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peoples living at the Mediterranean shores: “(. . .) und wie er [the Jew, AN ] mit den Arabern und den Ägyptern Gemeinsames hat, so mit den Griechen, den Spaniern und Provencalen, den Afrikanern und Italienern.”25 Zweig spoke about the idea of the “Remediterranisierung”26 of the Jewish people and was convinced that ‘the Jew’ is in his very nature a “Mittelmeermensch: ein Mensch des helleren und süßeren Mittelmeeres, verschlagen unter die befangenen, tiefen, verschlossenen und schweigsam-gehemmten Völker kargerer Länder (. . .).”27 Zweig was sure that under the bright sun of Palestine the Jews would again turn into the Orientals they had once been. Contemplating the question, how the Jews and the Mittelmeerkultur were interrelated in Europe, Zweig argues that all nationalistic attempts to discriminate against Jews were doomed to fail since the Mediterranean forms the larger unity, one that reached beyond all national boundaries: “Die Juden sind ein Mittelmeervolk, und die Kultur des Mittelmeerbeckens ist in allen ihren Phasen die größere Einheit, in der auch die jüdische Kultur mitgefaßt werden muß.”28 Herzl, on the other hand, was not convinced that the return of the Jews to the land of the fathers would be such an easy task to fulfill because the Jews were no longer connected to the region: “(. . .) die meisten Juden sind keine Orientalen mehr, haben sich an ganz andere Himmelsstriche gewöhnt, und mein (. . .) System der Verpflanzung wäre dort schwer durchzuführen.”29 As we already saw above, David Ben-Gurion’s statements concerning this subject were ambivalent; one can even find opposing views commenting on the place in which Israel is situated. Ben-Gurion, the first Israeli prime minister, who proclaimed the state of Israel in 1948 after many years during which he had been the visionary ‘leader of 25 Arnold Zweig, “Das Neue Kanaan,” in Herkunft und Zukunft (Wien: Phaidon, 1929), 174. English translation: “(. . .) and as (the Jew, AN) has common traits with the Arabs and the Egyptians, he also has things in common with the Greek, the Spaniard and the Provencal, the African and the Italian.” 26 Ibid., 183. English translation: “Remediterranization”. 27 Ibid., 175. English translation: “(. . .) a Mediterranean person: a person of the brighter and sweeter Mediterranean, which ended up among the uneasy, deep, closed up and silently-reserved peoples of more barren countries (. . .).” 28 Arnold Zweig, Bilanz der deutschen Judenheit 1933: Ein Versuch (Amsterdam: Querido, 1934), 113. English translation: “The Jews are a Mediterranean people, and the culture of the Mediterranean basin is in all its phases the larger unit, in which also the Jewish culture has to be subsumed.” 29 Bein, ed., Theodor Herzl, 156. English translation: “(. . .) most of the Jews are no longer Orientals and got used to completely different surroundings and my system of relocation would be difficult to realize there.”

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a people without a state,’ remains a key figure for modern Israel and his influence cannot be overestimated. Concerning the Israeli locus, it is noticeable that Ben-Gurion is frequently quoted, often in a context that stresses his prejudiced and even discriminatory perception of the ‘East,’ and without citing the original source. Attempts to track down in The Ben-Gurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev the original source of some of the quotations cited below were not always successful, possibly because the exact context of the document was missing or the translation into other languages distorted the original Hebrew. Due to Ben-Gurion’s major role in the development of modern Israel, some examples of Ben-Gurion citations are compiled here in order to illuminate his perceptions of the ‘East’. Yigal Zalmona quotes David Ben-Gurion (in 1925) as being in favor of becoming one with the geographical place, the old new land: “the significance of Zionism is that we are, once again, becoming an Oriental people.”30 However, this enthusiasm is somewhat diluted when we look at a quote from 1936 that emphasizes the Zionists’ Eurocentric perception of the region and considers the old homeland as being detached from its cultural environment: Although we were an Oriental people, we had been Europeanized, and we wanted to return to Palestine in the geographical sense only. We intended to establish a European culture here, and we were linked to the greatest cultural force in the world, at any rate so long as the cultural foundations of this part of the world [Europe, AN] did not change (. . .).31

In the context of the immigration of Mizrahim to Israel the sociologist Sammy Smooha quotes Ben-Gurion as saying in the mid-1960s: “We do not want Israelis to become Arabs. We are duty bound to fight against the spirit of the Levant, which corrupts individuals and societies.”32 Even though these statements are clearly negative, presenting the Levant as a dangerous and corrupting space, we need to keep in mind that his harsh and even discriminatory articulations concerning the nature of the Levant and its inhabitants (thereby including Mizrahim) are not exceptional. Ben-Gurion’s perception is not simply anti-Orient and anti-Mizrahim, but should rather be seen as a general anti-Diaspora 30 Yigal Zalmona does not give detailed reference to the source of this quote. Zalmona, ed., To the East, ix. 31 See David Ben-Gurion, My Talks with Arab Leaders (New York: The Third Press, 1973), 50. 32 Smooha, Israel: Pluralism and Conflict, 88.

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ethos, since a similar tone can be found in Ben-Gurion’s commentaries on Diaspora culture in general, without linking it solely to Mizrahi culture. A similar tone can be found in comments about Yiddish,33 which for him symbolized Galut as well as the closeness of the Shtetl and the east European Ghetto. Since for Ben-Gurion there was simply nothing good ever to have come out of the Galut, he rejected everything that resembled the experience of exile.34 Describing his pioneering principles and the idea of the ‘ingathering of the exiles’ Ben-Gurion referred (in 1949) to the Diaspora community as a whole and said: “Our nation is in the process of being recreated from tribal fragments and this requires gathering up the Jewish human dust, scattered throughout the world, returning to the Land of Israel.”35 He is quoted further as saying: “It is the job of Zionism not to save the remnant of Israel in Europe but rather to save the land of Israel for the Jewish people and the Yishuw.”36 There are numerous examples that demonstrate BenGurion’s negative perception of the Galut: at a Jewish Agency meeting in 1938 he deprecatingly links the attitude of whining and complaining to the Diaspora Jewry: “We are only shouting, and shouting alone is a Diaspora-habit (Heb. original: hergel galuti), and we wanted to change this habit in the Land of Israel.”37 It is important to note in this context that Ben-Gurion’s comment reflects the general spirit of the time, which tended to perceive the idea of galuti (belonging to the Diaspora) as the antithesis of being Israeli, and as a consequence, Diaspora values, especially Yiddish culture, were devalued. 33 In his book The Seventh Million, Tom Segev pointed out the general anti-Galut attitude of the establishment that was especially triggered in the years when Holocaust survivors were immigrating to the new state. The exile was considered as weak, feminine, and passive, and Yiddish, the language of the exile, was often treated with condescension, whereas the Yishuv was associated with strengths and masculinity. Tom Segev quoted the story of Rozka Korczak, who had fought the Nazis in the Vilna Ghetto, arrived to Palestine in 1944, and soon after appeared at a Histadrut meeting, speaking in Yiddish: “David Ben-Gurion complained that ‘Comrade Refugee’ was speaking ‘a foreign language’ (or, according to another source, ‘a foreign, discordant language’) instead of speaking Hebrew.” Tom Segev, The Seventh Million: The Israelis and the Holocaust, trans. Haim Watzman (New York: Hill and Wang, 1993), 180. 34 I am thankful to Tuvia Friling, who drew my attention to this ‘judgmental balance’ in which Ben-Gurion rejected traditions or mementos from both Exiles alike, not differentiating between oriental or occidental Diaspora. 35 Ben-Gurion Archives, IDF Archives/470; quoted in Yosef Gorny, “The ‘Melting Pot’ in Zionist Thought,” Israel Studies 6, no. 3 (2001): 65. 36 Segev, The Seventh Million, 129. 37 “Protocol. Meeting of the Jewish Agency in Jerusalem,” July 24, 1938, The BenGurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Sde Boker Campus).

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Deeply rooted in European culture, Ben-Gurion’s attitude toward the Levant was distant, even vaguely connected to negative connotations like backwardness and cheapness.38 In his diary of the year 1965 he describes a television interview with an American producer, putting his own answers in parantheses: “In connection with the absorption in Israel, they asked me what is the greatest danger for Israel. (I answered: Levantinization). How do I see the future of Israel (I would like it to be the most educated and the most just.) (. . .).”39 Further, he discussed the problem of education among the edoth ha-mizrah,40 the Eastern oriental communities. He started out by going back to the cultural contribution of Sephardic and Babylonian Jewry to Jewish culture as a whole: At a certain time the Jews of Spain and Babylon headed the Jewish people in Jewish oeuvre, but today the people that come from Asia and Africa have mostly come from poverty. Lack of education and backwardness. If we do not succeed in raising the young generation and endow values and learning of the founders of the state, then we may turn into a Levantine state. And such a state will not have any redemption in these surroundings. (. . .) In the last elections it appears as if these Eastern sects [meaning oriental immigrants, AN] have reached maturity: for all the sectorial lists failed. But should the [current, AN] educational and economic situation of these sects not change—the next generation of Eastern sects will rule the country for they are the majority, and without gaining education and values—they will turn the state into a Levantine state.41

Here Ben-Gurion discusses the challenges Israeli society faces in absorbing the ‘Eastern sects’: he points out the insufficient level of education of this group and his fear of the growing influence of the Mizrahi immigrants on Israeli society. The notion ‘Levantine country,’ associated with lack of education, primitiveness, and backwardness, is 38 Describing the atmosphere of a political setting in a meeting in London, BenGurion noted in his diaries that a specific lecturer made a “cheap Levantine” impression on him. David Ben-Gurion, “Diaries,” June 10, 1936, The Ben-Gurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Sde Boker Campus). 39 Id., “Diaries,” December 26, 1965, The Ben-Gurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Sde Boker Campus). 40 The term edoth ha-mizrah was rejected by the ‘Eastern ethnic groups’ in favor of the term Mizrahiut, which is associated with the ethnic-oriental identity of those Israeli Jews who arrived from North Africa (especially Morocco) and the Arab states of the Middle East (e.g., Yemen, Ethiopia, Iraq, Syria). Cf. footnote 2, chapter ‘Prologue: Israel and I’ in this book. 41 David Ben-Gurion, “Diaries,” September 30, 1960, The Ben-Gurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Sde Boker Campus).

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being used to describe an undesirable situation that Ben-Gurion seeks to prevent. He continues with practical advice on how to avoid this tendency, suggests reviewing and improving the absorption process and the integration and education of immigrants. This is in line with the dominant perception of Arab-oriental culture within the mostly Ashkenazi establishment, which is less romantic but more patronizing. A further example of this attitude can be found in his correspondence with Robert D. Q. Henriques, (a colonel in the British Royal Army, who later became a writer), in which Ben-Gurion elaborates on the need to give high priority to education in Israel: I myself see our educational problem here as second only to security. Unless we succeed to close in the next 10–15 years the cultural gap between the European and Oriental youth in israel we become a levantine State, and as such we would hardly survive.42

Ben-Gurion’s early statement from 1925, focusing more on the return to the ancient homeland and becoming one with the geographical place, stands in contrast to Herzl’s statement about creating a European style city, even an ‘outpost of culture’ in the region. These two positions represent the extremes of Zionist attitudes held about the region and show an inherent duality. It would be worth doing a detailed analysis of Ben-Gurion’s contradictory accounts in connection with the term ‘Levant’ and ‘Orient,’ since this example shows the range of possible interpretations and his ambivalence about those notions. We know today that neither concept is feasible—neither total dissociation from nor harmonious unity with the region—due to the complicated conditions of the state’s founding and the inextricable interweaving of various types of problems within society and with the outside world. In addition, looking at Ben-Gurion’s choice of terms in the passages quoted above it is noticeable that he does not use the term ‘Mediterranean’ or ‘Mediterraneanism’ explicitly. However, by employing the terms ‘Levant’ and ‘Orient’ to specify the geographical space where Israel is located he clearly refers to the regional aspect of Israeli existence. For this reason his perceptions of the Israeli locus are relevant in this research context. As a counterpoint to the Jewish Diaspora existence and the strong wish to create something native and local, the ‘New Hebrew,’ who was 42 Id., “Correspondence,” January 2, 1964, The Ben-Gurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Sde Boker Campus).

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completely disconnected from his past, became a leitmotif in the emerging national identity. This mythological figure dominated the Israeli national narrative of the early years of the state and his influence reverberates in the general cultural discourse today. In the following, the making of this ‘New Jew’ and the impact this fabricated figure without a past has had on the discussion of locality today will be examined. In the early years of the state of Israel, the ‘New Jew,’ the Sabra, is generally taken to be synonymous with ‘native-born Israeli’ and was portrayed as a hero who conquered even superior enemies and made barren land fertile and habitable. The creation of the Sabra “whose formative years coincided with the formative years of the new Israeli society”43 was an important tool in the emergence of the ‘New Jew.’ He was born and bred on his own land, fearless, free from inhibitions and inferiority complexes. Since the founding years, the Haluz, and the following generation of the Sabra served as a counter-image to the pale, inactive, bony, and intimidated Diaspora Jew. From now on the tall, tanned, and brave Sabra was promoted: full of vitality, temper, zest for action, and defined as possessing a completely new self-confidence. This Israeli hero cut all his ties to the Ghetto past and was not distracted from his agricultural work by torturing thoughts of persecution, humiliation, and helplessness. The Sabra longed for a normal life as a free person in his own land in order not to ever again be a victim. Oz Almog points out some of the Sabra characteristics, such as “a rough and direct way of expressing themselves, a knowledge of the land, a hatred of the Diaspora, a native sense of supremacy, a fierce Zionist idealism, and Hebrew as their mother language.”44 In the course of this collectivism and the construction of a broad middle-class, individualism was suppressed and Zionism sought to create cultural as well as ideological homogeneity. The Kibbutzim supported the collective, ascetic way of life; the formation of a uniform ‘New Jew’ characterized the years both before and after the founding of the state. The construction of a new identity, which focuses on the place and created a common ground for shared values, was termed by the first president of the state, Chaim Weizmann, as “creating the original.” The original he referred to is opposed to imitating traditional behavior

43 44

Almog, The Sabra, 3. Almog, The Sabra, 7.

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patterns imported from the Diaspora and disconnected from the new realities: We did not come here to copy the life of Warsaw, Pinsk, London, etc. The content of Zionism is changing all values according to which Jews lived under the pressure of foreign cultures. But where are the new values created here? We live here a life of translation, translation of galut. Even Hebrew is translated. We have to change the translation and create the original. We are only the pioneers and have to pave the road for those who will follow us.45

Ideally, the favored ‘melting pot,’ a central idea of Ben-Gurion’s theory of nation building, involved the adoption of various values and lifestyles and was intended to hasten the integration of immigrants within the new society. In reality it meant transforming the multitude of Diaspora cultures into one universally valid Israeli culture, which often resulted in a significant lack of sensitivity to the different cultural backgrounds the new immigrants brought with them. By ‘melting’ and ‘blending’ the cultural diversities in order to cast them in a new mold—optimally the Hebrew, the Sabra, the Zionist, or the Israeli—a new ethos was being created. This sense of disrespect and neglect for the original cultural roots of the new immigrants, especially among the Mizrahim who came from oriental countries, created a deep chasm and social disjuncture within Israeli society, which continues to be felt. Sociologist Sammy Smooha criticizes the policies of the Ashkenazi majority toward the Orientals as “wholesale stereotyping” that reduced “ethnicity to its bare minimum—country of birth rather than culture or behaviour patterns.” As a result the great differences between the oriental immigrants, “their degree of ‘backwardness,’ i.e., their deviation from dominant Ashkenazi standards” was neglected.46 The late Baruch Kimmerling spoke about the process of “Israelification” that was imposed on the newcomers, which later resulted in “anger against veteran Israelis, state institutions and values.”47 After having discussed the general Zionist attitude toward the geographical space and having shown the prevailing ambivalence within the Zionist narrative about the region (whether it be called Orient, Levant, or Mediterranean), a more recent development has made an L. Fischer, Chaim Weizmann: The First President ( Jerusalem: 1995), 314–15. Quoted after Azaryahu, “McIsrael? On the ‘Americanization of Israel,’” 47. 46 Smooha, Israel: Pluralism and Conflict, 90–91. 47 Kimmerling, The Invention and Decline of Israeliness, 229. 45

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appearance, in the course of which the hegemonic Zionist narrative has often been challenged and reconsidered. This background is especially relevant in this analysis, as it is argued that Yam Tikhoniut has to be evaluated within the general spirit of a time where long-established values are called into question and often considered obsolete. 3. Zionism Reconsidered In the last decade the idea of Zionism (including its various readings), the founding pillar of modern Israel, has been subject to harsh criticism and is under attack from many sides. Yam Tikhoniut rose subsequent to this general atmosphere of revising and rewriting the Zionist history of the founding years. This ongoing process—often indicated as a crucial turning point—caused an intellectual dispute over the historical narratives and challenges of Israeli society on many levels. Since the 1990s, the so-called post-Zionists, a new generation of historians and sociologists, have been shaking the moral foundations that have held the state of Israel together for over fifty years. Among other things, these historians demand that today’s elitist Jewish state be transformed into a state for all of Israel’s citizens, which, according to those who oppose the idea, will in the long run call into question the very existence of Israel as the Jewish State. Further, the post-Zionists are questioning long-established and official myths of resistance, such as Massada, Gamla, and Tel Chai, showing how Zionist ideology and the model of the ‘New Jew’ were born and developed in Europe and were then simply transferred to the Middle East. This knowledge has lead to the shocking realization that the Haluz—an idealized hybrid of soldier and farmer—no longer exists. He has been replaced by uncountable other facets of Israeli identity, as represented by the diverse ethnic and religious groups. There is talk of the end of the classical socialist form of Zionism and a beginning of a new post-Zionist era. This process of inner-Israeli transformation has triggered questions concerning Israel’s social and economic future and its political and moral principles. Many publications dealing with the post-Zionists’ demythologizing view of history also scrutinize the set of morals and values that were dominant during the era of the state’s founding. The dispute taking place reflects the complex transformations and process of soul-searching within Israeli society. In the 1990s this process was explicitly made visible: Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin’s peace policy was revolutionary, and after the handshake

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of 1995 in Washington, an end to the lengthy conflict seemed to be within reach. For the first time in its history—a history overshadowed by the Arab-Israeli conflict—Israel had the chance to pause and reflect on its internal development. This process of soul-searching brought to light many inner-Israeli disputes, which had been repressed during the years of threatened existence and troubled foreign relations. An end to the established certainty of who the enemy was, coupled with the willingness of Yitzchak Rabin and his government to exchange ‘land for peace,’ meant the loss of a basis for social consensus, which had held the people together despite their conflicts and disagreements up to that time. The assassination of Yitzchak Rabin was the beginning of a long phase of stagnation and disappointment, during which Israel was marked by a great weariness and an absence of new ideas. Concepts for a life based on hope and peace receded into the distance, leaving behind disillusionment and bitterness. At the time of this writing, Israel is confronting manifold changes, as the influence of the generation of the founding elite is fading away. Their biographies are full of traumatic memories of anti-Semitism and pogroms, telling the story of twentieth century Europe. Their emigration to Israel is closely associated with being uprooted from their old homes and settling down in a new country. Survivors of the Shoah found it hard to live with their painful memories in the Israeli society after the state was founded—a society characterized by a socialist pioneering spirit. Additional difficulties grew from the founding generations’ attempts to implant elements of their own Western/European values and cultural achievements in their new geographical context and to claim their validity. This was often done in a rather patronizing manner, displaying a certain amount of ignorance regarding the traditions and culture of the Mizrahim, whose criticism of the cultural dominance of the ‘establishment’ became louder and louder over the years. The historian Tom Segev exposes the establishment’s attitude toward the Mizrahim when he points out that before the Second World War the Zionist establishment took little interest in the Jews from oriental countries. Only with the news of the extinction of large numbers of European Jews under the Nazi terror did the Zionist establishment in the Yishuv begin to consider the non-European Jews, and then merely for demographic reasons, as Segev argues. Thus, the oriental Jews were placed in a position of inferiority and disadvantage from the very beginning:

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chapter four The Holocaust forced Zionism to bring Jews from the Arab world to the new country. Taking them in was a blow to its self-image and to its cultural aspirations, so the Zionist leadership did not bring oriental Jews to Israel eagerly, but because there was no other choice.48

The scholar and activist Ella Shohat, who calls herself an ‘Iraqi Israeli woman living in the U.S.,’ polemically debunks the mythical discourse according to which European Zionism ‘saved’ Sephardic Jews from the rule of their Arab suppressors, took them out of ‘primitive conditions’ of superstition and backwardness, and ushered them gently into a Western society with ‘humane values.’ According to Shohat, the biased discourse of the oriental immigrants absorption continues, and is exemplified by the claim that the political establishment is doing its best to reduce and close the social gap caused by the Mizrahim’s “‘incomplete integration’ into Israeli liberalism and prosperity, handicapped as they have been by their Oriental, illiterate, despotic, sexist, and generally pre-modern formation in their lands of origin, as well as by their propensity for generating large families.”49 Moreover, she outlines assumptions about the Mizrahim such as that the lack of practice of democracy and the cruel experiences suffered in Arab lands turned the Mizrahim in Israel today into extremely conservative, often even fanatic Arab-haters. She continues and explains cynically how at the same time Mizrahim won ‘new appreciation’ as their heritage was being reduced to traditional cultural values, folkloric music, rich cuisine, and warm hospitality.50 The sociologist Michael Feige discussed the importance of memory and legacy within the emergence of counter histories and pointed out that “social groups began to articulate their identity vis-à-vis the diminishing hegemony of the traditional Zionist narrative.”51 Within a growing awareness of their own past, ethnic groups began to rediscover their cultural roots and developed a self-confident stance toward the dominant Ashkenazi narrative, often accusing the establishment of policies and practices that produced deprivation, unequal educational opportunities, and marginalization. NGOs that articulate the pain of exclusion and call for cultural equality and civil rights have been

Segev, Elvis in Jerusalem, 34. Ella Shohat, Israeli Cinema: East/West and the Politics of Representation (Austin University: Texas Press, 1989), 115ff. 50 Ibid. 51 Michael Feige, “Introduction: Rethinking Israeli Memory and Identity,” Israel Studies 7, no. 2 (2002): VIII. 48 49

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founded and continue their struggle today. Most significant in this context was the equal rights movement of second-generation Mizrahim, the Black Panthers,52 which emerged in the 1970s and was an important indicator that a new Israeli oriental identity was surfacing. In 1996 a new elite Mizrahi political movement, the Eastern Democratic Rainbow Movement (Ha-keshet ha-demokratit ha-mizrahit, Keshet for short) was established by second- and third-generation Israelis, whose parents or grandparents were born in Islamic countries. Their efforts to promote social and cultural justice brought the question of Mizrahi identity to public attention and enhanced the search for lost roots in the Arab cultures. Keshet has dedicated its efforts to securing housing and property rights for Mizrahim, as well as the democratizing of land allocations and educational opportunities. A main interest is the privatization of public housing in order to enable the mostly underprivileged Mizrahi inhabitants of those shikunim (small public housing apartments erected in response to the mass influx of oriental Jews in the 1950s), to buy their flats at subsidized prices, and thereby acquire at least some measure of capital. The rise since the 1980s of the popular religious party movement SHAS53 created an alternative model of Jewish-oriental identity: the party election slogan for the 1996 Knesset elections was SHAS: It’s not a platform, It’s an identity. SHAS, a social as well as a religious movement, is based on Sephardic religious tradition and stresses social and economic equality, as well as individual justice. Its popularity, especially the unexpected breakthrough it achieved in the 1999 elections when it became the third largest party (17 out of 120 Knesset seats), might be explained by the disappointment with the prevailing social structures and the wish to establish an alternative to European Zionism. The

52 For further reading, see Erik Cohen, “The Black Panthers and Israeli Society,” in Studies of Israeli Society: Migration, Ethnicity and Community, ed. Ernest Krausz (New Brunswick: Transaction Books, 1980). 53 The SHAS-Party (Heb. acronym for: Shomrei Thora Sefaradim: Sephardi Torah Guardians) was the strongest religious power in the 2003 Knesset which continues to the present (11 seats in 2003, 12 seats in 2006 and 2008). Most of SHAS voters are Mizrahim (only some orthodox or ultra-orthodox). Due to its charitable and social agenda, SHAS became especially popular among poor and low income Mizrahi communities. In order to name itself SHAS, the party chose to stick to the exclusively Jewish term Sephardic and does not use the term Mizrahim, which incorporates a broader cultural definition. See, e.g., Lilly Weissbrod, “Shas: An Ethnic Religious Party,” Israel Affairs 9, no. 4 (2003): 79–104, Ella Shohat, “Mizrahim in Israel: Zionism from the Standpoint of Its Jewish Victims,” Social Text: Theory, Culture & Ideology, no. 19/20 (1988): 1–35.

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ethnic party SHAS is today a significant player in the debate over the future nature of Israeli society and identity.54 In summary, from these contentious issues and the slowly emerging gap between Zionist dream and reality on the ground, the inevitable question arises: Which new concepts or ideas will fill the vacuum created by the demythologizing interpretation of Zionist history? Taking a closer look at the romanticizing view of the East, which the generation of the founding fathers desired—and which was picked up by many painters and writers—we realize that in fact, it never existed. The Zionist discourse was meant to solve the Jewish identity problem by providing a homeland in Erez Israel. However, as elaborated above the transport of Western-oriented lifestyles and value systems into the new country in the East did not fully succeed. As a result, Israeli society is now confronted with a dynamic process of changes to and cleavages of its internal fabric. According to Laurence J. Silberstein, the post-Zionist discourse aims at moving beyond the prevailing one, “in search for more adequate ways to talk about Israeli culture, identity, and history.”55 In the current reevaluation and reorientation of Israeli culture, Yam Tikhoniut is one of these ‘more adequate ways’ in which to discuss the Israeli spatial dimension, which is thrown into the discussion on regional integration and Israeli self-determination. And the term Yam Tikhoniut has undergone a change of focus, from an abstract notion to a regional contextualization. 4. Looking Back: Revival of the Past The growing interest in and increased reference to the Mediterranean within the Israeli discourse has now been described in depth. In the following, some historical aspects of the Mediterranean Idea, which illustrate the potential of the Mediterranean Idea beyond the specific Israeli context as well, will be discussed. In a special issue of 54 For a comprehensive account of the entire political history of the Mizrahim in Israel up to the present from a critical Mizrahi standpoint, see Sami Shalom Chetrit, Ha-ma’avak ha-Mizrahi be-Israel 1948–2003 (The Mizrahi struggle in Israel 1948–2003) (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2004). Yossi Yonah, one of the founders of Keshet, published a study on the aspects of Multiculturalism in Israel: Yossi Yonah, Be-skhut ha-hewdel: Ha-projekt ha-raw-tarbuti be-Israel (In virtue of difference: The multicultural project in Israel) ( Jerusalem: Van Leer and Ha-Kibbutz ha-meuhad, 2005). See also Hever, Mizrahim be-Israel. 55 Silberstein, The Postzionism Debates, 9.

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the journal Mediterranean Historical Review on the use of the Mediterranean paradigm for the general discussion of history, it is argued that the Mediterranean model offers new cognitive maps and is more and more becoming a valuable and subtle mode for observing the past: “Involving patterns that transcend national frameworks and structures that question conventional periodization and promote emphasis on networks of exchange, the Mediterranean provides a multilevel prism through which to view history.”56 In his book Memory and the Mediterranean, Fernand Braudel looks at the historical record of the Mediterranean as an indispensable factor for understanding the human history of the space: But if that is true, if the Mediterranean seems so alive, so eternally young in our eyes, ‘always ready and willing,’ what point is there in recalling this sea’s great age? (. . .) Should we care that the Inland Sea is immeasurably older than the oldest of the human histories it has cradled? Yes, we should: the sea can only be fully understood if we view it in the long perspective of its geological history. To this it owes its shape, its architecture, the basic realities of its life, whether we are thinking of yesterday, today or tomorrow.57

The phenomenon of the past being at work in the present is especially relevant in this context because everyday life and politics are strongly linked to the past in Israel. This issue is felt in context of the memory of the Holocaust, which added an important factor in the constitution of Israeli collective identity. Generally speaking, the relation to the past involves either a distancing from the past, as with the pioneer myth and the construction of the ‘New Hebrew,’ or a conscious reference to it, as when modern politics is conducted using arguments taken from the Old Testament. Archaeology is a controversial discipline in Israel, where every ancient stone may be of political significance, sparking new debates or even heated conflicts. The political discourse in Israel is fed by images of the past, with arguments often borrowed from the country’s Mediterranean history. Here, the different historical approaches to the region, like the Canaanite approach, and the perceptions of the Egyptian-born writer Jacqueline Kahanoff, as well as their relevance for the discussion in contemporary Israel will be investigated. Fernand Braudel described the Irad Malkin, “Introduction,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18, no. 2 (2003): 2. Fernand Braudel, Memory and the Mediterranean (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2001), 3. 56

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distinctive entwining of past and present in the Mediterranean region as follows: “Just what is the Mediterranean world? It’s thousands of things at once. (. . .) It means old things and ancient things, still living, side by side with the latest manifestations of the modern. (. . .).”58 This quotation serves as a motto for the following chapter because it emphasizes the kaleidoscopic nature of the object of study (the Mediterranean entity) and the strong association between past and present. As an example of the time-linkage I decided to discuss cultural orientations that tried, like the Canaanites in Israel, to relate modern civilization to ancient cultural tradition, e.g., Phoenicianism in Lebanon or Pharaonism in Egypt. The historical roots of the Mediterranean Idea in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and the discussion about a common culture and identity in the Mediterranean region will be evaluated in the context of this Yam Tikhoniut research. a) The Canaanite Movement One group of prominent Israeli writers and intellectuals is often mentioned in connection with the historical perspectives of the Mediterranean Idea. The so-called Canaanites—a reference to the ancient pre-Israelite Canaanites—were an informal, narrow circle that emerged in the early 1940s. Drawing on the ideal of Mesopotamic archaism, they established categories that are still valid today. In doing so, as Dan Laor has shown, they distanced themselves from the Zionist dream of the ‘New Jew,’ disconnected from the past: The Canaanites expected the new nation of Israeli natives (whom they preferred to call ‘Hebrews’) to become the avant-garde, the melting pot of all the ethnic groups in the west-Semitic world, creating a massive, homogenous Middle-Eastern nation similar to that of the region in biblical times.59

It is interesting to note that in the general spirit of the early days of the state the word ‘Hebrew,’ symbolizing the ‘new,’ served as a broad substitution for the adjective ‘Jewish,’ which was associated with the ‘old’ world of the Diaspora. The adjective ‘Hebrew’ was transformed

Id., Georges Duby, and Maurice Aymard, Die Welt des Mittelmeeres: Zur Geschichte und Geographie kultureller Lebensformen (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1990), 7. 59 Dan Laor, “American Literature and Israeli Culture: The Case of the Canaanites,” Israel Studies 5, no. 1 (2000): 287–88. 58

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into a noun, representing the Zionist mold for the casting of the ‘New Jew.’ Thus the term ‘Hebrew’ was not a specifically Canaanite adaptation, but the cultural idiom of national rebirth, ubiquitous in Zionist discourse at the time. In those days of an emerging cultural entity, expressions like ‘Tel Aviv—the first Hebrew city,’ the ‘Hebrew nation’ in Palestine, ‘Hebrew workers,’ ‘Hebrew army’, and ‘the Hebrews’ entered the public discourse and were also embraced by the Canaanite lexicon. With a romantic link to the cults of the ancient Hebrews, the Canaanites imagined something like a regional identity by sketching out a new polity for all the ethnically diverse inhabitants of the region. This link to the past was meant to provide a broad ethnic and cultural ground on which to base collective identity and a new Hebrew culture. In their view, the return to Zion was about resolving the ‘abnormality’ inherent in Jewish Diaspora existence. With their radical perception of the ‘normalization’ of Jewish-Arab relations and their emphasis on transnational and transcultural equality, the Canaanites aroused much public controversy and posed an ideological challenge to Zionism. In terms of ideals this small group of intellectuals was inspired by the writers Yonathan Ratosh (whose original name was Uriel Halperin), Adia Gur-Horon (born Adolph Gurevitch in the Ukraine, and who renamed himself after an Egyptian/Phoenician god),60 and Aharon Amir, who formed a small circle in the center of Tel Aviv and who dreamed about the rebirth of a Hebrew nation in the form of a secular, pluralistic society on biblical territory. Horon’s central argument was that all West Semitic tribes are part of one—the Hebrew—culture. Being based on geography rather than on national history, their ideal state was detached from outside ideologies and ethnic differentiations. From this position, Horon opposed the commonly held view that the Israelite tribes were religiously and culturally unique. As he explained in an article in 1931: On the surface it seems that Israel and the Hebrews are two different, contrasting nations, but that is not so, as is clear from early and late biblical sources (as well as from archaeological material)—we can easily understand that ‘Hebrew’ is a much more general name than ‘Israelites’ and also of an entirely different nature. The former term is of purely ethnic nature, while the latter is political in nature . . . one should use the

60 Despite the fact that the Canaanites’ founding fathers originated from East European countries, they adopted a distinctive pronunciation of certain Hebrew letters, notably the het and the ayin, that is characteristic of Jews from Arab-oriental origin.

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chapter four appellation Hebrews for all the tribes which according to their language, culture, history and other indications belong to the Hebrew nation . . .61

The choice of the term Canaanites is interesting since it stresses a regionally-based ethnicity and implies a certain degree of detachment from Israeli ancient history, extending back to a time before Judaism was firmly established. The notion of Canaanism implies a radical disaffirmation of the Jewish past as a ‘sick culture of a nomad society’ and expresses the explicit desire to form a new people called Hebrews. Zionism was rejected, since it puts its emphasis on the founding of a Jewish society, and therefore neglected one of the main objectives of Canaanism: the establishment of a transnational and transterritorial entity. Ratosh rejected all connections to the Jews in the Diaspora and was opposed to the exclusively Jewish immigration to Erez Israel. Many analogies have been drawn between the United States, the ultimate immigration country and model for the melting pot, and the ‘new Hebrew nation’ that was coming into being in Palestine. As Aharon Amir, one of the founders of Canaanism, stated: We should not turn away from the apparent vision which awaits us. It is the vision of a New America emerging in this part of the world: the cradle of man and gods and the origin of culture and faith in ancient times, a melting pot for a great nation in days to come.62

The Canaanites writings are marked by great pathos; many of its members were writers or poets who started to adapt a new style of writing in the publications Aleph and Keshet (Heb. arch, rainbow), the latter being one of the most influential and distinguished periodicals of the Israeli literary avantgarde for almost twenty years. In the first volume of the quarterly Keshet, published in October 1958, the late editor Aharon Amir issued a declaration of intentions: “Keshet wishes to bring the Hebrew reader closer to literary and spiritual trends that construct the development of our generation and studies of the overall field of the human cultural heritage (. . .).” He goes on to explain that Keshet’s intention is to make the Hebrew reader aware of the main problems and events of the world in which they were living, “particularly the East.” Keshet wishes to open up windows and to let in a refreshing draft to the literary rooms of the Hebrew literature and thought, to be used as a

61 62

Quoted after Yaacov Shavit, The New Hebrew Nation (Frank Cass, 1987), 82. See Laor, “American Literature and Israeli Culture,” 289.

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meeting point to creators and thinkers from different schools and different positions to help the growing of original talents, to express nonconformism and means of searching.63

In 2002 Keshet was revived as a quarterly literary journal and would— according to Amir—deal with oriental affairs, meta-politics and political science, and be tuned in to realities. In an interview conducted with Aharon Amir in June 2001 he takes a typically Canaanite approach regarding the present conflict with the Palestinians. He wishes for a reorganization of the whole region into a transnational unit, not based on national or linguistic lines. An organic unity of the ‘United Country of Canaan’ should include both banks of the Jordan as well as Lebanon in order to reconstruct the ‘Glory of the old Canaan.’ As the territory of this ‘United Country of Canaan’ mostly consists of Arab lands, it will proportionally contain only few Jews. Amir names multiethnicity as a premise and sees this entity being divided into regional cantons that adapt to the local specifics. He mentions the close kinship between Lebanon and Israel and summarizes his ideals as follows: A Hebrew nation being created in Erez Israel as a secular and open society and not differentiating between Jews and non-Jews. (. . .) The cultural and spiritual development should be dependent to a large degree on the conscious (. . .) continuation of this glorious past. (. . .) There is no doubt that cross-culture connections that existed in the ancient world can be a vehicle for peace today.

In the 1950s the Canaanite ideas had a big influence on the young intellectual and art elite in Israel since it opened up new historical perspectives and new categories of thinking. Many artists ‘flirted’ with the Canaanite ideal and Aharon Amir’s journal Keshet regularly published short stories and other texts by Israeli authors, including Yoram Kaniuk, Abraham B. Yehoshua, Amos Oz, and Yehoshua Kenaz. Sculptures by Benyamin Tammuz, who also wrote fiction, and Yitzchak Danziger were strongly influenced by the ideals of the Canaanites as well.64 Generally speaking, the graphic arts in Israel were searching for something independent, authentic, and local, moving away from the strong influence 63 See Aharon Amir, ed., Keshet: Kovetz le-ziun yovel ha-arba’im le-reshit hofa’ato shel ‘Keshet’ ha-rivon le-sifrut, yiun ve-bikoret (Collection to mark the 40th Anniversary of the first publication of “Keshet,” the quarterly for literature, study and criticism) ( Jerusalem: Har Artzi, 1998). 64 For a comprehensive discussion of the ‘Canaanite’ sculpture see Ofrat, One Hundred Years of Art in Israel, 107–26.

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of European art and the projections of the West onto the East. The somewhat romantic approach to the cult of the ancient Hebrews, with the option of creating a regional identity for the ethnically divergent inhabitants of the region, held a great appeal for the new generation. The ‘Canaanite option’ brought fresh energy to the debate on ‘place’ and ‘belonging,’ a debate that continues to generate controversy within Israeli intellectual discourse. The writer Amos Oz, who—like many others—was captured by the ideal of the ‘New Hebrew,’ today critically reflects on his Canaanite liaison in the late 1950s and 1960s, and says: I was infected by the Canaanite germ. (. . .) I never politically followed or endorsed Canaanite ideology because I thought that there was a childish dimension to it. I have known most of my life that there is no such a thing as being born again and turning over a brand-new leaf altogether—impossible. (. . .) There is always an introduction to the prologue, and a beginning before the beginning.

The writer Yoram Kaniuk, who even changed his name to ‘Kania’ for a while, describes himself as having been infatuated with the idea of the native land and the native-born Hebrew. He worked successfully as a painter in the 1950s and explains in an interview why he and his generation were so captivated by the Canaanite ideal: For the Israeli-born Jews from the beginning of the last century it was hard to think of themselves as Jews. Jews were the ones who hadn’t come. The religious ones. We were supposed to be a new breed. Hebrews. They call the Israeli-born cactus—the Sabra. He is from here. The Middle East, by Ratosh it was later called the Semitic-region. In the Palmach and even before, we all tried to learn from the Arabs who were the original, the natives, not in culture but in manners: the kafiyyeh [Arab headdress, AN], the many Arabic curses, the coffee drinking, the words like ‘Yalla’, ‘Ahalan’, and so on. There was a need for our parents to see in us a new breed. There was anger at the Jews in the Ghetto, it was to help the new cactus, to build and create a state in the Middle East. (. . .) It was about the wish to be a part of an entity (. . .), to belong somewhere. The new generation found it hard to belong to what looked like a sick existence of Jews as slaves and victims and wanted to belong to something that they thought of as healthy. (. . .) Farmers. Kings. Heroes. Wild. (. . .) The closeness to the Semitic culture became relevant and so Ratosh looked for this glue to create a new nation of the different tribes of old Israel, Canaanites, Phoenicians. It was beautiful. Even years after my indulgence in it, my paintings were full of Canaanite figures and landscapes.

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Flavoring the Hebrew with Arabic terms and wearing traditional Arab clothing, as described by Kaniuk, are some prominent examples that show the yearning of the ‘New Hebrews’ to adapt to the nativeness of the Arab, often perceived as the ancient, pre-exilic Jews in the ancient homeland, and thereby fuse with the environment. Within the process of Sabraization, Oz Almog describes a similar adoption of linguistic elements, customs, and symbols of Arab culture. He mentions a specific kind of humor at the expense of non-Sabras, linguistic expressions of elitism and narcissism, and status symbols like the jeep, the machine gun, or the kafiyyeh, mentioned by Yoram Kaniuk above. According to Almog, the Arabic greeting ‘Ahalan’, meaning not only ‘Hello’ but also ‘welcome’ and ‘please’, expresses more than any term the Sabra culture.65 “This word became a kind of Sabra code for closeness, a slogan of friendship, and in time became the accepted informal greeting throughout Israel.”66 In addition, there are aspects of cuisine (for example, the popularity of Falafel, Hummus, and Tahina), leisure, and mentality that indicate a close reference to an ‘oriental way of life.’ These references should not be interpreted as meaning that the Sabras had a close relationship to oriental culture, but rather as a current in a strongly elitist minority group that is but another representation of the search for a location of the newly established self-esteem. The journalist, writer, and peace activist Uri Avnery turned Ratosh’s agenda into a political one, thereby materializing those abstract ideas that were in line with the ethos of the time.67 Out of this conversion of Ratosh’s ideas soon grew a competitive bond between the two thinkers. In his texts, Avnery took an ambivalent stance on the Canaanite idea, and in 1946 distanced himself from their revisionist interpretation of history. He founded his own circle, called Be-Ma’avak (Heb. struggle). This group created an uproar because of its assertion that the Jewish community in Palestine constituted a ‘new Hebrew nation’ within the Jewish people. In the mid-1940s I established with some friends a new ideological group, the Bema’avak group, which also determined that a new Hebrew

65 Many words and phrases in Arabic have been adapted as slang in modern spoken Hebrew, which is in constant transition and has undergone massive innovations since its centuries-long restrictions to the liturgical and religious realm were eventually relaxed. 66 Almog, The Sabra, 199. 67 Shavit, The New Hebrew Nation, 135.

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chapter four nation was coming into being here, but it reached conclusions opposite to Ratosh’s. Instead of cutting off ties with the Jews, we recognized the reciprocal connection between the new Hebrew nation and the Jewish people around the world (. . .).68

He further saw this ‘new Hebrew nation’ as an integral part of both the Semitic region and Asia, and therefore a natural ally of the Arab nations, whereas Ratosh always denied the existence of Arab and Palestinian nationalism. In 1947, Avnery published a brochure ‘War or Peace in the Semitic Region,’69 which promoted a radically new approach: an alliance between the Israeli and Arabic national movements in order to free the Semitic region from imperialism and colonialism, and create a Semitic community and a common market, as a part of the emerging third world. As Avnery put it: If there are two national groups who see this land as their homeland—why not try to blend them into a single national movement based on the love of the land? Why not establish a joint educational system, in which the students would learn to identify with the history of the land in all its periods—the Canaanite and the Israelite, the Greek and the Roman, the Arab and the Crusader, the Mameluke and the Ottoman, up until the Hebrew and Palestinian national movements of our own time?70

By 1946, Avnery had already coined the phrase hishtalvut ba-merhav (Heb. integration into the region), which became a key term in his ideology. According to Avnery, the term Middle East was colonialist and Eurocentric, one that assumed that the center from which the world was being divided into ‘near’, ‘middle’, and ‘far’ was somewhere else. In contrast, the term merhav, derived from the Hebrew word rahav (Heb. wide), is according to Avnery a positive, dynamic even emotional and warm idiom, whereas the term ezor (Heb. region; zone) is a neutral and cold word. By naming the geographical region where Israel is located merhav ha-Shemi (Heb. the Semitic space), Avnery wanted to create a framework Uri Avnery, “Remembering a Latter-Day Canaanite,” Haaretz, March 30, 2001. The ‘Semitic Region’ (Heb. merkhaw ha-Shemi ) is a term coined by Uri Avnery in order to avoid the Eurocentric and colonialist term ‘Middle East’. The adjective ‘Semitic’ was supposed to emphasize the common cultural heritage of all people of the region (he even included Turks, Kurds, and Persians because of their close cultural ties to the region). Avnery’s idea was to include ‘Arabs and Hebrews’ in a large ‘Semitic confederation’, thereby closing the Zionist chapter of Israeli history and opening up a new perspective, which integrates Israel into the region in order to participate in its development and progress. See the chapter Pax Semitica in: Uri Avnery, Israel without Zionists (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1968), 211–21. 70 Uri Avnery, “Why I Changed My Mind,” Haaretz, September 24, 2004. 68 69

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that emphasized the bond of Jewish-Arab history, language, and origins from a similar cultural sphere. In 1993, Uri Avnery founded the NGO Gush Shalom, the ‘Peace Block,’ which promotes an end to the occupation and pleads for a Palestinian state in the territories occupied by Israel in 1967. Gush Shalom is striving for overall peace between Israel and all Arab countries as well as the creation of a regional union, thereby marking the ideological continuation of the ideas already formulated in the 1940s by the Be-Ma’avak group. Similar to Yoram Kaniuk, Uri Avnery also explains the popularity of the Canaanite idea by referring to the ethos of the time: [It, AN] seemed to us at the outset an ideal means . . . not just because it was new and exciting but primarily because of its essentially engaging positive features: it gave Hebrew youths an explanation for their distinctiveness . . . it gave that youth a world of symbols, a great treasure of the feeling of power . . . the main characteristic of the Canaanite idea was, in our opinion, that it was at the same time national and regional . . . Ratosh perceived only the national side and dangerously exaggerated it; we put the emphasis on the regional side. We took our role to be the opposite: to prove to the youth that the Canaanite idea was directly linked to the burning issue of the hour and that it embodied a most effective solution.71

Indeed, the Sabra myth and the narcissist perception of the ‘New Hebrew’ dominated the quest for a new Jewish identity in the formative years of the state of Israel. The Canaanites, similar to the overall ethos of the time, rejected the traditional old-time Diaspora Jew and took his mirror image, the native-born Sabra, to an extreme. Reflecting this school of thought in the context of the Jewish fate in Europe, Amnon Rubinstein is bewildered by the thought of the Canaanites’ anti-humanitarian, even vaguely fascist sentiments that glorified the ‘New Hebrew’ as “notably un-Jewish in his physique, outlook, and way of life.” “It is sickening to think that this rubbish was written while the Jews of Europe were being slaughtered and their remnants seeking refuge in Palestine.”72 Yet, as Rubinstein argues further, in every absurd idea there is a grain of reason. Laurence J. Silberstein, on the other hand, believes that the Canaanites made a significant contribution to a non-Zionist discourse by formulating an alternative, secular, nationalist variant to Zionism. “To this day, their critique, although marginalized in Israeli culture, represents one of the few significant efforts to challenge 71 72

Quoted after Shavit, The New Hebrew Nation, 136. Rubinstein, From Herzl to Rabin, 37.

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the zionist mapping of the Jewish national entity.”73 However, as it was the aim of the Canaanite movement to reduce Israel’s historical isolation, it tried to perceive Israel as an integral part of its environment and Israel’s search for cultural integration, for a place in the region, and for a specific locality continues up to the present. The concept of new regionalism, for example, is also being emphasized by the Barcelona Process, which will be discussed below. The question, can Israel be an authentic part of the Middle East, is controversially discussed and has gained special significance during the efforts to advance the temporarily defunct peace process. It is argued here that Yam Tikhoniut is but one manifestation of this fierce inquiry. b) Regional Parallels: The Phoenicians The Canaanite regional legacy has implications for the construction of a national myth in Lebanon, where geographical and historical parallels can be found. The Lebanese phenomenon of Phoenicianism viewed the sea as friendly territory, even as a bridge to Israel and the West, whereas Arab Nationalism saw the Mediterranean Sea as an unfriendly space, whose distant shores were populated by enemies. Thus, the emergence of the Phoenician myth in the 1920s and 1930s in Lebanon and its association with the Canaanite movement shall be sketched out in the following. Through my own observations and the interviews I conducted in Lebanon in April 2002, I gained some insight into the contemporary discussion on the development of a neo-Phoenician identity. Further, this section also looks at the other unrestrained uses of the past—often historically groundless—by different national movements in the region. The common trait of all of these national movements is the glorification and instrumentalization of the region’s past. From the very beginning, the Canaanite movement around Ratosh and Horon promoted a strong link between the seafaring Phoenicians who settled at the shores along the coast of North Africa and on the Mediterranean islands, and the history of ancient Israel. In their writings, the Canaanite poets emphasized the cooperation between the ancient Canaanites and the Phoenicians, the political alliances they forged while conquering the Mediterranean, the economic cooperation they enjoyed, and the ethnic and cultural unity they created. Out of

73

Silberstein, The Postzionism Debates, 67.

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this, the Canaanite movement developed the perception of one Hebrew nation with a uniform culture and religion. Horon argues in an article, published in 1931, that the Phoenicians were not a separate nation, but rather part of the historical and cultural panorama of Canaan: The history of the ‘peoples’ of Tyre and Sidon is an inseparable link in that unified chain of the Hebrew past (. . .). All the new data—excavations and comprehensive studies about the life-style of the Phoenicians—verify this truth. To speak about the Phoenicians as if speaking about a ‘nation’ meant simply playing with words . . . All that we know about the language and literature of the Phoenicians proves their total identity with Hebrew. The inconsistencies between the Phoenician inscriptions and biblical Hebrew are no greater than the contradictions with biblical language itself, which derive from differences in various regions of the country and different periods. The religion, way of life, and institutions of Phoenician cities, as far as we know, were essentially no different from life-style or religion in other cities in Palestine . . .74

The Canaanite movement was inspired by a group of Christians—mainly Maronites—in Lebanon who, called themselves the New Phoenicians and were in contact with their Israeli counterparts up to the mid-1980s.75 Sasson Somekh recalls various meetings that he and Aharon Amir attended with representatives of the Phoenicians—Alfred and May Murr—held in Ramat Aviv up to 1980. That was the course of an ideal exchange between the Christians in Lebanon, the so-called New Phoenicians, and the Israeli Canaanites. These two movements, which are marginal in both Lebanon and in Israel, were unified through mutual references to long neglected roots in the past.76 The Lebanese variant, known as Phoenicianism, sparked a strongly politicized discussion about

Quoted after Shavit, The New Hebrew Nation, 83. Aharon Amir recalls a strong interest in the Phoenician idea dating back to the late 1940s and he has been following the activities of the group since then. His first personal encounter took place in 1979 and continued frequently until 1984. 76 In his PhD thesis, Asher Kaufman has shown how in the 1930s Charles Corm (the central advocate of Phoenicianism in Lebanon) found enthusiastic partners for his vision of a Western-oriented Phoenicia-Lebanon in the leading Zionist movement in Palestine. He further analyzes a correspondence between Charles Corm and Eliahu Epstein, the head of the Arab section of the political department of the Jewish Agency, and their desire to establish together a “Palestine-Lebanon club, that would gather Lebanese and Jewish scholars, convening in Beirut and Jerusalem, for a series of lectures about the Judeo-Phoenician past and present.” See Asher Kaufman, “Reviving Phoenicia: The Search for an Identity in Lebanon” (Doctoral Diss., Brandeis University, 2000), 278–79. His thesis was published as Asher Selig Kaufman, Reviving Phoenicia: In Search of Identity in Lebanon (London: I. B. Tauris & Co. Ltd., 2004). 74 75

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identity formation, seeking to disconnect Lebanon from the regional Arab-Muslim context and establish a Lebanese-Maronite state based on the region’s Phoenician past. These New Phoenicians—separate from the political mainstream and in the minority—are strongly elitist, even chauvinistic, at the far right of the political spectrum, and play a very limited role in the public discourse of Lebanon today. A glance at the present brings us to Beirut: May and Alfred Murr, Greek-Orthodox Christians, live in the Christian quarter Ashraffyeh. They don’t like to call themselves New Phoenicians: “We prefer to call it Lebanese movement or Lebanese Idea instead of Phoenician movement, to keep us out of the [Arab, AN] mainstream that is drowning all the civilizations between the ocean and the gulf.” May Murr is a poet and writes as she says, in English, French, and Lebanese (sic! ). She sees a glorious future for the region and strives for a federation between Israel and Lebanon: There is a wonderful future awaiting our two countries. (. . .) When matters turn out properly, the Palestinians, Syrians, and Arabs will leave. We are now fighting with ideological means, military means will be applied if necessary, right now there is no one who can be our master and lead the fight.

This specific example illustrates an extreme interpretation of the unifying force of the Mediterranean and of Lebanon—or rather Phoenicia—that has little to do with bridging and connecting between East and West. According to this conception, the Mediterranean Idea is used to project the ancient nationality of the Phoenicians onto that of the modern Lebanese, thereby creating a theory of exclusion and separation—in this specific case even of repressive fanaticism. Among the Christian communities in Lebanon the attitude toward Phoenicianism varied. Generally speaking, the majority of Christians in Lebanon perceive their country as a non-Arabic and independent entity, attuned to the French education system and European sets of values. The Phoenician myth of origin was designed to reinforce this cultural uniqueness and to distinguish themselves from their surroundings. In fact, some of the “modern ultra-Phoenicians,”77 as Asher Kaufman labels them, have a tendency to view all of antiquity as one historical unit. The radical and ultra-nationalist interpretation of this sentiment of cultural belonging, articulated by those interviewees above, is certainly 77

Kaufman, “Reviving Phoenicia,” 9.

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an exception, nevertheless it sheds light on the instrumentalization of history. Without going into too much detail, the development of the Phoenician idea and its reception in Lebanon, as well as its link to the present discussion on Mediterraneanism under observation here, will be looked at. According to a small group of intellectuals who congregated around Charles Corm in the 1930s, modern Lebanon can be traced back to the time when Phoenicia was founded in the city-states of Sidon, Tyre, and Byblos. Corm was an avid supporter of the Phoenician identity and in 1919 established La Revue Phénicienne, a journal discussing cultural, economic, and political issues that soon became the platform for the promotion of the emerging Phoenician ideal. Notwithstanding conquests, those cities, according to Corm, never lost their ‘ancient Phoenician characteristics.’ The ideologist of the modern Republic of Lebanon and its confessional system (distributing political and institutional power proportionally among religious communities), Michel Chiha, a Christian banker, journalist, and historian, saw Lebanon as a natural bridge between West and East and as a commercial center for the entire Arabic world. He was convinced that a ‘Phoenicia of the modern Middle East’ will arise.78 According to Kaufman, Chiha’s Phoenician-Mediterranean beliefs had an enormous impact on the shape of Lebanese society. “According to Chiha, Lebanon is part of the Mediterranean and its national identity is neither Arab nor Phoenician, but simply Mediterranean.”79 Kaufman goes on to explain that the ‘Mediterranean identity’ for Chiha first and foremost meant the geographical setting. The sea and its climate implied openness and symbolized the exchange of cultures and ideas.80 In his political essay Proche-Orient et Moyen-Orient, which he wrote in 1952, Chiha calls upon other Arab countries to orient themselves in a westward direction, i.e., toward the Mediterranean. He insists on using the term ‘Near East’ instead of ‘Middle East’, explaining that the term ‘Near East’ implied a favored cultural closeness to the Mediterranean, and therefore to Europe.81 Yet, voices like his that were embracing the Mediterranean

78 See Kamal Salibi, A House of Many Mansions: The History of Lebanon Reconsidered (London: I. B. Tauris & Co. Ltd, 1988), 179. 79 Kaufman, “Reviving Phoenicia: The Search for an Identity in Lebanon,” 296. 80 Ibid., 118, 296. 81 Michel Chiha, Variations sur la Méditerranée (Beyrouth: Éditions du Trident, 1973), 199ff.

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space as a bridge serving to create and preserve ties to the West were the exception at the time. Eyal Zisser describes the counter-approach: Pan-Arabism, in contrast, viewed the Mediterranean Sea as hostile, even as a border that had to be converted into a fortified wall separating ‘them’ from ‘us.’ Everything coming from beyond this sea was considered a threat. After all, it was from there—in the distant as well as the recent past—that the invader had come. Moreover, the Mediterranean Sea and all it symbolized contained an ideological threat as well. The Mediterranean idea was considered cosmopolitanism, an epithet in the Arab lexicon (. . .). Thus the sea was meant not to connect but to separate the Arabs on one side from the West and Europe on the other.82

Modern Lebanese nationality, argue the New Phoenicians, “was the direct and legitimate descendant of the ancient nationality of the Phoenicians (. . .).” 83 Charles Corm is convinced that Lebanon is “the heir of Phoenicia” and “the modern Lebanese are descendants of the Phoenicians.”84 Phoenicia, as argued, has been resurrected in modern times, and Lebanon is not a new state but an entity with a 6,000 year-old national tradition. The New Phoenicians build a connection point between West and East, the language in their writings is exaggerated, poeticizing fictitious historiography. In his book A House of Many Mansions the Lebanese historian Kamal Salibi dedicates a whole chapter to Phoenicianism, critically analyzing the phenomenon and finally discrediting it: “Phoenicianism in Christian Lebanese circles developed more as a cult than a reasoned political theory, (. . .).”85 Moreover, he argues that this myth was formed by the Christian ruling elite “to prove a historical justification for the existence of a Greater Lebanon independent of Syria and of Arabism which all the people, including the Sunnite Muslims of the coastal cities, could accept.”86 De facto, it was the aim of the Phoenicians to detach Lebanon from a regional context and to erect a Lebanese-Maronite state, legitimized by the Phoenician past of the region. Salibi sees in this intention nothing but an odd ideology: “The whole story, put together, provided an illustrious pre-Arab antiquity for Lebanon around which a superficially appealing 82 Eyal Zisser, “The Mediterranean Idea in Syria and Lebanon: Between Territorial Nationalism and Pan-Arabism,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18, no. 1 (2003): 85. 83 Salibi, A House of Many Mansions, 171. 84 Albert Hourani, The Emergence of the Modern Middle East (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 176. 85 Salibi, A House of Many Mansions, 174. 86 Ibid., 170.

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Phoenicianist theory of the Lebanese past could be developed.”87 The strong feeling of supremacy, segregation, and Francophone elitism that dwells in this cultural concept were, according to the Lebanese historian Ahmad Baydoun, the reasons why Phoenicianism could never serve as a model for Lebanese society. There was a sort of transference of the features of the European modernity to an ancient age, which is the age of Phoenicia and the Mediterranean trade of Phoenicia. So these features are freedom, liberty and especially liberty of thought, religion, openness, and trade. But this cultural point of view and civilized view and conception of the Mediterranean Idea was doomed by a secret sickness, which was the hatred toward Arabs and Muslims. There was openness among us and a very hostile attitude toward ‘the Other,’ which was seen as the backward people (. . .).

Like the Canaanites in Israel, the Phoenicians in Lebanon play a very circumscribed role in the present discourse; nevertheless, Phoenicianism triggered a deeply politicized debate in Lebanon around the subject of identity formation. Asher Kaufman discusses in his PhD thesis that “Phoenicianism in the 1930s was more than a capricious idea of a few dreamers” and shows how the ancient Phoenicians have entered the mainstream Lebanese national narrative and played an integral part in the rising of Lebanese national history, as well as in collective identity. He explains that Lebanese history textbooks usually begin with the ancient Phoenician seafarers, thereby constructing a pre-Biblical and pre-Muslim national narrative. Interesting for the context of Mediterraneanism discussed here is a stream of thought among some Lebanese intellectuals in the middle of the twentieth century that referred to Lebanon’s location on the shores of the Mediterranean in order to prove its non-Arab identity. According to this view, Mediterraneanism is regarded as an extension and a complimentary idea to the Phoenician identity, giving additional weight to the very place where Lebanon is located.88 The Lebanese intellectual Elias Khoury explains the New Phoenicians’ approach to history within the Lebanese context. The evolution and characteristics of the Mediterranean Idea in Lebanon as portrayed by Khoury, such as the fuzziness and the complimentary character, show great similarities to the Israeli discourse on Yam Tikhoniut:

87 88

Ibid., 168. Kaufman, “Reviving Phoenicia,” 10.

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chapter four (. . .) the Mediterranean Idea passed through different stages. (. . .) When it was picked in Lebanon in the 1960s by Chiha and Habachi it was seen as an attempt by the Christians to replace the idea of Arab identity. Now we are in the beginning of the next phase of this idea, which is totally different. The Mediterranean Idea will not replace the Arab identity, but it is complimentary to it. And the Arab identity needs to be multiple also, so they can face the new world, which is emerging after the end of the Cold War. (. . .) But still the debate is in its beginning and very vague. And it needs to be formulated.

Looking at Israel, the Canaanite movement made an effort to establish a secular and territorial nationalism on the basis of a partly hypothetical history of antiquity.89 This is not a unique, isolated attempt but a Jewish variant of a phenomenon that can be found in other Mediterranean countries with similar multiethnic structures, but differing local specifics.90 Trying to link modern civilization with antique cultural traditions, this idea began to catch on among minorities in the Arab world, thereby promoting a strong anti-Islamic alignment and marking a clear distinction from Arab-Muslim culture. In Lebanon the Mediterranean Idea was instrumentalized for neo-Phoenician attempts, in Egypt it was absorbed by Pharaonism. These national movements share the desire to construct a glorious non-Muslim past in search of the contents of a new cultural identity. The utilization of history, and especially of the term ‘reconstruction of a Golden Age,’ was a typical strategy employed to build a set of shared values and a national mythology. In this process of fabricating a national narrative, ancient history is instrumentalized for current political developments. An important question that historian Israel Gershoni poses in the case of the Pharaonism91 also needs to be asked in the case of the Canaanites and Phoenicians: How important is the ancient heritage of a nation in the twentieth century? A classic statement by one of the architects of Pharaonism, Salama Musa, shows the strong distortion of a nation’s history: “We are a family living in this valley for more than ten thousand 89 On the production of an ancient historical past and its usage, see Yaacov Shavit, “Hebrews and Phoenicians: An Ancient Historical Image and Its Usage,” Studies in Zionism 5, no. 2 (1984). 90 See also Shavit, The New Hebrew Nation, 92. 91 Pharaonism, sometimes also referred to as Pharaonicism, is a form of Egyptian patriotism that emphasized the heritage of ancient Egypt, thereby disconnecting Egyptian history from the Muslim East. See Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Egypt, Islam, and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–1930 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 164.

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years, who does not have a drop of that same blood which flowed in the veins of Ramses, Khufu, Khaf-Re, and Akh-en-Aton.”92 Taking a quick glimpse at other Mediterranean cultures, with the movement of Turkism we also find a revival of the pre-Islamic past in Turkey. This was an effort headed by the publicist and sociologist Ziya Gökalp (1876–1924), who was the main ideologist and spokesman of pan-Turkic ideas. The architect of early Turkish nationalism wanted to replace the idea of Ottomanism with the idea of a united nation of Turks, bound together by a common ethnic origin, language, customs, culture, and religion. His idea was to establish a new political unity by claiming racial kinship between the Hittites and the modern Turks in order to give the secular Turkish national movement a historical and local basis.93 Within one of the Palestinian narratives we can observe usage of the past that parallels concurrent trends in neighboring Arab countries and is aiming to prove the continuity of an Arab identity dating back to antiquity. In order to construct a continuous presence, one current among Palestinian intellectuals is the claim of being the real descendents of the Canaanites—antedating the first Israelite settlement—in the today strongly disputed territory. Historian Meir Litvak discusses the Palestinization of the past and offers a striking example from archeological research. Needless to say, in the course of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the field of archeology became a highly disputed and politicized discipline that is used by both sides to prove or refute historical continuity. Litvak explains: “In the 1980s, for instance, archaeologists from Bir Zayt University sought to prove the historical Canaanite-Palestinian continuity by showing similarities between the material culture of the Canaanite period and that of contemporary Palestinian villages.”94 In Syria, in the second half of the nineteenth century, the Maronite Christian Butrus al-Bustani (1819–1883) spoke about a Syrian homeland that stretches from the Mediterranean and the Euphrates to the Arabic desert and up to Anatolia. The intellectual Antun Sa’ada (1904–1949) continued this claim of Greater Syria, which argues that the inhabitants

Ibid., 165. See, e.g., Xénia Celnarová, “The Religious Ideas of the Early Turks from Point of View of Ziya Gökalp,” Asian and African Studies 6 (1997). 94 Meir Litvak, “A Palestinian Past: National Construction and Reconstruction,” History & Memory (1994): 42. 92 93

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of contemporary Syria have a racial kinship with the Arameans, and therefore a linking past and a unifying culture.95 These examples discussed here show the instrumentalization of history for contemporary political purposes and the fabrication of modern national and multiethnic identities. However, the interest in establishing a historical link between the ancient cultures of the region and the nation-states in modern times gives priority to ideological construction rather than to historical impact. In all the examples discussed above we find problematic and often unproven historical references to a heroic Mediterranean past, which is then twisted in order to fulfill the contemporary desire of a people or a minority group to be perceived in a different cultural framework. Coming back to the Lebanese case and the discussion of a Mediterranean identity, an observation by the historian Salibi, who sharply criticizes the Phoenician idea in his book A House of Many Mansions, is elucidative in this context. Despite his criticism, in his closing remarks he refers to the Lebanese present and makes a bold comparison between the Lebanese people of today and the ancient Phoenicians: Judging by what ancient Greek literature has to say about the Phoenicians, the urban Lebanese of today do not appear to be much different in character. Like the ancient Phoenicians, they are free-wheeling and rugged mercantilists; adventurous and footloose, yet staunchly attached to home grounds; free-spending and willing to take on any gamble, yet essentially thrifty; keeping an open mind and adapting to changing circumstances with typical Levantine facility at one level, yet doggedly set in their traditional ways at another; socially playful to the point of irresponsible levity, yet serious, highly alert and efficient, though somewhat unconventional, when it comes to real business, where they have a marked tendency to live by their wits. What makes the modern urban Lebanese so much like the Phoenicians of old is geography, not history. They live in the same cities, along the same Mediterranean shore, and work the same land under the same climate. Geography in some respects can be as important as history.96

Here Salibi presents a fine analysis of the contemporary urban Lebanese, and an observant traveler to Lebanon can verify the presence of many of the traits he describes. Emphasizing the location of a place,

95 96

Shavit, The New Hebrew Nation, 97. Salibi, A House of Many Mansions, 178.

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Salibi attributes much importance to geography for the development of certain characteristics of a people. To sum up, as the case of the neo-Phoenician identity in Lebanon, as well as the other examples from the region have shown, the idea of forming a geo-cultural identity based on ancient history is not an idea solely brought forward by the Canaanite movement in Israel in the 1940s. Various examples for the construction of a regionally based cultural identity in the countries of the Levant, drawing on historical predecessors can be found. The regional parallel between the modern Canaanites and the New Phoenicians is particularly interesting in that two privately organized groups of intellectuals exchanged ideas and even met personally in Beirut and in Tel Aviv before the border traffic stopped because of the War of Independence—or the Nakba (Arab. catastrophe), as it is called in Arabic—and the subsequent closure of the border along the ceasefire-line between the newly established state of Israel and Lebanon. However, after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 there was limited access to the occupied parts of Lebanon for Israeli visitors. Another example that emphasizes the regional integration of Israel, the idea of ‘Levantiniut,’ leads us to Egypt. c) Jaqueline Kahanoff Jacqueline Kahanoff was a writer and essayist, a Jewish immigrant from Egypt, who was born in Egypt in 1917 and died in Israel in 1979. She came from an Iraqi-Tunisian background, grew up in an uppermiddle-class family in Cairo, was educated in French schools, studied in New York and Paris and immigrated to Israel in 1954.97 In the 1950s she was already discussing Israel’s integration into the region. In her collection of essays, Mizrah Shemesh (East of the sun),98 she considers the transformation of the Zionist revolution into a Levantine one, and advocates for an open and pluralistic society in the Levant. She never felt at home in the Hebrew or Arabic language and wrote her works in 97 For further biographical details, see Starr, “Ambivalent Levantines/Levantine Ambivalences,” 18. 98 Jacqueline Kahanoff, Mizrah Shemesh, trans. Aharon Amir (Tel Aviv: Yariv and Hadar Publishing, 1978). Among the various possible translations of this Hebrew title into English, Sasson Somekh, expert in Arabic literature and close friend of Jacqueline Kahanoff, suggests “East of the sun.” The essay “Mizrah ha-Shemesh (East of the sun)” (Tel Aviv 1968, unpublished manuscript) was first published in a collection of essays: Generation of the Levantines (Tel Aviv, 1978).

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English and French. Some of her essays were translated into Hebrew by the poet and founding father of the Canaanites Aharon Amir and published in the Canaanites’ literary journal Keshet in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Joel Beinin observes that Kahanoff ’s ideas were a point of departure for Amir’s generation and Mizrah Shemesh was—in a hopeful ‘post-al-Sadat visit euphoria’—warmly welcomed and “encouraged by the soaring hopes for peaceful normalcy in Israel.”99 Nevertheless, Beinin explains that at the time, Kahanoff ’s idea of a creative Levantine synthesis was regarded as a setback to be avoided, and only a few critics were able to accept her positive approach to Levantinism.100 Throughout the 1980s and 1990s her work became the subject of renewed interest as inner-Israeli discussions on identity politics intensified and social values and the status of the Mizrahi Jews in an emerging civil society became increasingly part of the public discourse. Her handsome portrait can be found on posters advertising conferences, flyers, and books (see fig. 10, p. 283) that deal with the subject of the ‘open Mediterranean,’ and David Ohana refers to her as the ‘Levantine version of Virginia Woolf.’ When The Israeli Forum for Mediterranean Culture at the Van Leer Institute in Jerusalem was founded in March 1996, the first conference was dedicated to the memory of Jacqueline Kahanoff, with writers Ronit Matalon and Shulamith Hareven among those who presented their insights on Kahanoff ’s work. In 2006 David Ohana published the book Between two worlds in Hebrew, which focused on the translation of Kahanoff ’s unpublished material into Hebrew.101 As of this writing, another edited volume of her writings was in preparation, edited by Sasson Somekh and Deborah Ann Starr. Kahanoff ’s influence on Israeli writers of younger generations is apparent and played an important role in introducing her work to a larger Israeli audience: Ronit Matalon and Dorit Rabinyian have both drawn on Kahanoff ’s essays as a source of inspiration. Matalon discusses the Levantine past in her novels, seeing a bridge for future models of society, while other Israeli writers reminisce about their youth in Egypt. The Baghdad-born writer Sami Michael sees in the history of the Levant precious experi-

99 Beinin, The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry: Culture, Politics, and the Formation of a Modern Diaspora, 55. 100 Ibid., 233, 55. 101 David Ohana, ed., Jacqueline Shohet Kahanoff: Bein shnei olamot (Between two worlds) ( Jerusalem: Keter, 2006).

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ence on which to base contemporary dialogues concerning Israelis and multicultural existence. We have to clarify once and for all that we are not strangers, but rather part of the Middle East. (. . .) also the Ashkenazim in this country today, at least their children and grandchildren, are no longer Europeans. They are Asians and belong here. (. . .) Some do not like to hear that, but the European roots here are almost not present anymore. It is just the same with my Iraqi roots that are today no longer part of Israeli realities.102

Many other examples from the contemporary Israeli literary landscape prove the thesis that there is a revitalization of the culture of the Levant. In his anthology, Keys to the Garden, for example, Ammiel Alcalay names the authors Shulamith Hareven, Eli Amir, Sami Shalom Chetrit, Yitzchak Gormesano Goren, Ronny Somekh, and many others. In her essay ‘Israel: Ambivalent Levantine,’ Kahanoff discusses the “new Levantine personality emerging in our midst.”103 She reverses the clichés associated with the term Levant (corruption, dictatorship, backwardness, poverty, and retrogression in a heavily fluctuating environment marked by trade, seafaring, and wars) into the exact opposite: “Israel could be Levantine in a more constructive sense by assembling its tremendous richness of backgrounds and cultures to create an art, a style of thought and living, a personality more truly its own.”104 In fact, by labeling her model of society ‘Levantinism’ (she uses the Hebrew term Levantiniut) she appropriates a term that, looking at its Orientalist history, was mainly used derogatorily. In her unique vision of Israel as an integral part of the Mediterranean or Levantine world, she promotes an open, pluralistic society in the Levant: Israel, of course, cannot go it all the way alone, nor can it make peace with avowed enemies still in the explosive state of self-creation. But, in the measure that it does not fear its own Levantinization, it may pave the way for some kind of future peace, wherein many people can cooperate (. . .) at least more tolerantly of their differences. Israel ‘wins’ if it becomes the model of a well-integrated Levantine country, which refuses neither side its inheritance in creating its own values.105

Gisela Dachs, “Außenseiter aus Überzeugung.” This essay was published in Hebrew under the title: “Black on White.” See Starr, “Ambivalent Levantines/Levantine Ambivalences,” 199. 104 This quote is from an English draft that was not published in Hebrew. Ibid., 33. 105 Kahanoff, Mizrah Shemesh. 102 103

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Jacqueline Kahanoff advocated and embraced cultural cross-fertilization, and described in her work a particular cosmopolitanism that opposed the characterization of Levantinism as backward and shallow. She even described herself as being of hybrid structure: “A typical Levantine in that I appreciate equally what I inherited from my oriental origins and what is now mine of western culture, I find in this cross-fertilization, called disparagingly in Israel ‘Levantinization,’ an enrichment and not an impoverishment.”106 With her vision of Israel as an integral part of the Mediterranean and the Levantine world, Kahanoff was far ahead of her times. She realized that the region harbors not only a concentration of national, religious, ethnic, and cultural conflicts, but also provides opportunities for dialogue and multicultural coexistence, as in the ideal cultural metropolis of Alexandria at the beginning of the twentieth century. Returning to the present, this increased interest in Kahanoff ’s persona comes at a time when the inner-Israeli discussion on identity is a constant source of tension and reveals severe rifts between the various ethnic groups. Moreover, the question of integration within the geographical region has not yet been answered. Jacqueline Kahanoff ’s biographical roots within the Levantine culture stand for lived cosmopolitanism, where multilayered realities and cultural complexity are not perceived as a threat but as an enrichment. Indeed, the aura surrounding her transfers the nostalgic echoes of an ideal world of cultural coexistence into the harsh realities of the Israeli present. Her approach, applied to contemporary settings, challenges static interpretations, raises hopes of abolishing dichotomies, and overcoming frontiers. Deborah Ann Starr explains that the renewed interest in Kahanoff ’s Levantinism is due to “a particularly relevant paradigm in its attempt to undermine persisting hegemonic, unitary national discourses.”107 However, in order to make the most effective use of Kahanoff ’s ideas and her approach to the region with respect to the situation in contemporary Israel, one needs to make careful distinctions: when she spoke about her childhood, she was referring to the ‘Levantine culture’ in the classic sense, to a situation that existed for a short period of time, affected only a small stratum within the population, and was strongly influenced by European and Francophone hegemony.

106 107

Ibid., 48. Starr, “Ambivalent Levantines/Levantine Ambivalences,” 16.

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As a child, I believed that it was only natural for people to understand each other even though they spoke different languages, for them to have different names—Greek, Muslim, Syrian, Jewish, Christian, Arab, Italian, Tunisian, Armenian—and at the same time be similar to each other.108

This situation in a heterogeneous and multiethnic Egypt of the 1940s is fertile ground for romanticizing a better future in a country like Israel that is deeply strained by political, cultural, and social discrepancies.109 In connection with Jacqueline Kahanoff, the luminescent example of Alexandria is mentioned time and again as a symbol for the open Mediterranean. Even though Kahanoff grew up in Cairo, Alexandria is often mentioned as the polyglot branch of that city. Alexandria is a nostalgic symbol of Mediterraneanism and the mythos of its cosmopolitan openness and its ethnic diversity is being discussed. The city’s literary image has an especially glowing energy. Of particular interest is the romantic reception of the myth, similar to the historical examples mentioned before. The city represents an ideal model of communal and social order and serves as an unparalleled example of cosmopolitan life at the beginning of the twentieth century. Taking a look at the Alexandria of today we realize that the glorious past is just that, past. In his book Alexandria Fata Morgana, Joachim Sartorius, a writer and former secretary general of the Goethe-Institutes in Germany, undertakes a search for literary places and describes the big gap that exists between reality and imagination. In contemporary Alexandria he looks for the open, hedonistic, and Levantine cultural capital with its Hellenistic predecessor and only finds disenchantment: “I am looking for a phantom city, hundredfold buried beneath the city that I saw, and of which nothing but a trace is left.”110 The attempt to reconstruct the place according to the rich literary sources guides you from a cosmopolitan ideal to a mono-ethnic provincial metropolis. This decline of meaning is a fate similarly shared by other Mediterranean cities, including Ismir-Smyrna and Thessalonica.

Quoted after Rubinstein, From Herzl to Rabin, 77. For further reading, see Shimon Shamir, ed., The Jews of Egypt: A Mediterranean Society in Modern Times (Boulder: Westview Press, 1987). 110 Joachim Sartorius, ed., Alexandria: Fata Morgana (Stuttgart: Deutsche VerlagsAnstalt, 2001), 13. German original: “Ich suchte die Phantomstadt, hundertfach begraben unter der Stadt, die ich gesehen hatte und die nur noch Andeutung ist.” 108 109

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In fact, the former glory of the city, beautifully preserved and often mystified in numerous literary works, is used and politically instrumentalized in contemporary Alexandria: the 2002 reopening of Alexandria’s famous library, rebuilt in postmodern style by the Norwegian architects Snøhetta, under the auspices of UNESCO, presents an instructive example. The Egyptian government was not only looking to establish a geographical continuity, since the site of the new building is located “on the historic eastern harbor of Alexandria, almost exactly where the old library and the royal palace of the Ptolemies once stood.”111 They were also attempting to establish a direct ideological continuity between the new construction and the ancient library: “The Egyptian Government, in co-operation with UNESCO, has decided to resurrect the old dream to endow this part of the world with an important focal point for culture, education and science.”112 This institution will be a revival of the ancient Bibliotheca Alexandrina, as its website states, the largest library in the Middle East and Africa, marking the rebirth of the institution founded over 2000 years ago and establishing a link between past and future.113 The Egyptian government is presenting itself as a patron of the largest source of knowledge of contemporary times, and in accord with the example of ancient traditions. Through this project, which attracted major international media coverage, Egypt wishes to strengthen its role as a mediator. “Subsequently, the library will play a needed role to further cooperation between the north and south of the Mediterranean Basin, as well as between the east and west.”114 Despite these noble aspirations, the question remains, how does this massive project fit in terms of the present image and contemporary problems of the city? Haaretz columnist Benny Ziffer critically comments: (. . .) why is there such a megalomaniac library in this poor city, which doesn’t even have the money to pay cleaners to sweep, once and for all, the floors of the cars on the blue tram, and thus get rid of layers

111 Official Egyptian website of the library, http://www.bibalex.org (accessed November 22, 2007). 112 Egypt State Information Service, http://www.sis.gov.eg (accessed November 22, 2007). 113 UNESCO.org, “Bibliotheca Alexandrina,” http://portal.unesco.org/ci/ ev.php?URL_ID=4539&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION=201&reload= 1032858477, November 22, 2007. 114 See Egypt Tourism Ministry website, http://www.egypttourism.org (accessed March 12, 2003).

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of spittle, mud, cigarette butts and ticket fragments? Is the West again sticking a colonial wedge into a city to which it thinks it has a historical claim?115

Jacqueline Kahanoff is one example of what David Ohana calls the intellectual seismographs of the Mediterranean humanist current, which foreshadowed the postmodernist discourse. Along this line, a growing interest can be sensed in the way intellectuals have made use of the Mediterranean Idea over the centuries.116 Ohana describes how Albert Camus formulated his humanistic vision of the Mediterranean for the first time in his lecture La nouvelle culture méditerranéenne given at a cultural institute in Algiers. Starting in 1937, Camus and a group of artists and authors published a periodical called Rivages. Revue de Culture Méditerranéenne, in which they articulated a secular, humanistic, and open Mediterranean vision that stressed the region’s intellectual climate.117 Analyzing the cases of writers like Camus, Albert Memmi, Tahar Ben-Jelloun, Jorge Semprún, Najib Mahfouz, and Edmond Jabes, Ohana states: The Mediterranean humanist writers wrote their best in places where they felt great alienation. They wrote about uprooting, emigration, racism, multiculturalism, dialogue. (. . .) Readers of the Mediterranean humanist writers have found them sensitive barometers of their geopolitical space who, while rebelling and protesting through their characters, their actions, their confessions and the story of their emigration, at the same time embodied the region’s tragic humanism.118

As shown above, Kahanoff would also have to be seen in this context of ‘Mediterranean humanist writers,’ as she developed the pioneering model of Levantiniut as an alternative approach to the region, thereby reversing long-established stereotypes about ‘the Levant’ and offering new perspectives in the discussion on Israel’s place within the region.

Benny Ziffer, “Reincarnation of a Poet,” Haaretz, February 28, 2003. See Ohana, Humanist ba-shemesh. 117 See David Ohana, “Mediterranean Humanism,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18, no. 1 (2003): 60–61. 118 Ibid., 73. 115 116

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chapter four 5. Political Locus: The Barcelona Process

Lastly, the discrepancy between real place and imagined place points to a very specific place: the political locus of the Mediterranean Idea. As discussed above, the Mediterranean Idea and the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut have a particular importance for inner-Israeli debates and are closely connected to the question of Israeliness. Yet, this discussion is also nurtured by external stimuli that enter a complex interrelation with inner-Israeli issues. The Euro-Mediterranean Partnership (hereafter, EMP), for instance, shows that beyond a domestic concern there is also a superordinate interest in the Mediterranean network idea on the part of the countries of the European Union. The EMP incorporates a strategic, political, and cultural outline for the countries bordering the Mediterranean and focuses on a larger regional approach. As the EU’s regional cooperation process EMP is to date the most important attempt to define the Mediterranean as a political and cultural unit; a closer look at its implications reveals some interesting insights. The impact the EMP has had on the inner-Israeli discourses cannot be overestimated: the launching of the EMP entailed the authorization of substantial financial resources, which allowed, for example, for the promotion of conferences, cultural, and academic projects, exchange programs, and a wide variety of joint ventures. The generous levels of financial assistance set in motion a dynamic process that significantly affected and even enhanced the discussion on Yam Tikhoniut in the Israeli discourse. Here, the creative impact the Barcelona Process (discussed below) had on Israeli society by triggering the institutionalization of the Mediterranean network idea should not be underestimated. The financial promotion of research groups, academic circles, and conferences on related subjects continues, supporting NGO activities and grassroots organization within Israeli society. During the early 1990s, after the end of the Cold War, the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the end of the Gulf War, a new political map was unfolding. With the beginning of the Middle East peace process in Madrid (1991) the EU’s efforts to turn the Mediterranean region into an area of peace and stability seemed feasible. In 1993, former Israeli foreign minister Shimon Peres came forward with his vision of a ‘New Middle East,’ which saw economic cooperation and a common market as a vehicle for rapprochement and dialogue between nations and people in the region. Peres identified and named a rare opportunity to create a “new Golden Age” in the Middle East:

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We are all in need of it, and any other alternative would be a collective punishment for all peoples in our region. We can begin today by taking the first step across the bridge of mutual cooperation and understanding among Middle East people. The journey ahead will be long, but the way is open. We need brave travelers.119

It has often been argued that Peres’s optimistic blueprint for the Middle East, which was designed to truly integrate Israel in the region, also contained a counterproductive element since it fed the Arab fear that Israel, often perceived as militarist and colonialist, now intended to conquer and dominate the region economically. During this period the EU also made efforts to reflect the significant changes in world politics by reorganizing its Euro-Mediterranean relations and setting up a framework with the Mediterranean as the central point of reference. The most significant result of these efforts was the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership of November 1995—the so-called Barcelona Process mentioned above.120 The EU’s Mediterranean manifesto laid the foundation for a new program of dialogue and regional cooperation with and within the Mediterranean region, in which Israel and its neighbors were considered as a unit for the first time.121 In this process, a regional perspective was added, supplementing the bilateral relationships the EU had earlier held with countries in the region. The aim was to make a significant contribution to the economic strength and stability of the countries on the European Union’s Mediterranean periphery, thus improving the chances for mutual understanding and equilibrium. The Barcelona Declaration states, The participants recognize that the traditions of culture and civilization throughout the Mediterranean region, dialogue between these cultures See back cover of the book: Peres, The New Middle East. The Barcelona Declaration, named after the city where it was signed in 1995, established the foundations for a regional cooperation process, which meant creating a multilateral dialogue between the then 15 EU member countries and 12 other countries bordering the Mediterranean (Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Malta, Cyprus, and Turkey). This multilateral framework, defined in a joint declaration and a work program, focused on economic and security aspects as well as on the linkage of cultural and social fields. 121 UNESCO had already published a ‘Blue Plan’ scenario in 1989, which explored economic and environmental questions like pollution, demography, social development, and urbanization. Despite the fact that this study aimed at exploring “the possible futures for the entire Mediterranean basin” by promoting a closed Mediterranean cooperation, it does not reflect on questions of shared cultural resources or aspects of regional identity. Michel Batisse and Michel Grenon, ed., Futures for the Mediterranean Basin: The Blue Plan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989). 119

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chapter four and exchanges at human, scientific and technological level are an essential factor in bringing their peoples closer, promoting understanding between them and improving their perception of each other. (. . .) dialogue and respect between cultures and religions are a necessary precondition for bringing peoples closer.122

The main objectives of the Barcelona conference were: normalization of Israel’s relations with the Arab states in the Mediterranean region, and intensification of cooperation with partner states in questions of common concern such as water, environmental protection, disarmament, and economic growth. Closer economic, political, and cultural ties between the countries bordering the Mediterranean and Europe were seen as a way of creating a zone of security, stability, and prosperity. Common interests and shared values were promoted and the long-term hope was for an atmosphere conducive both to a balance within the countries in the area, and to peace initiatives between Israelis and Palestinians. The Mediterranean region is of vital importance to Europe, and not just for economic reasons: the Middle East as well as the Maghreb are perceived as the ‘back yard’ of the southern EU countries and everything that happens in the region has repercussions for the Union as a whole. For example, large-scale immigration from Northern Africa to Europe poses a major challenge to European nation-states and is even seen as a threat to national identities in Europe. A common claim is that the fear of mass migration to Europe was the driving force behind the EU’s region building approach, which some see as an imperialistic attempt to influence the region economically as well as culturally. Especially due to the fact that an equal counterpart—meaning a partner who has comparable economic and social conditions vis-à-vis the European side of the Mediterranean—is missing, “the EMP can be seen as a result of (. . .) European projection onto the Mediterranean space.”123 With regard to the specific case of Israel, Raffaella Del Sarto even argues that the EMP seeks to “manipulate Israel’s identity towards

122 See full text of the Barcelona Declaration, http://europa.eu.int/comm/external_ relations/euromed/bd.htm (accessed August 1, 2005). 123 Isabel Schäfer, “The Third Chapter of the Barcelona Process: A European Cultural Approach to the Mediterranean?” (paper presented at the First World Congress for Middle Eastern Studies, Mainz, 2002). Published as: Isabel Schäfer, “The Third Chapter of the Barcelona Process: A European Cultural Approach to the Mediterranean?,” Orient 43, no. 4 (2002).

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a Mediterranean identity”,124 and by labeling it ‘Mediterranean’ tries to alter Israel’s self-perception. However, the EU’s overarching region-building approach included countries, like Israel and its neighbors (including some who did not recognize Israel’s right to exist), which were in a constant state of conflict with each other. The EMP has facilitated meetings between intellectuals and political representatives of diverse national backgrounds that would have previously been inconceivable: suddenly, Israel and its neighbors found themselves seated next to each other in EMP-related conferences and unofficial gatherings.125 Syria, for example, participated in the founding conference of the EMP in Barcelona 1995, and also—before the outbreak of the Al Aksa Intifada—participated in the joint sessions attended by European and Mediterranean countries, including Israel. But historian Eyal Zisser warns against too much optimism with regard to this cautious Syrian openness to the Mediterranean Sea, and quotes the Syrian Minister of Information, Adnan ‘Umran, who stated in late 2000: The entire matter of the Mediterranean Sea partnership that the countries of the European Union wish to promote is a source of trouble and complications; it would be better for us to return to the framework of the Arab-European dialogue that we maintained in the past, where everything was clearer and simpler.126

The EMP indeed was looking to give the EU-Mediterranean relations a new dimension by going beyond the traditional bilateralism that had long characterized the interaction between the EU and Mediterranean countries. The Euro-Arab Dialogue, launched in the 1970s, was generally regarded as a failure. Political analysts have argued that lack of willingness on the part of the involved nations to fully engage in the EMP manifesto have hampered the EU’s activities in the Mediterranean. On the part of some Arab governments, this reluctance can be explained by the desire to maintain control over domestic developments and by the fact that

Del Sarto, “Israel’s Contested Identity and the Mediterranean,” 42. An Egyptian commentator embraces Mediterraneanism as a new option for facing the challenges of recent regional and global changes, see Mohammed El-Sayed Selim, “Mediterraneanism: A New Dimension in Egypt’s Foreign Policy,” Kurasat Istratijiya. Strategic Papers of the Al-Ahram Center for Political and Strategic Studies 27, no. 4 (1995). See also http://www.acpss.org/ekuras/ek27/ek27d.htm (accessed February 10, 2003). 126 Zisser, “The Mediterranean Idea in Syria and Lebanon,” 89. 124 125

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part of the EMP’s mission entailed a rapprochement with Israel. Israel, too, lacked a strategy for the Mediterranean region building process, as Raffaella Del Sarto explains: a serious commitment to the EMP would have demanded a radical change of its self-perception, and “necessitates a departure from Israel’s prevailing perception of having ‘no choice’ in its regional relations, the principle of ‘trust no one’ and the sense of regional detachment and international isolation.”127 Furthermore, Israel does not clearly position itself in relation to the EMP, and its stance is characterized by a wait-and-see attitude. Due to the unresolved conflict between Israel and its neighbors, Israel’s position toward the other countries in the region is strongly exclusive. Extensive literature on the subject has discussed the various setbacks eperienced by the EMP, the unresolved Israeli-Palestinian conflict being only one. The initial euphoria that met the EMP has been replaced by increased frustration and disappointment on both sides of the Mediterranean as its deficiencies have surfaced over the years: “(. . .) the EMP was not only characterised by slow progress but also consumed scarce resources of civil servants and ministers, without producing too many tangible results.”128 Others go even further, seeing no impact whatsoever on the region as a result of EU efforts, much less any positive outcomes. Gerald M. Steinberg sharply criticized the EU’s “patronizing, paternalistic, and poorly informed” attitude toward Israel.129 Despite the defects of the EMP, its appeal to form new points of reference within the region by complementing existing structures has not lost its power. Even though the outbreak of the Al Aksa Intifada disrupted efforts to move further ahead on the ‘Mediterranean track,’ the emphasis on its integrating factors continued: in 2003, Chris Patten (the then European commissioner for external relations) and George A. Papandreou (the then Greek foreign minister) published a joint statement on the state of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership. They pointed out that the EU-Mediterranean integration is far from being fulfilled and

Del Sarto, “Israel’s Contested Identity and the Mediterranean,” 51. Stephan Stetter, “Theorising the European Neighborhood Policy: Debordering and Rebordering in the Mediterranean,” Mediterranean Programme Series, no. 34 (2005). Paper provided by: European University Institute, EUI Working Papers, RSCAS No. 2005/34, Robert Schuman Centre for Advanced Studies, Mediterranean Programme Series: Florence. 129 Gerald M. Steinberg, “Learning the Lessons from the EU’s Failed Middle East Policies,” Jerusalem Viewpoints, no. 510 (2004). See also http://www.jcpa.org/jl/vp510 .htm (accessed November 22, 2007). 127 128

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fragmentation and opposition between cultures and among societies is a common phenomenon. In spite of the current shortcomings of a Mediterranean unity, the authors discuss the potential they see in the network idea, which could eventually transcend national boundaries. They emphasize the need of the EU to help the Mediterranean partners to overcome difficulties and obstacles on the way to peace and prosperity: “(. . .) We will need to put divisions and differences behind us to work together in an international framework to promote security, stability and cooperation throughout the region.”130 Moreover, Patten and Papandreou emphasize the importance of the realization of the Road Map to peace in the Middle East, backed by the EU, the United States, Russia, and the United Nations. They in fact see a peaceful solution in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as a prerequisite for further activity in the promotion and the construction of a Mediterranean region of stability and peace. They argue further that peaceful coexistence between Israel and Palestine is the precondition for achieving (. . .) the full potential of cooperation in the Mediterranean region, taking full advantage of its rich history and great diversity. The ambition of Europe in the Mediterranean is to turn its former power into positive influence, to help build trust among all countries, to share our experience of consolidating peace through economic cooperation. These are the same instruments that shaped the European continent. So we are confident these instruments will also serve to gradually achieve stability and prosperity in Euro-Mediterranean relations, while bringing our societies closer.131

The statement by Papandreou and Patten was widely distributed in editorials in the region, including in Jordan, Egypt, and Syria, 132 strengthening the assumption that in spite of everything, the Mediterranean network idea remains in the public consciousness, is even being incorporated among the diverse societies and political systems in the region, and could eventually serve as a mediating factor. The EU’s position that the Mediterranean network could serve as a platform for future cooperation between Israelis and Arabs provides an especially positive outlook on the currently defunct peace process. By focusing

130 Chris Patten and George A. Papandreou, “We Will Not Astonish You,” Haaretz, May 26, 2003. 131 Ibid. 132 Tomader Fateh, “Europe in the Mediterranean is to Turn its Former Power into Positive Influence, Build Trust among all Countries,” Syria Times, May 28, 2003.

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on connectedness and cultural similarities rather than antagonizing nationalisms, the Mediterranean Option seems to be a viable option for a regional integration and cultural dialogue, which is still under discussion.133 The opinion that the pluralistic Mediterranean Option could eventually be a key for a peaceful solution to the Israeli-Arab conflict is widely shared by policy researchers and opinion makers in the EU, whereas voices in Israel are somewhat less optimistic. A widely held Israeli perspective is that European officials and their agendas are especially critical and even biased toward Israel. Despite these divergent perceptions, one could easily argue that the potential success of the EMP also depends on the fate of the peace process. Israeli scholar and journalist Amnon Rubinstein, for example, believes that the discussion about an emerging Mediterranean awareness in Israel is self-evident, linking it directly to the political conflict. However, he somewhat limits the potential of the Mediterranean Idea by reducing it to a folkloristic context. The desire to find in the Mediterranean reality a common experience is not only self-evident but can also serve a beneficial aim: to support the peace process by creating a cultural and folkloristic common denominator.134

More than ten years after the formal establishment of the EMP, the EU’s interest in the promotion of a transcultural dialogue has not declined, although the Barcelona Process has more than once been described as defunct. The European Neighborhood Policy-Draft Action Plan (ENP), which was launched in December 2004, acknowledged the EMP’s shortcomings and put the ‘single unit approach’ into perspective. By emphasizing the ‘near neighborhood’ between Israel and the EU, bilateral dimensions are being strengthened. Despite the obvious shortcomings of the EMP, as described above, the ‘third basket’ (which was developed in order to strengthen of social and cultural dialogue) regained relevance after 9/11. Numerous activities and publications addressing ‘inter-cultural and inter-religious dialogue’ were launched, and the Euro-Mediterranean cultural cooperation served as an instru-

133 Some other models, which placed the emphasis on regional integration, should be mentioned in this context: e.g., the AMU (Arab-Maghreb Union), the Arab League, REDWG (a cooperation on the Masshreq level), and the Agadir Process (which emerged out of the EMP’s dynamic development). 134 Rubinstein, From Herzl to Rabin, 76.

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ment to institutionalize these activities.135 As an example, in the spring of 2005 the Anna Lindh Euro-Mediterranean Foundation for the Dialogue between Cultures,136 named after the Swedish foreign minister who was murdered in 2004, became operational in order to increase the understanding between European, Mediterranean, and Middle Eastern countries. The location of the European foundation headquarters is the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, which sends a strong ideological message: by choosing Alexandria as the foundation’s site, the ideal cultural-metropolis, symbol for cosmopolitanism and openness at the beginning of the twentieth century, the EU is stressing its ongoing interest in integrating both shores of the Mediterranean region into an overarching framework. In passing, it may be noted that the unifying of a heterogeneous region by means of the sea that touches all adjacent states is not unique in history. There are other regionalization processes that created, for example, ‘Black Sea Studies,’ ‘Caspian Sea Studies,’ and contributed to the rising importance of ‘Atlantic Studies’ and ‘Pacific Studies.’ ‘Baltic Sea Area Studies’ has also emerged as its own discipline, and deals with political culture, values, national identities, and Europeanization in the Baltic Sea region. Especially in focus is the search for connectedness, the question of the emergence of a common (Baltic Sea) culture and identity, and how nations with different historical experiences, economic, and social backgrounds, as well as different patterns of national identity, can contribute to the specific development of the Baltic Sea region.137 In the context of the European process of integration, the Baltic Sea region is seen as an integrative power with some arguments in the discussions about ‘Nordic Identity’ resembling those in the discourse on a Mediterranean unity. 135 A special issue of the journal Mediterranean Politics deals exactly with the subject of strengthening the ‘third basket’ of the EMP and offers a thorough analysis of how this objective can be implemented. In its preface the editors state the aim of this special issue: “The key question is whether the EU can really cast off old, sometimes neo-colonial, attitudes and present-day fears and work toward the stated objective set forth by the European Commission in 2002 of bringing ‘people on both sides of the Mediterranean closer together, to promote their mutual knowledge and understanding and to improve their perception of each other’.” Michelle Pace and Tobias Schumacher ed., The EU and the Mediterranean: Conceptualising Cultural Dialogue and Social Systems—A European Perspective, Mediterranean Politics (London: Routledge, 2005). 136 See http://www.euromedalex.org/Home/EN/Home.aspx (accessed July 22, 2008). 137 See Bernd Henningsen, “Zur Politischen und Kulturellen Bedeutung der OstseeRegion,” in Politische Systeme und Beziehungen im Ostseeraum, ed. Detlef Jahn and Nikolaus Werz (München: Olzog, 2002).

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It has been said before that the Mediterranean network idea, which opposes rigid nationalism and ideologies, is constructed in order to stress connectedness and to transcend national boundaries. Nevertheless, it is important to keep in mind that the Barcelona Process is a political and economical strategy initiated and implemented by Europe, and thus represents its vital interests. The EMP has to be evaluated within a European perspective, which tends to play it safe, for example, shying away from what it considers disproportionate immigration from the North African countries. On the other hand, is becomes apparent that the emphasis on the overarching Mediterranean Idea, diluting prevailing perceptions of nation-states, has also triggered discussions on common heritage and collective Mediterranean identity.138 In the case of Israel, the discussion around the EMP also accelerated domestic debates on identity-formation, which so far have been somewhat restrained, a topic that has appeared on the national agenda since the foundation of the state. In the 1990s the Mediterranean network idea, which had been used as a conciliatory option in the past (cf. ‘Looking Back: Revival of the Past’), resurfaced in the inner-Israeli discussion, and became a popular metaphor among some intellectuals in order to face the severe cleavages within the society, which became particularly visible after the Rabin assassination in 1995. Here, the question of Israeliness, the quest for the local and the regional vis-à-vis ‘the Other,’ is being reinforced within the transnational discourse on Mediterraneanism. These two apparently contradictory poles, the quest for unity within the region, as well as the search for the specifically local within a larger framework, are de facto interdependent. This exploration of Mediterranean culture and Israel’s place within it is a debate over analogies and dissimilarities vis-á-vis ‘the Other,’ and forms the core of the debate on Yam Tikhoniut. Nonetheless, discussing the reasons behind the increased attention being paid to the Mediterranean network idea in the inner-Israeli discourses it has to be emphasized that the financial aid provided by the EU prepared the ground for institutionalized exchange. By offering a platform in the nonpolitical sphere for social programs and exchange, the EU contributed to the growing awareness of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel. For a detailed discussion of the cultural implications of the EMP and the numerous activeties to preserve a common cultural heritage in the Mediterranean Basin (Euromed Heritage Program), see: Isabel Schäfer, Vom Kulturkonflikt zum Kulturdialog? Die Kulturelle Dimension der Euro-Mediterranen Partnerschaft (EMP) (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2007). 138

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Detached from the debates on the EMP and the Mediterranean network idea, which should be seen as only one among several identity discourses in Israel, the country is engaged in several other debates that deal with the construction of national identity: The enlargement of the EU is not yet complete. On May 1, 2004 the number of EU states increased from 15 to 25, and there are some states that still aspire to membership. Within this context, a debate on the question of whether to include Israel emerged in the mid-1990s, and caused a lively debate among the political and intellectual elite. The crucial question is: To which larger cultural framework should Israel be linked in the future? As argued elsewhere in this analysis, the prospect of being connected to a ‘European framework,’ as opposed to a ‘Mediterranean’ one, has much more appeal among certain segments of the population since it entails a Western-style democracy as well as modern consumer culture. The starting point of the EU membership discourse can be traced back to the Essen European Council in 1994 when the EU offered Israel a special relationship: “on account of its high level of economic development, [Israel, AN] should enjoy special status in its relations with the European Union on the basis of reciprocity and common interests.”139 The current debate, dealing with the pros and cons of EU membership and with the nature of that ‘special relationship,’ is a contested subject in such a diverse society that comprises in roughly equal parts Ashkenazim and Mizrahim. The Mizrahim especially consider the continuous ‘Europeanization’ a threat to their own cultural roots. Traditionally, there is a hesitant attitude, even strong rejection of Europe among Israelis due to the traumatic historical experiences of European anti-Semitism and the Holocaust. On the other side, Israelis feel attracted to ‘classic’ European culture and landscapes, as their frequent visits and fascination with European sports and food demonstrate. This ambivalent and indecisive approach of Israelis to the EU becomes apparent when looking at a poll conducted by the Israeli opinion research center Dahaf, according to which a majority of the Israeli public supports the idea of Israel applying for membership in the EU.140 Moreover, looking at the geographical facts on the ground, it

139 European Parliament, “European Council Meeting on 9 and 10 December 1994 in Essen,” http://www.europarl.eu.int/summits/ess1_en.htm (accessed July 20, 2008). 140 Dahaf poll: 90% of the Israeli public thinks that Israeli-EU relations are either very important (61%) or fairly important (29%). A majority (85%) either support (60%) or tend to support (25%) the idea that Israel should apply for membership of

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seems somewhat paradoxical to aspire to EU membership since Israel is not located in Europe, but in Asia. On the other hand a common argument of the proponents of such membership is that ‘Israel is not in Europe, but from Europe’ and that it needs a framework to link to in a hostile environment. Political scientist Stephan Stetter points out that until today this discourse has been mainly restricted to an elite level in the media, academia, and politics. He argues further that despite its appeal, “Europeanisation faces several obstacles in becoming an acceptable over-arching and shared identity.” But Stetter also calls for a deeper analysis focusing on organizational Europeanization beyond the sphere of the political system of the EU since he believes that frameworks of leisure (like sports and music) show the self-evident integration of Israel in European frameworks: Here, it is in particular the complete organisational Europeanisation of Israel in the functional system of sports which is remarkable—such as Israeli membership in the European Football Association (UEFA) or the European Basketball Association (FIBA Europe), in which an Israeli team has even been able to win the most prestigious European trophy. One could also add to this the membership of Israel in European arts organisations, most visibly as a member of the Grand Prix d’Eurovision de la Chanson.141

The EU activities that focus on new regionalism and cultural dialogue in the Mediterranean142 illustrate the political implications of the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut. As shown above, the emergence of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel was not originally initiated by EU activities, as the Mediterranean Idea has various historical predecessors in the intellectual sphere. Yet, the impact of EMP-related activities in the 1990s was an important factor in the rising awareness of the Mediterranean network idea in Israel and also enhanced the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut within the Israeli public. the EU. See The European Commission’s Delegation to Israel website: http://www .delisr.ec.europa.eu (accessed June 22, 2005). 141 Conference proceedings, see Stephan Stetter, “Regionalisation and Conflict Transformation in World Society. Euro-Mediterranean Integration, Conflict and Cooperation: Europeanisation Debates in Israel and Morocco” (paper presented at the Second Pan-European Conference on EU Politics, Bologna, 24–26 June 2004). 142 There has been an outpouring of research volumes dealing with the EuroMediterranean dialogue, its cultural dimension and impact on identity formation. E.g.: Michelle Pace, The Politics of Regional Identity: Meddling with the Mediterranean (London: Routledge, 2005); Michelle Pace and Tobias Schumacher ed., Conceptualizing Cultural and Social Dialogue in the Euro-Mediterranean Area: A European Perspective (London: Routledge, 2007); Schäfer, Vom Kulturkonflikt zum Kulturdialog?

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Despite, or precisely because of the deteriorating security situation in present-day Israel the idea of the Mediterranean region as a political unit has received a new momentum. The threat directed at Israel from Iran adds a new dimension to the regional thinking in terms of a Mediterranean framework, as Uri Savir, director of the Peres Center for Peace pointed out. His call for an alliance of all Mediterranean nations, the so called “Pax Mediterraneo,”143 indicates that with the decline of the Barcelona Process described above, the Mediterranean Idea has not lost its relevance for the region. On the contrary: in times when Israel feels threatened and geographically jammed in a hostile environment, the Mediterranean network offers a future-oriented perspective. Savir argues: The Mediterranean is potentially important for regional peace. It features elements of joint identity, common social elements and economic interests.

He even goes as far as predicting, by conducting the right political dialogue we could create a new golden age in the region.144

The idea of a Mediterranean Union received renewed impetus during Nicolas Sarkozy’s election campaign in 2007. He spoke about the need to overcome hatred, to link the continents bordering the Mediterranean, and to “pave the way for a great dream of peace and a great dream of civilization.”145 Using the EU as a model, Sarkozy’s proposal is to gather the European, Middle Eastern, and North African countries of the Mediterranean into an economic community instead of a strategic rim. In addition, questions of immigration, the environment, and economics are potentially connecting issues and could function as a bridge, strenghtening regionalism, increasing interconnectedness, and establishing common interests and goals. Most relevant for Israel, however, is that this idea brings Israel and its neighbours into a new assembly, which opens up paths that can potentially renew the dialogue and provide a fresh approach to the deadlocked peace process. A scion

Uri Savir, “Pax Mediterraneo,” Mediterranean Quarterly 17, no. 1 (2006). Id., “Mediterranean Pact Needed: Israel Should Aim for an Alliance of All Mediterranean Nations,” Ynet news.com, December 24, 2006, http://www.ynetnews .com/articles/0,7340,L-3343862,00.html (accessed July 22, 2008). 145 Joseph Byron, “Mediterranean Union: Peres Views Sarkozy’s Suggestion Positively,” European Jewish Press, May 7, 2007, http://www.ejpress.org/article/16567 (accessed January 12, 2008). 143

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of one of the oldest Jewish families of Salonika, it remains to be seen whether Sarkozy’s personal background will affect his motivation to engage with the Mediterranean Union, which, as a side effect, also fosters the regional integration of Israel. Expressing some ideas similar to those of Sarkozy, Uri Savir outlines his vision of a ‘Pax Mediterraneaneo’: The Mediterranean is poetic: rich in culture and history, relaxed in nature, flavorsome and beautiful. It should also be peaceful. Communities of the region must strive to coexist peacefully, develop joint economic and environmental infrastructures—including solutions to water needs and a free trade zone—and interact on a cultural level though intercultural programs, city-to-city relations, and youth exchange, resulting in a common identity for Mediterranean communities. Integrative approaches to engender equality, mutuality, and reciprocity must flow freely through the Mediterranean Sea to form the basis of a new union. Incremental steps in the Middle East must be matched by broad strokes in the region, to create an ‘ecology of peace.’146

Conclusion Some of the historical examples discussed here demonstrate the attempt to conceive of the Mediterranean region in a totality, for specific political, national, or cultural reasons. Therefore, the Mediterranean paradigm served—and still serves—as a metaphor for intellectuals in different periods and of diverse national and religious backgrounds, as regional, environmental, and cultural connectedness is being stressed. To date, the Barcelona Process is the most significant endeavor to define the region as a political and cultural unit stressing multinational Mediterranean frameworks, driven by the strong practical concerns of realpolitik rather than by cultural utopias. As opposed to the approach of the EU, which defines the Mediterranean in terms of a unit, thereby transcending national boundaries, the attempts of Canaanism, Phoenicianism, and Pharaonism to construct a regional past are limited to specific national identities: the Mediterranean locus is used as a vehicle to construct a historical continuity with ancient peoples of the Levant, and at the same time to fabricate a modern national identity. Jacqueline Kahanoff perceived Levantinism as an integrating force for society, capable of

146

Savir, “Pax Mediterraneo,” 22.

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curing inner dissonances such as the tensions between Ashkenazim and Mizrahim in Israel, which Kahanoff called “a complex illness.”147 Yet, as diverse as the examples discussed in this chapter may be, examining the various perceptions of the Mediterranean in different national and political contexts has shown that the predecessors of the current Yam Tikhoniut debate in Israel had already formulated many aspects that are key elements in today’s discourse. This underscores the argument that Yam Tikhoniut is not a short-lived, trendy idea, but rather an intellectual construct nurtured by historical experience. The historical perspective also shows that the Mediterranean Idea has prevailed over a century in different historical and cultural frameworks, and has not lost its appeal as a paradigm in the formation of cultural identity in the present. The suggestion here is not that the historical predecessors of a network-oriented concept for society discussed in this chapter initially created the present-day discourse on Yam Tikhoniut. In fact, the question of whether the Mediterranean Idea shaped Israeli reality, or the other way around, may be debated indefinitely. It should rather be emphasized that the current discourse, especially the academic discussion, is partly nurtured by the historical predecessors. We can in fact observe a revival of the Mediterranean paradigms in the current debate on Yam Tikhoniut. In addition, the financial resources released by the Barcelona Process are another important factor that has influenced the current Yam Tikhoniut discourse in Israel. The increase of Mediterranean institutions, as well as the backing and promotion of the Mediterranean Idea in the Israeli academic context, is strongly linked to the rising interest of the EU in the region. Yet, it is important to stress here that despite these outside influences, the emergence of the current discourse of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel has its own dynamic history of origins and is fostered by diverse aspects, as this analysis has shown.

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Kahanoff, Mizrah Shemesh, 48ff.

MEDITERRANEANISM IS TAKING SHAPE— AN OUTLOOK From Berlin to Rykiavik to Toronto, Mediterranean ads, products in supermarkets around the world, and restaurants with a ‘Mediterranean flair’ make it quite clear: Mediterraneanism is not specifically Israeli, but rather part of a larger, worldwide phenomenon. This also holds true for Mediterranean regionalism, which surfaced after the end of the Cold War. In all cases, the promotion of regionalism assumes a language of accommodation and cooperation, opposed to the ‘realism’ of Cold War discourse. It presents itself as a ‘postpower’ idiom that aims to overcome overwhelming dichotomies. This does not mean (. . .) that it is innocent of ideological baggage.1

As a final point, let me briefly recapitulate the general premises under which the specific form of Mediterraneran regionalism in Israel—Yam Tikhoniut—is emerging, before turning to a concluding discussion of the phenomenon. Since the founding of the state, questions of collective identity and belonging, as well as the search for a shared Israeli culture among the diverse immigrants have been central in Israeli public discourse. The idealized Zionist image of one single Israeli culture and identity declined in the last decades and the search for an all-embracing frame of reference, with which most of Israel’s citizens can identify, became increasingly visible. In addition to intensely debated inner-Israeli issues, the unresolved Israeli-Palestinian conflict is subject to continuous controversies among the different political camps in Israel, producing further polarization. And an additional factor is that Israel’s borders remain internally and internationally disputed. At the time of this writing, essential questions are still not sufficiently answered, and the debate over who Israelis are and what they want to be is in full swing. In the sixth decade of Israel’s existence conflicting intellectual currents give evidence to the deep schism within Israeli

1 Athanasios Moulakis, “The Mediterranean Region: Reality, Delusion, or EuroMediterranean Project?,” Mediterranean Quarterly 16, no. 2 (2005): 21.

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society over the question of the meaning and future of Zionism. These different currents include the secular, as well as the religious neo-Zionist discourse; the post-Zionist stance; the ultra-orthodox position; and diverse political modes, each of which attempt to meet the demands of the continuous ethnic and religious diversification of Israeli society. However, each ideological camp has its own agenda and, therefore cannot provide a comprehensive program that addresses the challenges Israeli society is facing as a whole. Further, the discourse on Hebrewism, which was popular in the founding years of the state, has mostly disappeared, whereas the emphasis on Judaism (referring, for example, to the national-religious camp) emerged in the aftermath of the Six Day War (1967) and has grown stronger ever since. However, the two main intellectual positions in present-day Israel are the binary poles of neo-Zionism and post-Zionism, which fight—in the intellectual sphere—over the shape that Israeli cultural and societal orientation will take. Within the dynamics of the changes that occurred throughout the 1990s, long-established values that emerged within a Zionist frame of reference were called into question. This school of historical revisionism critically reexamined the events that led to the foundation of the state of Israel and argued that it was actually created through violence against the Arab residents. In addition, the emerging post-Zionist positions perceived Israel more and more as a pluralistic, and even multicultural society that embraces the way of life of all its citizens. However, the rise of post-Zionist voices in the mid-1990s was interrelated with the ongoing peace process and therefore the steady decline in Israel’s sense of the threat to its existence. In light of the disillusioning developments of the twenty-first century, it is in fact argued that the deteriorating security situation resulting from the outbreak of the Al Aksa Intifada in 2000 caused a weakening of the post-Zionist narrative and a reemergence of the more conservative values that are connected to a traditional Zionist conviction. This reorientation in the direction of well-tried Zionist ideals, labeled as a neo-Zionist stance, is generally associated with a political swing to the right, and a comeback of patriotic, national-conservative perceptions. This trend is characterized by a renewed belief in the centrality of Jewish and Zionist values as core elements of Israeli identity. Influences of these two opposing trends can be found in the program of several political parties; however, there are no specific parties that can be labeled exclusively post-Zionist or neo-Zionist per se.

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As an institutional manifestation of neo-Zionist conviction in the nonparty political field, the Shalem Center, a Jerusalem-based independent research institute founded by Yoram Hazony, has to be mentioned. Hazony criticizes the abandonment of classic Labor Zionist views and wants to offer an ideological alternative to post-Zionism in present-day Israel. He seeks to defend the idea of the nation by establishing organized political conservatism, which, due to Israel’s socialist heritage, was never really influential. The Shalem Center emphasizes Jewish traditions, wants to strengthen the idea of a Jewish state, and is working on a revival of Zionist values with the help of different educational programs. In the first volume of the magazine Azure, published since 1996 by the Shalem Center, Hazony calls post-Zionism a continuous process of dismantling the Jewish state. He suggests that the “relentless trend towards a post-Zionist Israel must be reversed on the battlefield of ideas.”2 From this point of view, the future of Zionism is at stake and the real questions that Israel is facing today involve the relationship between Zionism and Judaism, as well as nationalism and religion. Hazony argues in 1996: Israel is in the midst of an ideological disintegration whose magnitude and meaning defy comprehension. Its most prominent political and cultural figures speak about the absorption of the country into the Arab League, compare the Israeli armed forces to Nazis, condemn as “archaic” the values of the national movement which founded the state, and is conducting negotiations over its capital city, Jerusalem.3

These are the premises under which the discourse of Yam Tikhoniut is emerging. Let us now turn to the object of observation: Which role does Yam Tikhoniut play within this fierce inner-Israeli conflict? Within the different political positions that are proposing different models for Israel’s future orientation, Yam Tikhoniut takes a distinctive stand. Whereas the neo- and post-Zionist discourses are political by nature, Yam Tikhoniut is not. The discourse on the Mediterranean Idea in Israel does not abolish the existence of any of the other options nor demand an either/or decision, but rather leaves room for various perceptions, as it does not aim to substitute given beliefs and attitudes. Rather than 2 Yoram Hazony, “The End of Zionism?,” Azure: Ideas for the Jewish Nation 1 (Summer 5756/1996). See also http://www.azure.org.il/magazine/magazine.asp?id=117&search_ text= (accessed July 21, 2005). 3 Ibid.

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offering a systematic ideology, Yam Tikhoniut aims at incorporating the existing structures of the ‘here and now’ and offers a nonideological frame of orientation. Although it is argued here that Yam Tikhoniut is a nonideological frame of reference that does not line-up with the binary of the post-Zionist and neo-Zionist narrative, Yam Tikhoniut is by no means apolitical. Political implications of the Mediterranean Option, as used, for example, in the European Union’s Mediterranean initiatives, stress nonexclusivity, connectedness, and reconciliation. This orientation links the Mediterranean Option to a stratum in the Israeli leftist peace camp, which seeks to find a peaceful solution to the ArabIsraeli conflict. Evaluated within this context, Yam Tikhoniut is aligned with political ideas that seek to enhance rapprochement and peaceful coexistence between Israelis and Palestinians. As a consequence, Yam Tikhoniut—although nonideological by nature—has a political potential that emphasizes multicultural and multiethnic positions. Yam Tikhoniut could serve as an appropriate matrix for a political alignment, reaching for ideas of interconnectedness and cultural exchange in the region. Even though contemporary Israel faces a tense security situation and aggravated economic crises, which have fostered the increase of neo-Zionist, conservative values, and created a new sense of togetherness and national consensus, the inner-Israeli conflicts and the vital question of what constitutes Israeliness did not disappear from the national agenda. As a matter of fact security issues have only superficially obscured the previous inner-Israeli cleavages; once the political confrontations calm down, the inner-Israeli issues involving questions of identity, civil society, belonging, and change of values will resurface. Turning one’s mind back to the experiences of inner-Israeli dialog of the 1990s can be of help in opening up the stage for a discussion on the potential of Yam Tikhoniut. The Mediterranean Option under discussion here could then offer constructive solutions for mending the strongly fissured Israeli society, as well as provide a central idea for the development of a regional identity. Nonetheless, the limits of the concept will also be addressed here: it became evident throughout this study that while Yam Tikhoniut is first and foremost a cultural metaphor and an intellectual product, clear-cut definitions remain slippery. The idea of Yam Tikhoniut is an arbitrary concept, and cannot serve as a detailed master plan for a future societal system, giving explicit answers to the urgent issues facing the state, the region, and the globe. Yam Tikhoniut does not provide an implementable party agenda, nor does it offer a plan of action for

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the demanding political issues of the present: e.g., how to deal with the Israeli settlements in the West Bank and how to reactivate the defunct peace process after the withdrawal from the Gaza Strip. Specific challenges to society that center around the relation of the different ethnic groups vis-à-vis each other, the link of state and religion, as well as the international threats of terrorism in a post 9/11 context, and ecological imperatives, require the efforts of a viable realpolitik. Yet, despite the lack of instant political applicability, the scope and the potential of Yam Tikhoniut is of interest here, as it offers new perspectives, a new platform for interaction, and also appeals on a level of lived experience. As an abstraction, Yam Tikhoniut suggests the reconsideration of the role of place and space in the Israeli context and thereby offers some promising future directions. A close reading of forms of cultural expressions, existing artistic styles, and societal concepts sheds some light on the origin of the discourse on the Mediterranean in Israel. Yam Tikhoniut started to surface as a fringe academic discourse in the 1980s and subsequently entered the ongoing discussion on Israeliness. In the 1990s Yam Tikhoniut received an infusion of energy due to different outside factors, like the fall of the iron curtain and the Oslo Accords. Moreover, general trends of globalization—along with a loss of a sense of place—and its interconnectedness with the local and the regional produced a revival of the specific Israeli locus. Those external factors enhanced the public discourse on the place of the Mediterranean in Israeli identity and led to a renewed orientation to the Mediterranean. As elucidated above, the discourse moved beyond the boundaries of academia, entered real life activities, and started to shape daily life, as well as cultural practices. However, this emergence of Yam Tikhoniut, with its shift from academia to ‘lived reality,’ is not a straightforward one, but rather characterized by a reciprocal interaction of those two spheres over an extended period of time. Today, as a result of the growing public awareness of Yam Tikhoniut, we find references to the local in various creative expressions, as well as in political agendas. The popularity of Yam Tikhoniut is nourished by the desire to find a solution to the identity crisis within Israeli society as well as, in the long run, finding common ground with its neighbors. It is not a question of deciding between the visions of Israel as an outpost of Europe in the Middle East, or as an integral part of the Levant. Further, this research suggests that Yam Tikhoniut is not being invented as a new mode within the discourse on a place-bound identity

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and culture in Israel, but is rather an idea with various historical predecessors. This study illuminated that the concept of the Mediterranean also appealed to intellectuals of diverse national and religious backgrounds in the whole region: drawing on the ancient past, as the examples of Egypt and Lebanon indicated, was a way to constitute identity and to define cultural orientation (in these cases, a non-Arab identity). In the specific Israeli context, references to the locus and different ways of approaching the region were present throughout the decades, as the examples of Herzl’s idea of creating an ‘outpost of culture’ at the shores of the Mediterranean, the Canaanite’s Merhav ha-Shemi, and Jacqueline Kahanoff ’s Levantiniut showed. All of these notions were vague and charged with a specific cultural or political agenda. They were attempts, to a greater or lesser extent, to define the geographical space and demonstrate the longing to become part of the region, to find a ‘natural’ place within the space, and to understand where the Israeli society is located vis-à-vis its neighbors and vis-à-vis the entire world. Seen in this context, however, the question remains open whether the Mediterranean Option can satisfy complex demands for an alternative concept of society and help Israel to one day see itself as part of the Middle Eastern mosaic. In the context of defining the Jewish Levant, Ammiel Alcalay stresses the “necessity of mapping out a space in which the Jew was native, not a stranger, but an absolute inhabitant of time and space.”4 Turning to the present and the contemporary discussion, a common objective can be distinguished that characterizes all those who are involved in the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut: it has often been argued that Mizrahim in Israeli society have an authentic and original relationship to the locus since they were brought up in similar surroundings. However, it could not be proven that a specific position on Yam Tikhoniut is necessarily connected to one’s personal ethnic background. Instead, it is argued here that the inclination toward the Mediterranean goes beyond the ethnic categorization of Israeli society in terms of Mizrahim and Ashkenazim. Rather, a different link between the diverse positions subsumed under the heading Yam Tikhoniut is suggested here. Reflecting on the principle involvement with Yam Tikhoniut it was noticeable that those participating in the discourse are generally driven by a Zionist conviction, no matter their ethnic

4

Alcalay, After Jews and Arabs, 1.

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origin. As discussed above, Zionism and the formation of national identity were strongly tied to territory. Like Zionism, Yam Tikhoniut is also a concept that aspires to form national identity by means of geographical considerations. The secular intellectual ‘agents’ of Yam Tikhoniut seek Israel’s integration into the region and are longing for reconciliation, peace, and openness. The Mediterranean Option seems to be a viable model to serve those aspirations and to resolve Israel’s isolation. At this point, the aspect of continuity of the Yam Tikhoniut idea shall be stressed here and argued that Yam Tikhoniut represents one possible interpretation, actually one variant of Zionism within the larger Zionist narrative. The optimistic Barcelona Process, with the objective of bringing the people of the different shores of the Mediterranean closer together, experienced major drawbacks with the outbreak of the Al Aksa Intifada in 2000 and the changes in a post 9/11 world. Today, the international perception of the Mediterranean ranges from the depiction of the Mediterranean as a sea of cooperation to a sea of confrontation. The essential question, can the Mediterranean Idea eventually become an implementable frame of reference, with the potential to actually bring the alienated sides closer together, remains open. The Mediterranean paradigm suggests that life in the Mediterranean region—between East and West—offers many chances for Israel to become integrated within the Middle East without being cut off from the West. The challenge is to take the emerging Mediterranean identity of Israeli culture and society as a point of departure. Especially in these days of violent confrontation, while the Israeli-Arab conflict remains unresolved, the Mediterranean track is a realistic path for Israel to follow in order to move closer to the Middle East, and could eventually be a vehicle for Israel’s acceptance in the region. Let us turn to a statement by Israeli writer Sami Michael, who stresses the common cultural and societal links between Israel and its neighbors: Israel, Palestine, Jordan and Lebanon. Each one is threatened by its neighbors and each one has been the scene of much violence over the past century. The inner frustration that has built up in each country is just as powerful as the dangers menacing it from outside.5

5 All following quotes in this paragraph are taken from: Sami Michael, “The Power of a Dream,” Haaretz, September 15, 2005.

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Michael asserts that a “harsh reality and the absence of a common vision” leads talented young people from the region to leave for America or Europe. Thus, to stop the process of further disintegration, he calls for regional incorporation, the ‘Middle Eastern Union,’ and suggests learning from events in Europe’s history: at the time of World War II, the continent was engaged in battles of mutual hatred, yet today has developed a powerful model of regional integration: For our own well-being and continued survival, we ought to adopt the European model that grew out of the blood and ashes of the wars. It won’t happen tomorrow or the day after. The Middle Eastern Union will come into being maybe in another 40 years, maybe more. The new entity that arises will have to be neutral in any conflict that erupts in the space that surrounds us. An end will be put to occupations and foreign intervention. All the armed militias will disarm, from the Jewish settlers to the religious organizations that rely on weapons. Each country will maintain its political and cultural independence as in the European Union but we will live with open borders, with a single currency, with modern technology available to all and with the secure feeling that the neighbor is a doctor and not a murderer, a civilized person and not a disseminator of racism and hatred.

Sami Michael is well aware that his suggestion of creating a supranational entity in the Eastern Mediterranean seems unreachable in times of political deadlock and continuous violence. Yet he stresses that “even a fragile dream may contain a formula for hope and calm in a time of anxiety and loss of way.” As we have seen above, different terms can be used for the new ideas that call for regional integration and stress the shared cultural and societal elements of Israel and its neighbors—Yam Tikhoniut, Levantiniut, Middle Easternism, Mediterraneansim, etc. Here for example, Sami Michael does not use the Mediterranean metaphor to formulate his future vision for the region. As pointed out, there are no clear-cut definitions and delimitations of the different terms that are used in order to describe the region as a whole. However, the different terms and labels derive from different political agendas and the spirit of the time when they were first formulated. Yet it should be stressed here that the core idea, which is of rapprochement and connectedness, stays the same and all versions share the same goal: to offer alternatives to the prevailing perceptions and of the place and to present a new frame of reference. At the outset, the question was asked: Is the attitude to Yam Tikhoniut related to a specific ethnic origin? It can be

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clearly argued here that the embrace or rejection of Yam Tikhoniut does not relate to the existing categories of Ashkenazi or Mizrachi identity. This once again substantiates the claim that Yam Tikhoniut is a universal phenomenon with a broad approach to identity and does not fit existing stereotypes. The discourse analyzed here focuses on the Israeli perspective, yet Israel is not the only relevant factor in the question of integration in the region and normalization of the relationship to its surroundings. Israel may see itself as a ‘Mediterranean country in the making,’ yet it is no secret that the perception of Israel by its neighbors is characterized by suspicion, mistrust, and often, outright rejection. Israel’s neighbors often see Israel’s Mediterranean ‘ambitions’ as another Zionist endeavor to dominate the tone and culturally appropriate the region. In this narrative the term Zionism is used in a completely different context and—a widespread Arab perspective—is associated with a colonialist appropriation of the land and perceived as a racist ideology. As the social scientist Fawwas Traboulsi of the Lebanese American University in Beirut pointed out heatedly: “Why shall we, alongside with Israel, all of a sudden become ‘Mediterranean,’ just for Israel to feel more welcomed in the region? We are Arabs and we will stay Arabs!” In fact, Arab nationalist theorists tend to be hostile toward the idea of a Mediterranean identity, as it is perceived as a threat to their Arab cultural identity. This point of view opens up a whole new perspective on ‘Israel’s place within the region,’ and much research remains to be done with regard to the perception of Israel as a Mediterranean country by its neighbors. The interesting master’s thesis of Nina Prasch analyses how the question of ‘normalization,’ a central yet heatedly disputed term in Arab-Israeli relations, is discussed among Arab intellectuals. Not surprisingly, her findings show that the discussion of Israel’s regional integration—and therefore the normalization of Arab-Israeli relations—is mostly met with skepticism, even strong rejection from the Arab side. However, she also showed that a small number of intellectuals (most of them in Egypt) support the general idea of normalizing Arab-Israeli relations and thinking in terms of regional integration, a discourse that slowly started to surface in response to the Oslo Accords in the mid 1990s. Consequently, the ideological current of Middle Easterness (which is regionally-based as opposed to the ethnic-cultural concept of Arabness, denoting an exclusive Arab approach) is of central relevance, as it includes Israel in a

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pluralistic mode of thinking.6 However, the reality is that viable concepts for societies are not developed solely by intellectuals. Especially in the Middle East, authoritarian political structures, as well as fanaticism and terrorism claim their share of the right to shape the political realities, and make it especially difficult for those moderate voices promoting a process of normalization to be heard. Above, it has been discussed how Mediterraneanism became manifested in Israeli academic, cultural, and everyday discourse and strove to capture the elusive features of a cultural metaphor, constantly changing and shifting. By integrating methods from different disciplines, it was possible to approach this complex field of study and portray the public discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in Israel during a given time span. This study is to be seen as a contribution to the main areas of Cultural Studies that deal with notions of place and identity, as well as Mediterranean Studies and Israel Studies. It ties in with some theoretical considerations of identity formation, multiculturalism, and nation building, as it is discussed in anthropological research and Cultural Studies. Secondly, it became evident throughout this research that the subject of Mediterraneanism is not only of domestic interest to Israel; other societies in the region use—or have used—the Mediterranean paradigm as a frame of reference. Thus, the relevance the Yam Tikhoniut discourse has for the area approach of ‘Mediterranean Studies,’ an academic field focusing on the region as a whole, should be noted. Thirdly, this ties in with the academic field of Israel Studies, which focus on the study of all aspects of Israeli society, history, politics, and culture. Within this local approach of Israel Studies, the discussion on Yam Tikhoniut makes a contribution to the relevant factors in the formation of place-bound identity and culture and illuminates the complex structures of Israeli society. As this analysis suggests, the window to the Mediterranean has been pushed open, but what exactly do we see at the horizon? Some see a cultural concept, which contains many inconsistencies and may not draw a full consensus within society. Taking the skepticism and the harsh criticism into account, one might conclude, that the Mediterranean concept is half-fake, overestimated, or simply artificial. But

6 Nina Prasch, “Die regionale Integration Israels in der Diskussion arabischer Intellektueller in den neunziger Jahren” (MA thesis, Universität Hamburg, 2001).

mediterraneanism is taking shape—an outlook

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what about the second half ? Since Yam Tikhoniut is, at its very core, an arbitrary idea, doubts and questioning are justified. In this research however, I was less interested in arguing about authenticity or falsehood of the different stands I encountered than illuminating a fascinating and multifaceted discussion that is full of ambivalence, yet retains a general framework. Yam Tikhoniut may have artificial traits, but the crucial point here is that it is not to be reduced to that: drawing on the extensive material collected during the field research it has been shown here that the public response to this phenomenon is decisive. It became evident that Mediterranean characterizations have importance in everyday encounters and that there is obviously a demand for a diluted version of Mizrahiut and ‘all things Mediterranean.’ Mediterranean reality exists beyond academic and political agendas, as the broad response to the concept indicates on many levels. Therefore, it is stressed here that Yam Tikhoniut in Israel is alive, ever growing, and taking shape. This analysis is a starting point, which will advance the awareness of the subject and open up the range of discourse in the diverse fields where it can be found. After this first approach to the manifestation of Yam Tikhoniut in Israel, which has so far not been systematized in academic writing, in-depth interdisciplinary studies have to follow in order to shed light on the rich diversity of the subject. Much research remains to be done. As shown, the Mediterranean paradigm is a relevant unity of cultural research and a useful tool for grasping the complexity of the current changes in Israeli society. When examined in the broader framework of these transformations, it becomes apparent that Yam Tikhoniut is one further phenomenon in a period of reconsideration and redefinition of ideological and cultural orientation. This suggests that the Yam Tikhoniut discourse analyzed here is another factor for Israeli self-determination, a symptom of the identity formation process. In front of us a wide spectrum of possibilities and points of contact have opened up: intensive field research in the port-city of Ashdod will be conducted in order to examine the potential that some—like Amos Oz, who called it the ideal place representing Israeliness—find in this place. Further studies shall engage in a comparative study of the harbor cities in the Levant, and will embark on a journey from Alexandria, via Tel Aviv, to Beirut. It remains clear, however, that the multifaceted region leaves much room for fascinating analysis, one that calls for an interdisciplinary approach.

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In closing, I take a look out the window that is open to a new horizon: Yam Tikhoniut may still be, in the words of the writer Sami Michael, a “fragile dream.” However, over the years that I have been observing it, I was able to examine a multitude of shades, atmospheres, and representations of the Mediterranean, each of which offers an alternative approach to the prevailing frames of reference.

APPENDIX Remarks on Transliteration, Translation, and Quotation The transliteration system from Hebrew to English generally follows the rules of the Encyclopaedia Judaica ( Jerusalem, 1978). However, in particular cases the conventional spelling differs from this rule and proper names and other well-known terms are often spelled according to their common usage in English. All translations from Hebrew or German quotes into English are mine, unless otherwise indicated. Some of the idioms crucial in this analysis are almost impossible to translate without losing their uniqueness. Therefore, readers must contend with some Hebrew terms throughout the book; these are listed and discussed in the ‘Glossary.’ For works published in Hebrew, the transliterated original title was used in the bibliographical details for the identification of the source. The Hebrew titles are followed by the English titles in parantheses, which are often not accurate translations of the Hebrew title, but the English title given by the publisher in the Hebrew original. The Israeli daily Haaretz is published in Hebrew, with selected parts also printed in an English edition of the paper. References referring to the Hebrew edition of Haaretz are indicated by the transliterated original Hebrew title of the article and its English translation in parantheses. Also, all original quotations and paraphrases, which are not directly followed by a footnote giving the reference to the source, originate from interviews I conducted during field research between 2000 and 2005 in Israel. A full table of the interview partners can be found below. Table of Interview Partners Here is a list of the interviews conducted between the years 2000–2003 and in 2005, mostly in Israel. A few interviews, however, were conducted during short research trips to Egypt and Lebanon. Two of my interview partners in Lebanon were later tragically killed in political assassinations: Samir Kassir, a journalist, left wing activist and open

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critic of the Syrian presence in Lebanon, was killed in a car bomb on June 2, 2005. Gebran Ghassan Tueni, who called for the withdrawel of Syrian troops from Lebanon, was killed in a car bomb on December 12, 2005. The rich body of material used in this study as a primary source is incorporated either as direct quotations in the analysis, or was evaluated and used as background information material. Most of the interviews were documented on mini-cassettes, which are in my possession. Nevertheless, some of the interviews were not scheduled ahead of time, but evolved spontaneously from informal discussions and were afterwards documented in detailed notes. The interviews conducted in Israel form the main reference point of this study, whereas the sources from Lebanon and Egypt are secondary, since they do not directly affect the discourse on Yam Tikhoniut in Israel. All translations from Hebrew or German into English are mine. The category ‘title/position’ indicates the position my interview partner held at the time of the interview.

Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Abu-Shindi, Ibrahim

Office, Arab-Jewish Community Center, Jaffa

April 22, 2001

Director ArabJewish Community Center, Jaffa

Hebrew

Amir, Aharon

Café Silberstein, Tel Aviv

July 2, 2001

Founder and ideologist of the Canaanite movement

English

Amitay, Dr. Yossi

Office, Israeli Academic Center, Cairo

February 20, 2001

Director Israeli Academic Center, Cairo

English

Ankori, Dr. Ganit

Private home, Sde Boker

April 4, 2001

Art historian, Hebrew University

English

Avnery, Uri

Private home, Tel Aviv

July 6, 2001

Peace activist, journalist, politician

German

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253

Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Avraham, Dr. Eli

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Café Kaffit, Jerusalem October 11, 2001

Sociologist, Hebrew University

Hebrew

Ben Ami, Prof. Shlomo

Office, Beit America, Tel Aviv

April 25, 2002

Ex-foreign minister of Israel, historian, TAU

Hebrew

Benayahu, Avi

Office Galei Zahal, Jaffa

October 16, 2001

Editor in Chief, Hebrew IDF Radio (Galei Zahal)

Benvenisti, Meron

Private home, Jerusalem

October 11, 2001

Journalist, English publisher, former deputy mayor of Jerusalem

Baydoun, Dr. Ahmad

Maison du Café, Beirut

April 13, 2002

Historian, English Lebanese University, Beirut

Bitton, Erez

Café Tnuva Shelanu, Tel Aviv

November 21, 2000

Poet, editor of Hebrew ‘Apirion’ (Cultural and Social Review)

Cahlili, Ron

Café Bialik, Tel Aviv

March 5, 2001 and February 15, 2005

TV producer, Hebrew director of Mediterranean TV channel Brisa

Calderon, Dr. Nissim

University cafeteria, November 27, Tel Aviv 2000

Senior teacher for Hebrew literature, TAU

English

Carmi, Boris

Private home, Tel Aviv

April 30, 2002

Photographer

Hebrew/ German

Carmon, Yigal

Bar Camisso, Berlin

March 25, 2002 President of the Hebrew/ ‘Middle East Media English Research Institute,’ MEMRI

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Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Chamrusch, Achmed

Office, Egyptian Solidarity Committee, Cairo

February 20, 2001

Director English Egyptian Solidarity Committee, Cairo

Chetrit, Sami Shalom

University Café, TAU

September 24, 2001

Writer, Mizrachi- Hebrew human rights activist

Elbaz, Dr. Shlomo

Private home, Jerusalem

February 8, 2001

Founder of English/ Ha-mizrah el-ha Hebrew shalom, (The East toward peace)

El-Chalim, Abed

Office, Jaffa

April 22, 2001

Director of Hebrew ‘Jud’Beth’-school in Jaffa

Even-Zohar, Prof. Itamar

Office, TAU

March 30, 2002 Professor of Poetics and Comparative Literature, TAU

Feige, Dr. Michael

Office, Sde Boker

April 4, 2001

Sociologist, The English Ben-Gurion Research Center, BGU

Gebeyli, Claire

Coffee Shop, Beirut

April 11, 2002

Writer

English

Herzog, Prof. Hana

Office, TAU

November 28, 2000

Professor for Sociology, TAU

English

Horam, Ruth

Private home, Jerusalem

November 30, 2000

Artist

English

Horowitz, Dr. Amy

Cafeteria, American University, WashingtonD C

May 16, 2001

Anthropologist English and Ethnomusicologist, Smithsonian, Washington DC

Kadishman, Menashe

Private art studio, Tel Aviv

July 18, 2001

Artist

English

Hebrew

appendix

255

Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Kaniuk, Yoram Private home, Tel Aviv

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

May 30, 2001 and November 18, 2002

Writer

English

Kassir, Samir

Office, Dar an-Nahar April 10, 2002 newspaper, Beirut

Editor, Dar anEnglish Nahar newspaper

Keret, Etgar

Café Tola’at Sfarim, Tel Aviv

Writer

Khalaf, Prof. Samir

Office, American April 8, 2002 University of Beirut

Head of the English Center for Behavioral Studies, American University of Beirut

Khoury, Elias

Wissenschaftskolleg, Berlin

June 9, 2002

Writer, Journalist English (Beirut)

Koblenz, Eldad Office, Galei Zahal, Jaffa

October 16, 2001

Director of Galgalaz radio station

Livny, Yitzchak

Private home, Herzliya

October 7, 2001 Journalist

Maayani, Prof. Ami

Private home, Tel Aviv

July 18, 2001

Director Israeli English Academy of Music, TAU

Mandel, Yankale

Office, City Hall Tel Aviv-Yafo

July 12, 2001

Representative Hebrew of cultural activities, City of Tel Aviv-Yafo

Matvejevic, Prof. Predrag

Mischkenot Sha’ananim, Jerusalem

January 30, 2001

Historian, Rome English/ University French

Murr, Alfred and May

Private home, Beirut

April 9, 2002

New PhoeniEnglish cians, Journalists, Writers

April 29, 2002

Hebrew/ English

Hebrew

Hebrew

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Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Nasr, Dr. Salim

Office, The Lebanese Center for Policy Studies, Beirut

April 10, 2002

The Lebanese Center for Policy Studies, Beirut

English

Naveh, Uri

Office, City Hall Tel Aviv-Yafo

January 11, 2001

Hebrew Director of the Pedagogic Services, City of Tel Aviv-Yafo

Noureddine, Mohamed

Office, Center for Strategic Studies, Beirut

April 12, 2002

Director, Center English for Strategic Studies, Beirut

Ohana, Prof. David

Office, Sde Boker

April 3, 2001

Historian, The Hebrew/ Ben-Gurion English Research Center, BGU

Oz, Amos

Office, Be’er Sheva

April 2, 2003

Writer

Oz, Kobi

Café X-Ray, Tel Aviv February 23, 2000

Singer and song- Hebrew writer of the band Tea Packs

Parnas, Schimon

Office, Reshet Gimmel, Jerusalem

October 22, 2001

Host on radio and TV (Taverna)

Hebrew

Portugali, Dr. Yuval

Office, TAU

January 28, 2001

Geographer, TAU

English

Regev, Dr. Motti

Office, TAU

December 5, 2000

Sociologist, The English Open University

Rotem, Yoram

Office, Galei Zahal, Jaffa

October 16, 2001

Head of the Hebrew Music Department, Galei Zahal radio station

July 19, 2001

Director, Rubin English Museum, Tel Aviv

Rubin, Carmela Office, Rubin Museum, Tel Aviv

English

appendix

257

Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Salem, Ali

Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo

February 22, 2001

Writer

English

Samet, Gideon

Café Diza, Tel Aviv

June 29, 2001

Journalist Haaretz English

Shwa, Shlomo

Café Silberstein, Tel Aviv

June 27, 2001

Journalist, historian

Hebrew

Semel, Nava

Private home, Tel Aviv

January 24, 2001

Writer

Hebrew/ English

Semel, Noam

Cameri Theater, Tel Aviv

March 25, 2001 Director of the Cameri Theater, Tel Aviv

English

Seroussi, Prof. Edwin

Office, National Library, Jerusalem

September 10, 2001

English

Shamir, Prof. Shimon

Private home, Herzliya Pituach

March 23, 2001 Historian, former English Israeli ambassador to Egypt and Jordan

Shavit, Prof. Yacoov

Private home, Tel Aviv

December 14, 2000

Historian, TAU

Shela-Sheffy, Dr. Rakeffet

Office, TAU

November 28, 2000

Culture Hebrew Researcher, TAU

Shenhav, Prof. Yehuda

Office, TAU

December 19, 2000

Department of Sociology & Anthropology, TAU

English

Shilony, Dr. Zwi Office, Sde Boker

April 3, 2001

Geographer

English/ Hebrew

Shiran, Haim

April 4, 2001

Director, Ethnic Arts Center, Inbal, Neve Zedek

Hebrew

Office, Sde Boker

Director, Jewish Music Research Centre, Hebrew University

Hebrew

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Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Shohat, Prof. Ella

Cafeteria, Washington University, Washington DC

May 17, 2001

Cultural Studies New York University

English

Somekh, Prof. Sasson

Office, Tel Aviv University

January 28, 2001

Arabic Literature, TAU

English

Sznaider, Dr. Natan

Café Dollinger, Berlin August 21, 2000 Sociologist, TAU German

Tartakover, David

Private home, Neve July 9, 2001 Zedek, Tel Aviv

Graphic designer English/ Hebrew

Traboulsi, Dr. Fawwaz

Office, Lebanese American University, Beirut

April 10, 2002

Social Science English and Education Division, Lebanese American University, Beirut

Tueni, Gebran Ghassan

Office, an-Nahar newspaper

April 12, 2002

Director in chief, English an-Nahar newspaper, Beirut

January 14, 2001

Artist

Tumarkin, Yigal Private home, Jaffa Virshubsky, Mordechai

Office, City Hall Tel January 11, Aviv-Yafo 2001

Werheimer, Stef Office, Teffen

February 13, 2001

German

Head of the German Culture and Arts Department, City of Tel AvivYafo Industrialist, Iscar

German

Yehoshua, Abraham B.

Private home Haifa, October 14, 2001

Writer

Hebrew

Yonah, Prof. Yossi

Café Judith, Tel Aviv December 15, 2000

Department of Education, Ben-Gurion University

English

appendix

259

Table (cont.) Name of interviewee

Place of interview

Date of interview

Title/ position of the interview partner

Language of interview

Zimmermann, Prof. Moshe

Office, Hebrew University

September 11, 2001

Historian, Hebrew University

German

Zuckermann, Prof. Moshe

Office, TAU

November 13, 2000

Director Institute German for German History, TAU

Zyade, Dr. Chalid

Office, Orient Institute, Beirut

April 8, 2001

Writer, teaches at University of Tripolis

English

GLOSSARY Aliya

(Heb. going up, ascent): Term used for the Jewish migration to the land of Israel, reflects the fundamental principle of Zionist ideology: the immigration to Erez Israel as the fulfillment of an ideal. Ashkenazim (Heb. Ashkenaz meaning medieval Germany): This term refers to Jews from central and East European communities. Erez Israel (Heb. Land of Israel): Until the foundation of the state of Israel, the term Erez Israel) was the official Hebrew expression to refer to the territory under British Mandate in Palestine. Haluz, pl. Haluzim (Heb. Pioneer): The idea behind the Haluz-movement was the revival and renewal of the Jew through manual work and a strong physical bond with the soil. The Haluz represents a counter image to all anti-Semitic Jewish clichés. Israeliness Specific Israeli identity. The secular concept of Israeliness originates from the idea that Jewishness is not only a religious, but also a national identity. The Israeliness to which I refer in this analysis is a set of attitudes, a state of mind, mentality, and a cultural identity shared by a large group of Israelis. Kibbutz (Heb. gathering in): Collective, agricultural settlement based on socialist principles. Makom (Heb. place): In Hebrew the term has a dual significance: on the one hand Makom refers to the concrete physical place, on the other hand Makom is equivalent with God’s name, and therefore refers to a metaphysical place. Mizrahim (Heb. Mizrahi meaning East): The term generally denominates those Israeli Jews who arrived from North Africa (especially Morocco) and the Arab states of the Middle East (e.g., Yemen, Ethiopia,

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Iraq, Syria). Leftist Mizrahi intellectuals coined the term in the 1980s and since then it has entered the public discourse in Israel and continues to be used as an identity definition. The term today basically indicates everything ‘not-Ashkenazi’ among the diverse ethnic groups in Israel and is in fact very imprecise. An alternative to ‘Mizrahi’, the term ‘Sephardi’ (Sepharad is the traditional Hebrew name for Spain, Sepharadi meaning Hispanic) is often used in Israeli public discourse to indicate the non-Ashkenazi population. Mizrahiut (Heb. Easternness): Today this term means oriental Israeliness and is used to refer to Jewish oriental culture of the Mizrahim, thereby implying a position of ethnicity. Musika Mizrahit (Heb. eastern music): Refers to popular music connected to Mizrahiut, ethnic oriental Israeliness. This music is associated with the ethnic-oriental identity of those lower-status Israeli Jews who arrived from North Africa (especially Morocco) and the Arab states of the Middle East (e.g., Yemen, Ethiopia, Iraq, Syria). Sabra Jewish native of Israel. The term refers to the popular fruit of the prickly pear cactus—prickly on the outside, but sweet on the inside—that is common in Israel today and gave its name to all native-born Israeli Jews. Sephardim (Heb. Sepharad meaning Spain): This term is often used in Israeli public discourse to indicate the nonAshkenazi population. I refrain from using the term Sepharadi since it technically refers to the large Jewish communities who trace their lineage back to the Spanish/Iberian population and spread throughout North Africa, the Balkans, Turkey, etc. Shira be-tzibur (Heb. public sing-alongs): tradition from the founding years of the state that emphasized togetherness and sought to unify people through communal singing. Yam ha-Tikhon (Heb. Mediterranean Sea, literally ‘sea of the middle’): In this analysis Yam Tikhoniut is used as a synonym for ‘Mediterraneanism’, ‘Méditerranité’, or ‘Mittelmeerischkeit’. The term ‘Mediterranean’ derives from

glossary

263

Latin: medius (middle) and terra (land); mediterraneus (inland). In this study, the term Yam Tikhoniut indicates the specific public discourse in Israel, whereas when referring to the discourse on the Mediterranean in a more universal cultural frame of reference (e.g., in other countries of the region) the terms ‘Mediterranean Option’ or ‘Mediterranean Idea’ are used. Yekke Jewish immigrant from Germany. Yishuv (Heb. settlement): Denotes the autonomous Jewish community in Palestine from the time of the British Mandate up to the establishment of the state of Israel (1919–1948).

BIBLIOGRAPHY

A note on translation and bibliography: the translations of quotes from Hebrew sources or interviews that were conducted in Hebrew or German into English are mine, unless otherwise noted. For works published in Hebrew, the transliterated original title for the identification of the source has been used. The Hebrew titles are followed by the English titles in parantheses, which are often not accurate translations, but the English title given by the author in the Hebrew original. Additional comments by me within an original quotation are indicated by parantheses followed by my initials [AN]. Unless otherwise indicated, emphases (italic) within citations are also to be found in the original source. Following those Internet addresses provided as an additional reference, the last access date to the site is indicated. Aharoni, Israel. Aruhot aruhot (Meals designed). Tel Aviv: Modan, 1991. Alcalay, Ammiel. After Jews and Arabs: Remaking Levantine Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993. ——. Keys to the Garden: New Israeli Writing. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1996. Alcock, Susan A. “Alphabet Soup in the Mediterranean Basin: The Emergence of the Mediterranean Serial.” In Rethinking the Mediterranean, edited by W. V. Harris, 314–36. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Allweil, Yael; Vera Treitel. “La Isla Bonita.” In Back to the Sea, edited by Sigal Barnir and Yael Moria-Klain, 144–61. Venice: Israeli Pavilion 9th Biennale of Architecture Venice, 2004. Almog, Oz. “Shifting the Centre from National to Individual and Universe: The New ‘Democratic Faith’ of Israel.” Israel Affairs 8 (2002): 31–42. ——. “Tattooing the Taboo: The Tattoo Trend in Israel.” Israel Studies Forum 19, no. 1 (2003): 123–35. ——. The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. Amir, Aharon, ed. Keshet: Kovetz le-ziun yovel ha-arba’im le-reshit hofa’ato shel ‘Keshet’ ha-rivon le-sifrut, yiun ve-bikoret (Collection to mark the 40th anniversary of the first publication of “Keshet,” the quarterly for literature, study and criticism). Jerusalem: Har Artzi, 1998. Avnery, Uri. Israel without Zionists. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1968. ——. “Remembering a Latter-Day Canaanite.” Haaretz, March 30, 2001, B11. ——. “Why I Changed My Mind.” Haaretz, September 24, 2004. Azaryahu, Maoz. “McIsrael? On The ‘Americanization of Israel’.” Israel Studies 5, no. 1 (2000): 41–64. Bar’el, Zvi. “Column.” Haaretz, November 15, 2000, 5. Bargad, Warren, and Chyet, Stanley F. Israeli Poetry: A Contemporary Anthology. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986. Barnavi, Elie. “Israel Laboratoire Méditerranéen.” Rive—Revue de L’Université de la Méditerranée (1996): 52–55. Behrouzi, Niza, ed. The Hand of Fortune: Khamsas from the Gross Family Collection and the Eretz Israel Museum Collection, Exhibition at the Ethnography and Folklore Pavillion. Tel Aviv: Eretz Israel Museum, 2002. Bein, Alex et al., ed. Theodor Herzl: Zionistisches Tagebuch 1895–1899. Vol. 2. Berlin: Propyläen, 1983. Beinin, Joel. The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry: Culture, Politics, and the Formation of a Modern Diaspora. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998.

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INDEX (PLACE NAMES, ORGANIZATIONS/INSTITUTIONS, AND PERSONS)

Acre 101 Africa 147, 182, 190, 222 North Africa 2n2, 57n19, 67, 79, 98, 126, 133, 144, 177, 190n40, 208, 226, 232, 235 Aharoni, Israel 128 Attrash, Farid al- 74 Alcalay, Ammiel 56, 82, 83, 84, 102, 181, 183, 219, 244 Alcock, Susan E. 47 Aleph ( journal) 202 Alexandria 45n2, 100–101, 111, 124, 141, 143, 182, 220–222, 231, 249 Bibliotheca Alexandrina 222, 231 Algeria 181n10, 225n120 Algiers 223 Almog, Oz 143, 158, 192, 205 Alpaim ( journal) 22n10 Alterman, Nathan 8 America 129, 171, 246. See also USA South America 129, 143n9 Amir, Aharon 201–203, 209, 218 Amir, Eli 219 Andalus (publishing house) 48–49 Anna Lindh Euro-Mediterranean Foundation for the Dialogue between Cultures 231 Annales, Les 36 Apirion ( journal) 156 Appelfeld, Aharon 78n60 Arad, Shlomo 292 Argentina 185 Ariel, Meir 7 Ashdod 101, 108, 145–148, 249 Ashkelon 101 Asia xiv, 20, 147, 182, 190, 206, 234 Asia Minor 124 Athens 54, 147, 179 Austria 110 Avnery, Uri 205–207 Azaryahu, Maoz 171, 172 AZIT (Israeli Mediterranean Music Association) 63

Azrieli towers/center (building) 101 Azure ( journal) 241

68,

Bach, Yehudith 96–97, 288 Baerwald, Alexander 112 Baghdad 84, 88 Balkan 2n2, 40, 149n17 Ballas, Shimon 83, 88, 89 Baltic Sea 40, 231 Bar-Am, Micha 7, 8 Bar’el, Zwi 27 Barcelona (Barcelona Process) xiv, xvi, 21, 45, 145, 176, 208, 224–227, 230, 232, 235–237, 245 Bargad, Warren 84 Barnavi, Elie 135 Bat Yam 148, 148n15 Bauhaus School of Art and Design 107, 110 Baydoun, Ahmad 213 Begin, Menachem 57 Beinin, Joel 86, 218 Beirut 53, 100, 111, 124, 141, 209n76, 210, 217, 247, 249 American University 53 Lebanese American University 247 Ben Ami, Shlomo 140, 145, 154 Ben Yehuda, Eliezer 15n1 Ben-Chaim, Paul 59 Ben-Gurion Archives at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev 188 Ben-Gurion, David 18, 178, 181, 187–191, 189n33, 193 Ben-Jelloun, Tahar 48, 223 Ben-Raffael, Eliezer 17 Ben, Sahava 55 Benvenisti, Meron 140, 142, 162–165 Berg, Nancy E. 84 Berlin 2, 11, 17, 93, 116, 122 KW Kunstwerke (Institute for Contemporary Art) 116n148

276

index

Bezalel School of Arts and Crafts 90–91, 93, 109 Bhabha, Homi K. 35, 43 Bialik, Chaim Nachman 110, 112 Bibi, Shaul 75 Bir Zait University 215 Bitter, Avi 75–76 Bitterlemons.org (website) 52 Bitton, Erez 156–157 Bloch, Marc 36 Borg, Alexander 52 Boskovitch, Alexander U. 58–59, 65 Braudel, Fernand xv, 1, 26–27, 36–40, 48, 98, 99–100, 105, 121, 124, 129, 139, 199 Brisa (TV channel) 56, 67, 73–77, 122, 155, 168, 285, 286, 291 Brod, Max 59 Bronowski, Yoram 142, 143 Bruno (restaurant) 101, 289 Bustani, Butrus al- 215 Cahlili, Ron 74–77 Cairo 89, 114, 115, 182, 217, 221 Calderon, Nissim 142, 154, 155 Camus, Albert 223 Canetti, Elias 48 Carmel (mountain) 5 Carmel (publishing house) 48 Carmel market/Shouk ha-Carmel 54, 100 Carmi, Boris 11, 12, 13, 14 Center for Mediterranean Civilizations Project 47, 50, 52n11, 142n4 Central Bus Station/Tahanah Merkazit 54, 72, 104n127 Chetrit, Sami Shalom 142, 168, 169, 219 Chiha, Michel 211, 214 Chyet, Stanley F. 84 Corm, Charles 209n76, 211–212 Dahaf/Israeli opinion research center 233 Damascus 55, 89, 124 Danziger, Yitzchak 95, 203 Darwish, Mahmoud 23n14, 48n7 Del Sarto, Raffaella 226, 228 Dikla 55 Duby, Georges 36, 178, East for Peace 153 Efron, Ariel 96 Egypt 34–35, 61–62, 74, 113, 124, 124n158, 124n160, 126, 155, 200,

214, 217–218, 221–222, 225n120, 229, 244, 247, 251 Egypt, ancient period 214n91 Eisenstadt, Shmuel N. 136 Elbaz, Shlomo 153, 154 Epstein, Eliahu 209n76 Erez Israel/Land of Israel 5, 15, 18, 19, 20, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 110, 111, 112, 113, 115n147, 116n147, 180, 198, 202, 203 Essen 233 Europe xiii, xiv, 7, 20, 58, 60, 68, 106, 111, 126, 131, 132n173, 147, 149, 154, 156, 159, 168, 178, 182, 183, 185n19, 187, 188, 189, 194, 195, 207, 211, 212, 226, 229, 232, 233, 234, 243, 246 Eastern Europe 7, 40, 120 Northern Europe 107 Western Europe 111 Southern Europe 133, 177 EU (European Union) 31, 50–53, 55, 176, 224–237, 242, 246 Even-Zohar, Itamar 125 Ezrahi, Yaron 85 Fabre, Thierry 26, 42, 170, 176, 177 Far East 129, 133, 180. See also Asia Fathy, Hassan 114 Fatima 71n50, 132–133 Febvre, Lucien 36 Feige, Michael 196 FIBA (European Basketball Association) 234 France 31, 89, 108, 128, 147, 154 Friedman, Thomas 70 Friling, Tuvia 189n34 Gamla 194 Gawron, Assaf 80 Gaza/Gaza Strip 116, 158, 243 Geddes, Sir Patrick 107 Germany 2n2, 7, 11, 30, 96, 110, 115n147, 221 Gershoni, Israel 214 Gibraltar 45, 45n2, 141, 177 Goitein, Shlomo Dov xiv, xv, 26, 47 Goldman, Paul 9, 11 Gökalp, Ziya 215 Goren, Yitzchak Gormesano 219 Grand Prix d’Eurovision de la Chanson 234 Greece 31, 67, 98, 100, 124n159, 132n173, 143, 144, 149n17, 155, 163, 178

index Green Line 163 Gropius, Walter 108 Gross, William 133 Gur-Horon, Adia (Adolph Gurevitch) 201 Guri, Chaim 6 Gush Shalom (Peace Block) 207 Gutman, Nahum 9, 12, 94, 96 Haaretz (newspaper) 27, 45, 64, 68, 222 Habibi, Emil 77 Haganah 77n59 Haifa 5, 32, 77, 108, 112 University of Haifa 54 Hall, Stuart 16 Harari, Didi 75 Harel, Yossi 6 Hareven, Shulamith 218, 219 Hazony, Yoram 241 Henriques, Robert D. H. 191 Herbert, Gilbert 32 Herzl, Theodor 18, 146, 185–187, 191, 244 Herzlyia 53n12, 113, 114, 115, 119 Rosemary Court 113 Hever, Hanan 85, 88 Heyd, Milly 92 Hirshberg, Jehoash 58, 68n43 Histadrut 189n33 Holtzman, Avner 79 Horden, Peregine xv, 26, 38, 39, 40, 101, 106 Horowitz, Amy 61, 63, 65, 105 India 75, 133 Iran 87, 124n159, 133 Iraq 2n2, 55, 57, 68, 84, 88, 133, 190n40 Ismir-Smyrna 111n139, 221 Israel Affairs ( journal) 22n10 Israel Studies ( journal) 22n10 Israeli Education Ministry 50 Israeli Forum for Mediterranean Culture 50, 50n10, 52, 53n12, 151, 218 Israeli-Palestinian Writers Committee 77 Istanbul 45n2 Italy 31, 89, 128, 144, 145, 154, 155, 181n10 Jabes, Edmond 223 Jaffa 5, 6, 7, 9, 11, 13, 14, 94, 111, 111n141, 148n15, 293. See also Tel Aviv Jeanneret, Pierre 108

277

Jerusalem xv, 15, 17, 50, 53n12, 91, 108, 109, 113, 117, 140, 142, 145, 146, 151, 162, 163, 184, 209, 218, 241 Hebrew University 53n12 Israel Museum 184n18 Jordan 55n15, 113, 158, 181n10, 225n120, 229, 245 Jordan (river) 203 Judea 30 Kahanoff, Jacqueline xvii, 86, 175–176, 182, 199, 217–221, 223, 236, 237, 244, 283 Kaniuk, Yoram 6, 77, 77n59, 141, 165, 203, 204, 205, 207 Karavan, Dani 95 Karmi-Melamede, Ada 113 Karmi, Ram 113 Karta (publishing house) 48 Kaufman, Asher 209n76, 210–211, 213 Kenaz, Jonathan 203 Keret, Etgar 81–82, 87, 149 Keshet (Eastern Democratic Rainbow Movement) 197 Keshet ( journal) 202–203, 218 Kfar Saba 86 Khoury, Elias 48n7, 49, 172, 213 Kimmerling, Baruch 16, 17, 155, 165, 166, 193 Kluger, Zoltan 96 Knesset 139, 166, 181, 197 Knessiat ha-sekhel (music band) 72 Korbman, Shimon 8, 9, 9, 10 Korczak, Rozka 189n33 Kroyanker, David 117 Kubovy, Miri 80 Kuper, Roi 96 La Revue Phénicienne ( journal) 211 Labor (party) 57, 241 Laor, Dan 200 Lapid, Josef (‘Tommy’) 168, 169, 181 Le Corbusier 108 Le Goff, Jacques 36 Le Roy Ladurie, Emmanuel 36 Lebanon 34–35, 55, 181n10, 200, 203, 208, 209–214, 216, 217, 225n120, 244, 245 Lerer, Yael 48–49 Levant xiv, 20, 57, 82, 84, 86, 127, 141, 154, 175, 177–184, 186, 188, 190, 191, 193, 217, 218, 219, 223, 236, 243, 244, 249

278

index

LeVitte Harten, Doreet 93, 96 Lewis, Bernhard 2n2 Libya 181n10 Likud (party) 57, 65 Litvak, Meir 215 Livnat, Limor 24 Ludwig, Emil 186, 186n23 Maayani, Ami 60 Madagascar 185 Maghreb xvi, 120, 153, 158, 177, 226 Mahfouz, Najib 223 Maison Méditerranéenne des Sciences de l’Homme 26, 176 Malkin, Irad xviii, 27, 30, 47, 52n11, 99, 142, 142n4 Malta xiv, 45n2, 225n120 Mann, Barbara 111 Massada 194 Matalon, Ronit 86, 146, 147, 218 Matvejevic, Predrag 38n34, 47, 178 Medina, Avihu 63 Mediterranean Historical Review ( journal) 50, 199 Mediterranean Language Review ( journal) 52 Mediterranean Politics ( journal) 231n135 Mediterranean Sea xvi, 15n1, 27, 30, 60, 85, 94, 96, 97, 140, 159, 208, 212, 227, 236 Megged, Aharon 77n59 Memmi, Albert 223 Mendelsohn, Erich 108 Metulla 124 Meyer-Maril, Edina 109 Michael, Sami 17, 75, 83, 84, 88, 89, 218, 245–246, 250 Middle East xiii, xv, xviii, 2n2, 3, 30, 52, 55n14, 57, 57n19, 58, 85, 93, 104, 105n127, 111, 114, 118, 120, 126, 127, 133, 147, 153, 157, 159, 163, 168, 180, 183, 185, 190n40, 194, 204, 206, 206n69, 208, 211, 219, 222, 224, 225, 226, 229, 231, 236, 243, 245 Middle Eastern Union 246 New Middle East 53, 154, 157, 224 Milan 145 Minor, Joseph 112 Mintz, Alan 78, 83, 89 Mishkenot Sha’ananim 50, 52n11, 142n4 Mohammed 71n50, 132 Morocco 2n2, 55, 57n19, 88, 100, 133, 181n10, 190n40, 225n120

Morris, Benny 24, 49 Murr, Alfred and May 209, 210 Musa, Salama 214 MTV (Music Television Channel) 70 Nablus 55n15 Naharyia 101 Naples 100, 147 Naqqash, Samir 88 Near East 211 Negev (desert) 70, 72, 104 Netanya 32 Noy, Amos 66 Occident 20, 156, 185 Odessa 17, 94 Ofrat, Gideon 90 Ohana, David 52, 88, 142, 151, 152, 153, 218, 223 Opera Tower (building) 117 Orient 20, 40, 58, 90, 92, 94, 95, 97, 104, 107, 115, 134, 156, 175, 177, 178, 179, 180, 184, 186, 188, 191, 193 Oslo (Oslo Accords) xvi, 35, 53, 152, 158, 243, 247 Oz, Amos 28, 70, 77, 78n60, 108, 145–149, 203, 204, 249 Oz, Kobi 70–73, 87, 134, 149, 183 Palermo 145 Palestine (until 1948) 6, 55, 55n15, 59, 84, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 108, 124n160, 126, 128, 152, 157, 159, 180, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189n33, 201, 202, 206, 207, 209, 209n76. See also Erez Israel Palestine 181n10, 225n120, 229, 245 Palmach 77, 77n59 Papandreou, George A. 228–229 Parnas, Shimon 61, 63–67, 140, 165 Patten, Chris 228–229 Peace Now 77 Peres Center for Peace 235 Peres, Shimon 32, 154, 157, 224, 225 Persia 87 Pinkas, Israel 143 Piraeus 129, 147 Pirenne, Henri xiv, 26 Poland 7 Portugal 98

index Portugali, Yuval 41 Prasch, Nina 247 Purcell, Nicholas xv, 26, 38–40, 101, 106 Rabin, Yitzchak 22, 35, 194, 195, 232 Rabinyan, Dorit 80, 86–87 Rafah 158 Ram, Uri 23n13, 123, 124, 124n158 Ratosh, Yonathan (Uriel Halperin) 201–202, 204–208 Raviv, Yael 126 Regev, Motti 70, 73 Reimann, Patricia 79 Rejwan, Nissim 151 Renaissance (music band) 72 Rivages—Revue de Culture Méditerranéenne ( journal) 223 Rive—Review of Mediterranean Politics and Culture ( journal) 52 Ro’eh, Yonnie 68 Robertson, Roland 69 Rogov, Daniel 120, 122 Romania 93, 94, 103 Rome 52, 143, 178, 179 Rotbard, Sharon 111, 111n141, 116 Rubin, Reuven 93–94, 287 Rubinstein, Amnon 186, 207, 230 Ruppin Academic Center 32 Ruppin, Arthur 7 Ruschkewitz, Fritz (Peretz) 115n147 Russia 6, 19, 229. See also Soviet Union Sa’ada, Antun 215 Sa’adi, Ahmad 125 Said, Edward 40, 43, 114, 130, 180 Salem, Ali 61–62 Salibi, Kamal 212, 216–217 Salonika (Thessalonica) 221 Samaria 30 Samet, Gideon 68 San, Aris 64 Sand, Shlomo 69 Sarah (Saraleh) Sharon 67–68 Sarkozy, Nicolas xvi, xvii, 31, 235–236. See also Union of the Mediterranean Sartorius, Joachim 221 Savir, Uri 235–236 Schatz, Boris 90–92 Schlör, Joachim 1–2, 7 Scopus, Mount 163 Sderot 72, 104

279

Segev, Tom 49, 189n33, 195 Semprún, Jorge 223 Seroussi, Edwin 57, 60 Sfatayim (music band) 72 Shabtai, Yaakov 78n60 Shaham, Natan 77n59 Shaked, Gershon 78, 83–84 Shalem Center 241 Shamir, Moshe 13, 77n59 Shamir, Shimon 113–115, 118 SHAS (party) 197, 197n53, 198 Shavit, Yaakov 29, 45, 47, 101n120, 110, 142, 160, 160n36, 161–162, 179 Shemer, Naomi 69 Shibi, Yaakov 48 Shinui (party) 166 Shohat, Ella 196 Shwa, Shlomo 7, 94 Sidon 209, 211 Silberg, Tami 117, 119 Silberstein, Laurence L. 164n50, 198, 207 Smooha, Sammy 121, 150, 188, 193 Soja, Edward W. 43 Somekh, Ronny 219 Somekh, Sasson 88, 183n14, 209, 217n98, 218 Soskin, Abraham 13, 14 Soviet Union 21, 35, 224 Spain 2n2, 31, 106, 132n173, 140, 145, 154, 158, 163, 181n10, 190 Starr, Deborah Ann 218, 220 Steinberg, Gerald M. 228 Sudan 55 Supreme Court 113 Sweden 132 Switzerland 115n147 Syria 2n2, 57n19, 124n159, 126, 181n10, 190n40, 212, 215, 216, 221, 225n120, 227, 229 Tal, Josef 60 Tammuz, Benyamin 95, 203 Tanara (music band) 72 Tangier 111n139, 145, 154 Tartakover, David 5, 6, 115, 115n147, 290 Taverna 56, 64 Tea Packs (music band) 56, 70–71, 73, 104, 135, 149, 183, 284 Technion (Israel Institute of Technology) 112 Technische Hochschule BerlinCharlottenburg 107

280

index

Teffen 157, 159 Museum des Deutschsprachigen Judentums 159 Tel Aviv (Tel Aviv—Yafo) xv, 1, 5–14, 32, 54, 55n15, 63, 68, 72–73, 79, 81, 91, 93–94, 96, 100, 101, 103, 104, 104n127, 107–111, 111n141, 115, 115n147, 116–119, 122, 128, 129, 157, 182, 186, 186n23, 201, 217, 249, 290, 292, 294. See also Jaffa Achusat Bayit 6–7, 13, 14 Dizengoff Street 5 Eden (cinema) 6 Gat Rimon (hotel) 6 Gymnasia Herzlyia (school) 6 Hassan Beq (mosque) 111 Kikar ha-Medina 5 Mugrabi (cinema) 6 Ramat Aviv 231 Reading Power Station 5, 6 Rothschild Boulevard 108 Sha’ar Zion 5 Tel Aviv Museum 141 Tel Aviv University (TAU) 47, 50, 52n11, 142n4 Tel Chai 194 Theoria ve-Bikoret ( journal) 22n10 Tobias, Alfred 53n12 Traboulsi, Fawwas 247 Trachtenberg, Joshua 87n89 Trifonas 64 Tulkarem 32 Tumarkin, Yigal 95 Tunis 100 Tunisia 70, 181n10, 225n120 Turkey xvi, 2n2, 74, 75, 100, 133, 144, 149n17, 155, 158, 215, 225n120 Tyre 209, 211 UEFA (European Football Association) 234 Uganda 185 Umm-Khoulthoum 55, 55n15, 74, 165 UN (United Nations) 229 UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural

Organization) 117, 118, 222, 225n121 Union of the Mediterranean/Mediterranean Union xvi, xvii, 31, 235–236 University of Athens 54 University of Cambridge 53 University of the Mediterranean in Rome 52 USA 82, 141, 172. See also America van der Rohe, Mies 108 Van Leer Institute 50, 51, 53n12, 151, 218 Venice 116 Vienna 18, 186 Vilna 17, 189n35 Wahab, Abdel 74, 143 Washington 195 Weissbrod, Lilly 22 Weissenstein, Rudi 9, 10 Weizmann, Chaim 192 Wertheimer, Stef 157–159, 298 West Bank 32, 116, 243 Wieseltier, Meir 171 Wistrich, Robert 186 WIZO (Women’s International Zionist Organization) 106, 121, 121n155 Yacobi, Haim 113 Yarkon (river) 186 Yedioth Ahronoth (publishing house) 47 Yehoshua, Abraham B. 28, 30, 51, 67, 78n60, 81, 84–85, 140, 155–156, 203 Yizhar, S. 77n59 Yonah, Yossi 198n54 Za’anani, Magalith (Margol) 75, 122, 291 Zadek, Walter 8, 11 Zalmona, Yigal 184n18, 188 Zefira, Brachah 59 Zeit, Die (newspaper) 181 Ziffer, Benny 222 Zisser, Eyal 212, 227 Zmanim ( journal) 22n10 Zweig, Arnold 186–187, 187n25–28

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Fig. 11: Conference flyer ‘Mediterranean Idea,’ 2001

Fig. 10: Conference flyer ‘Spatial Identity’ with a portrait of Jacqueline Kahanoff, 2001

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Fig. 12: Tea Packs CD cover ‘Neshika la-Dod,’ designed by Aya Ben-Ron, 1997

Fig. 13: Tea Packs CD cover ‘Disco Menayak’, designed by Rami Levinson, 1999

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Fig. 14: Advertising campaign by the satellite TV provider Yes for the Brisa channel, 2000

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Fig. 15: Screenshot from the Brisa broadcast of ‘Lishpokh et ha-lev,’ 2000

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Fig. 16: Pinwheel Vendor, (1923–1925), Reuven Rubin

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Fig. 17: This is our Place in the Mediterranean, 1999, Yehudith Bach

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Fig. 18: Refreshing tissue, Bruno’s Restaurant, 2002

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Fig. 19: The Aviv—the City that never stops, poster designed by David Tartakover for the Israeli Ministry of Tourism, 1992

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Fig. 20: Screenshot from the Brisa broadcast of ‘Ba-Mitbah im-Margol,’ 2000

Fig. 21: Postcard stand in Tel Aviv, Shlomo Arad, 2008

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Fig. 22: Table mat at a seaside restaurant in Jaffa, 2001

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Fig. 23: Restaurant in Tel Aviv, 2005

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Fig. 24: Advertisement for Mediterranean Koos-Koos, 1999, by the company Osem

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Fig. 25: Potato chip bag ‘Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni,’ Israel, 2003

Fig. 26: Potato chip bag ‘Tapuchips Yam Tikhoni,’ Israel, 2003 (backside, detail enlarged)

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Fig. 27: Potato chip bag ‘Mediterráneas,’ Sweden, 2003

Fig. 28: Potato chips bag ‘Mediterráneas,’ Greece, 2004

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Fig. 29: Chart showing Stef Wertheimer’s vision for the Mediterranean

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