Day 252: Bob the Pedophile

Bob the Pedophile teaches Physics at my school. He’s American, about 70 years old, and a total creepster. First off, he’s a Republican, which automatically makes him a pedophile. Actually, I’m not even sure he’s a Republican; he’s one of those “I hate all politicians” and “Trump is no worse than Hillary” types who refuses to distinguish between decent and terrible. He also denies global warming, claiming that the earth has always experienced cycles of warming and cooling. He’s one of those people who knows a lot about something (Physics) and therefore thinks he knows a lot about everything. He’s an idiot. And a weirdo: Sometimes he comes up behind me and puts both hands on my back or shoulders for way longer than necessary. Either he thinks we’re bros because we’re both American or he really likes me. The best (worst) part about Bob is his wife, Felicia, who teaches English at the school. She’s a gapped-tooth Brit who stinks of smoke because she rips beaucoup cigarettes on her lunch break. Sometimes when I’m feeling blue, I imagine Bob and Felicia together at home in the evening, and I laugh. And then I cry. I don’t actually think Bob is a pedophile. I just really don’t like the dude and a pedophile is the worst thing I can think to call him. (And also he might actually be a pedophile.)

I’m telling you about Bob because when I need to rationalize our decision to leave Israel, I think of him. I mean, objectively speaking, why would we leave? COVID is nearly irrelevant in Israel at the moment, international travel is picking up again, and the ridiculously amazing weather just never gets old.

We’re also becoming real Israelis: We are now official owners of a machtzelet, a big woven mat Israelis use for picnics on the beach, on the grass, or in the middle of a parking lot. After we finish eating our pita-and-hummus lunch on aforementioned machtzelet, we play matkot (paddle ball), known by Israelis as their national beach sport.

Then we go home, take a shnatz (nap), eat dinner, and at 21:30, drive an hour to Jerusalem for our first mimouna, a Moroccan Jewish tradition celebrated the day after Pesach (Passover) to mark the return of eating chametz (leavened bread). Tables are covered with chocolates, candies, frothy concoctions of egg white and sugar, sweet jellies made of eggplant or cherry tomatoes, mofletta (North African Jewish pancake), and, of course, a giant fish head symbolizing the parting of the Red Sea. It is said that to be an Israeli, one must have a Moroccan friend and attend a mimouna. Looks like we’re official.

We’re also having some fun here and there. The Boss gets wasted once a month at outdoor wine-and-cheese parties with the neighborhood moms, Panini fills her existential void by shopping with her friends in downtown Tel Aviv, OG roller-blades up and down our block like she owns the place, Broosevelt is finally getting a little better at soccer, Boni is the talk of the town with her sparkly purple roller-skates, and I dominate in tennis twice a week. What more could we ask for, right?

Wrong. We gotta go. There’s no way we could stay. Surfing, sunshine, and falafel are not for us. We need to leave, I keep telling myself...

We need to leave because Israel has unique trauma. Yesterday was Yom HaZikaron (Remembrance Day), when Israelis commemorate fallen soldiers. It is not an exaggeration to say that every Israeli knows someone who has died serving their country. There is also a ton of PTSD here, much of which goes untreated. Two days ago, a disabled Israeli army veteran set himself on fire in front of the Defense Ministry’s rehabilitation department. War scars and self-immolation? My kids can barely handle no dessert.

We need to leave because they definitely can’t handle Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day). Ceremonies and services are held at schools and military bases, and at 10:00 there’s a two-minute siren throughout the country. Everyone pauses what they’re doing and stands. Drivers stop on the road. The entire country is still. Panini knew about the Holocaust but lost it when she heard specifics about ghettos and gas chambers. We explained the Holocaust to Broosevelt and Boni, but they clearly didn’t get it. The next day, Little Broosevelt kept asking Siri, “How many people didn’t die in World War II?”

We need to leave because this country is sexist. Panini is the only girl in her entire school who knows how to shoot a basketball. Kids stare at OG because she has short hair. Broosevelt plays soccer with boys and Boni dances with girls. Ok, fine, Boni belongs nowhere near a soccer field.

We need to leave (skip this paragraph if you're not a weak Jew with allergies) because we are weak Jews suffering from terrible allergies in the land that never stops blooming.

We need to leave (skip this paragraph if you don't care about sports) because the basketball players here are the absolute worst: On one end, they hack the shit out of you if you get anywhere near the basket, and on the other the end, they call a foul if you even breathe on them. For a bunch of dudes who served in the military, it's downright embarrassing.

We need to leave because the Boss is getting too comfortable: friends, family, tiyulim (trips), etc. We need to get back to Chicago so she can get back on the grind of working full-time, taking the kids to school, making dinner every night, and listening to my god damn feelings.

We need to leave because Panini is surrounded by losers, brats, and bullies. Her soccer team hasn’t won a game since February, her private school classmates are a bunch of spoiled-ass rich kids, and she's getting harassed by some short French girl. The other day, Panini put her backpack on a chair, put her water bottle on the desk, and went to get a drink of water. When she came back, Francine the Dwarf had moved her stuff and was sitting in her seat. Panini told her to move, but Francine the Bully Dwarf didn’t budge. Eventually, Panini found a different seat, and then I was forced to bully her at home that night for not having stood up to Francine the Plucky Dwarf.

We need to leave because OG keeps correcting my Hebrew grammar, and I don’t want to stop loving her.

We need to leave because if Broosevelt keeps picking up his eggs with his hands, it’s goin’ down.

We need to leave because if Boni says “No thanks” one more time when the Boss and I ask her to set the table, she won’t have a plane ticket home.

We need to leave because my student is a Nazi. The other day, I was chatting with Fraulein Mailin who lived in Chile for six years. She told me her grandparents had actually moved to South America years ago, and I was like:

“Oh, really? When?” (“Hmmm...right after World War II?”)

“I’m not sure exactly.” (“My parents told me to never say anything about our past.”)

“Why did they move there?” (“Were they Nazis trying to escape?”)

“I’m not really sure.” (“This Jew can smell my Nazi blood.”)

We need to leave because I might be losing it: The other day as I was semi-paying attention to OG, she said, “Daddy, watch the whole dance,” and I was 100% certain she had said, “Daddy, watch me pole dance.”

Yeah, it’s time to go.

(Adolf Eichmann, logistics architect of the Holocaust, captured by the U.S. in 1945, escaped from detention camp, fled to Argentina in 1950, captured by Mossad (Israel intelligence agency) in 1960, executed in 1962)