Legitimate Rape?

           Though you have asked for forgiveness I would not pardon you Todd Akin for your appalling, shocking, insulting, disturbing, ignorant and arrogant remarks on rape, including your surmising—before your forced retraction—that rape is unlikely to result in pregnancy. I wish I knew that fact over four decades ago, when my dead husband’s best friend who was my friend too raped me. That information would have saved me an unnecessary worry on top of my agony. I am certain too that many infertile women would love to know that they are actually in control of their reproductive organs, a knowledge that may give them hope.
           And what exactly did you mean by “legitimate rape?” Is it the right of a husband to forcefully demand that his wife fulfills her marital duties to him? Is it a sexual act forced upon a woman who was dressed provocatively? Is it a sexual act forced upon a woman because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Is it a sexual act forced upon a woman because she did not yell "NO" loud enough? Is it a sexual act forced upon a woman too small to fight off a man twice her size or a man holding a gun over her head? Men too are rape victims, but here you assumption is right: the likelihood of pregnancy does not exist.
           Let me enact for you the scene of my own rape Mr. Akin, perhaps you’d learn something about that devastating experience.
           By choice I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, in a room at a well known, well respected New York City hotel, where a close friend whom I viewed as a brother was a guest.
          This is not happening, I thought alarmingly when Aaron began to force himself on me. Aaron, who held a high position in the Israeli military establishment, was on an official visit to NY and we planned ahead to meet upon his arrival. We were good friends since my boyfriend Yigal, later my husband, introduced me to Aaron, his wife Rachel, and their two young kids. Except for my sister and her husband, Aaron and Rachel were the closest people to me, especially after Yigal was brutally killed in war two years before the rape.
           Stay calm, I told myself terrified. Perhaps he is drunk; I’ll order some coffee for him. But he forcefully pushed me onto a bed and started to kiss me.
           “Stop it!” I screamed, trying to get away. But he kept at it.
           “I want you,” he exclaimed in a voice I never heard before.
           Please God, answer my prayers now. Don’t let this happen. You owe me! But God had nothing to do with what followed.
          “Get off me,” I shrieked, while trying to fight him with all the strength I had, but he was a tall, strong man, who must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, and I, the hundred-and-ten pounds that I weighed, had little chance. My physical struggle must have roused him even more, for he was fighting back excitedly, his pants off.
           “No,” I screamed repeatedly from the top of my lungs, but he was brutal. Change strategy; plead with him, perhaps he will come to his senses.
           “Rachel, what about Rachel?” I cried frantically.
           “She said that with you it was all right,” he said lying.
           “Yigal, what about Yigal? He was your best friend!” I screamed desperately.
           “He is dead,” I heard the devil say. 
           At that moment, the reality of Yigal’s death was crueler than ever, but I continued fighting till he let go of me after he had reached his sexual climax, only partially penetrated inside of me, for I managed to fight him off, however incompletely.
          Sickened, I ran to the bathroom to wash. More than anything else I felt dirty, but I was also afraid of getting pregnant. As I got out of the bathroom only minutes later, he was peacefully sleeping; while I, his prey, was shattered into pieces. I dressed and left the hotel. My world had crumbled.
           When I arrived at my apartment Yigal’s framed photograph was glancing at me. I hated him with all my heart for leaving me and for having the friends that he did. With anger and pain I smashed his picture into the wall with as much force as that with which I had fought Aaron a short while earlier. The glass on the frame shattered into as many pieces as my broken heart, but that was insufficient, for I also tore the photo into small pieces. I then fell on my bed and began to cry, sounding like a wounded animal.
           For the following two weeks I isolated myself at home.
           “I lost hope in mankind,” I told my boss as he was trying to console me.
           “You must remember that men are not all like that. You must repeat it as a mantra, everyday. We are not all like that. But Aaron should not get away with what he did. You should press criminal charges against him.” 
           “No one would believe me,” I said in panic. “What was I doing in his hotel room to begin with?”
           Like other rape survivors I feared that I would be accused of provoking my own rape. I was also certain that Aaron, holding the high position in the military and defense establishments that he did, would abuse his power even further. Nothing was beneath him, I assumed, my mind running wild imagining an army of false witnesses he would be able to recruit, who would assassinate my character.
           Nearly thirty years after the rape, able at last to openly and publicly talk about that experience, I began to inquire whether I could still press criminal charges against Aaron. But he soon died a dreadful death. I will not share with you my reaction when I learned about his suffering and passing.

On the Wonders of America

This past week, when I stood on the rim of the majestic Grand Canyon, I couldn’t but marvel at the forces of nature that had created the awe-inspiring ravine some 1.7 billion years ago. On a group tour out west my husband and I were to continue to Powell, Brice, and Zion canyons, ending our trip in Las Vegas, from where we’d return to New York after eleven days of traveling.

But a disturbing phone call, and a heat wave combined with high altitude, made my husband felt momentarily ill. Because we were to continue to even warmer weather, higher altitudes and places with no medical facilities, we ended up at the park’s clinic. After a thorough checkup by the attending physician and a consultation with our cardiologist in New York, we all agreed that under the circumstances we should cut our trip short and go home. I would return another time to visit these nature’s wonders which I so anticipated seeing.

 The concierge in the park hotel where we stayed booked us flights back to New York and arranged for a taxi that took take us on a ninety minute drive to the nearest airport at the town of Flagstaff, from where we were to continue to Phoenix, then to Vegas to get home. But because of what amounted to the antithesis of America’s wonders, namely the inefficiency of misinformed airline employees, we missed the flight to Phoenix that evening, ending up spending the night in Flagstaff, a town we would probably never see if it were not for the saga of our trip back home.

 The next morning we arrived from Phoenix in Las Vegas only to find that we missed the connecting flight to NY. Having to stay six hours at the airport to get on the next flight, we decided to spend the following two nights in Vegas.

 I was in this wondrous city forty four years ago after arriving in the States, on a trip I took with three guy friends to the West Coast’s National Parks, San Francisco and Vegas (I almost killed us all when I nearly drove off a cliff), and I had no intention of visiting Vegas again, in spite of or because of what I heard about the new hotels that has been built there in the last few decades at the cost of billions of dollars.

 My husband and I checked in a quiet, elegant hotel away from the tumult of the Vegas Strip. How colonial I thought, when an East Asian member of the hotel’s pool staff offered to spray us with a cool mist of Evian water as we sat comfortably on fancy beach lounges covered with lush terry sheets. Like four decades ago, I balked at the ostentatious nature of Vegas, though living in Manhattan I am exposed to expensive stores and restaurants where two can spend $500 on dinner; and may be, in New York, the two men dinning at a table next to us in Vegas with two young attractive Brazilian women, girls really, would be more discrete fondling these women while talking about their wives back home.

 The following morning my husband and I explored some of the newer hotels . Within a matter of half a day we visited Rome, Venice, Bellagio and Paris. Where else could we do that other than in the grandiose Las Vegas hotels?

 On arrival at the Venetian Hotel with its canals and singing gondoliers, I burst out laughing at the site of instant Venice and the unmistakable kitsch. But then I looked up and saw the replica of St. Mark’s Square with its grand architecture, and I found creativity, ingenuity, entrepreneurialism and even beauty.

 Hopping from Venice to Paris via Rome and Bellagio, one can’t help noticing the diversity of the tourist body that visits Vegas. In a matter of two days I heard a multitude of languages, including Assyrian, French, German, Hebrew, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish and more; and there was an apparent class differentiation as well. All sharing the dream of escapism however they define it. Here in Vegas, one can hardly recognize that a war is still raging in Afghanistan, or Syria, and that women and children still suffer the consequences of conflict and war.

On Women's Sexuality

   

    This post is about women’s sexuality: one denied, the other explored. What caught my attention this past week was a small news item printed on July 21, in the New York Times’ “World Briefing” section, which summarizes events that have occurred in various parts of the world. In one short update the paper informed its readers that in Ivory Coast, nine women were sentenced to two years in prison each for carrying out Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) over an extended period, a practice that has been banned in that West African country since 1998.

    That barbaric cultural practice has been performed on young girls between infancy and age 15, usually by elder village midwives, who use rusty razors, scissors or broken glass to cut out the females’ clitoris and the labia, to permanently eradicate the women’s ability to enjoy intercourse, thereby ensuring fidelity to their husbands. The procedure, which is often performed without any type of anesthetics, is excruciatingly painful and dangerous. Occasionally it causes death as a result of bleeding or infection, but also infertility and life-long pain, as well as complications in childbirth and increased risk of newborn mortality. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), about 140 million girls and women worldwide are currently living with the consequences of FGM.

    Some observers believe FGM to be a case of cultural relativism, for many young girls in the countries where the practice is either legal or banned, choose the procedure, believing that unless they go through with it their chances to get married in their communities lessens dramatically. But that’s hardly a choice.

    While the United Nations and some Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) are doing important work on FGM, and while some African and Middle Eastern countries have banned it, the practice still continues, violating the human rights of women on many levels, among them their ability to discover and enjoying their sexuality.

    While the subject of women’s sexuality is by no means new, it gained a renewed interest in the United States with the publication in 2011 of E. L. James’s erotic trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey. The books, which sketch the relationship between a young college student and a rich businessman, are notable for their explicitly erotic scenes involving bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism, and more. Taking America by storm, it sold tens of million of copies, becoming the fastest growing best seller ever, granting its author over $1,000,000 a week, or $160,000 a day, according to some statistics. Because of its unprecedented popularity it’s been the subject of numerous debates on television and the printed media; women have organized special events, occasionally with the author as a guest speaker, to discuss the book and the effects it has had on their lives.

    I have not read any of the books and I don’t know if I will. But as a writer who is experimenting with a new Women’s fiction, I was curious at the lasting effect, if any, the book might have on publishers’ choices. On Wednesday evening I therefore joined a large crowd at McNally and Jackson Book store in Soho, to hear what a panel of authors and other experts had to say on the book and its effect on American culture.

    The panel included the writers Erica Jong, author of Fear of Flying and twenty-one other books, Daniel Bergner, whose book The Other Side of Desire was described by the sponsors as "an open-minded exploration of fringe sexual cultures," Melissa Febos, former dominatrix and author of the Memoir Whip Smart, Ian Kerner, sex counselor and author of She Comes First, and Roxane Gay, a writer for Salon and The Rumpus.

    There was disagreement within the panel as well as between panelists and members of the audience concerning how poorly the book was written, though the consensus was that its writing style was insulting to the lovers of literature. Almost everyone present agreed that the book discovered nothing new. Erica Jong made the point that there were excellent books, which have been written on the subject long ago, such as Lady Chatterley’s Lovers by D.H. Lawrence.

    There was also disagreement between feminists, who thought the book was a poor example for young female readers, who may accept the abuse the young heroine suffered as a new threshold unacceptable to feminists, and those who argued that because the mistreatment was consensual and even enjoyable, it was not abusive. And, there were those who thought that the book had empowered women, who after reading the book, have begun to fantasize and to explore their sexuality. There were those who objected to the class difference of the protagonists, and those who thought nothing of it. But by and large, the agreement was that contrary to popular belief Fifty Shades of Gray did not change the lives of women, single or those who have mates, and that it definitely has not change the American culture, literary or other. I was glad to hear that.

On Writing

          In Israel, former Prime Minister Ehud Olmert was acquitted of corruption charges this past Tuesday, creating a media storm there, thereby overshadowing a disturbing government commission report which stipulates that the West Bank—or Judea and Samaria, is not occupied territory, and therefore Jewish settlements there do not violate international law. In Egypt the struggle of power between the Military and the Muslim Brotherhood continues with Parliament being a tossing ball, while in Libya early election results indicate that the Islamists lost.  In Jordan, a member of parliament threw a shoe and pointed a weapon at a political rival in a live talk show dispute over Syria, drawing millions around the world to watch the brawl on YouTube. In Syria top military and diplomatic officials are still defecting as the killing there continues, and Iran is as defiant as it has been regarding its nuclear ambitions.  In Spain, the government is raising taxes and cutting the national budget as part of a deal with Euro zone leaders to help rescue the country’s banks.  And it goes on and on.
 Yes, I am passionate about news from Israel, the Middle East and the rest of the world. But my new passion these days is the main character of the women’s fiction I have just begun to write. She is a woman in her late sixties who refuses to age gracefully.
The news of my new project has been received with mixed reactions: My grown daughter, who felt abandoned when I wrote my memoir, looked at me approvingly and even supportive, while my husband wondered how much time I am going to spend writing my new book. My seven year old granddaughter, who loves writing her own stories, and who believes that she is “just like” me, was clearly impressed. She wondered if I could come to her new school to talk about writing a book, as I did in her kindergarten, when I had been invited by her teachers to do so, and she was the star of her class.
    Some friends were enthusiastic, others were surprised. One of my best friends strongly disapproved, protecting me from what she thought was unnecessary torture I am putting myself through, after spending a considerable time interviewing Israeli and Palestinian women affected by war, writing their stories, then postponing the completion of that book perhaps indefinitely, but speaking about that important issue publically, and then writing my own story; not to mention my book on the Israeli Palestinian peace process, which was published sixteen years ago. Some friends wonder for how long I’d “disappear” this time.
Only a few months ago I pledged to never ever write another book, not wanting to go once more through the grueling process of trying to publish one, as I have been doing with my memoir,  and the disappointment that comes with each rejection letter. But writing is too strong a passion. As I explain to my friends, “my fingers truly itch.” It is especially exciting for me to experiment with a new genre, and to get into my new character, whose identity I assume as I imagine her.
I was going to return to painting this summer, but that will have to wait, unless my new protagonist will want to do just that.    

A Response to "On Fear and Complacency."

       I would like to share with my readers a response to my last blog which I received from an Israeli relative.
       He read my blog with mixed emotions.  On the one hand he viewed me as an insider:  a citizen who had paid a heavy price when I lost my husband to war, and a person who is familiar with the culture, language, and the nuances of life in Israel, including the daily security and economic hurdles Israelis face and the difficult choices they have to make. 
        On the other hand he viewed me as an outsider:  a visitor who arrives to Israel every year from a relatively safe and comfortable place [the US].  While it is true, he said, that US policies toward the Middle East may influence the region, with the exception of Iran, a country both Israel and the US fear, Americans do not face the risks Israelis do from other entities in the region, like Egypt, Syria, Gaza and the West Bank. Yet, he continued,  in spite of these threats, especially in this tumultuous times in the region, Israelis strive to live a normal life, a task that is not easy, compared to paralleled efforts in the US, Canada, or Western Europe. 
       The turning point for Israelis, he pointed out, occurred with their 2005 evacuation from Gaza, and Hamas’s political and military victories over the Palestinian Authority there in 2006-2007. Since then, southern communities in Israel have lived under the threat of missiles attacks; since the fall of Mubarak the Sinai has become lawless, resulting in rocket attacks on southern Israeli cities.  He asked me to try to imagine such a reality in remote American communities, assuring me that there would be zero tolerance to such threats.  These opinions are not his alone, he wrote, but views that are shared around the country.
        He believed there is no quick or magical solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Occupation corrupts, and Israel’s remaining in the territories does not improve matters. In an ideal world, according to him, Israel should return to the '67 borders, Palestinians should give up the right of return, and a Palestinian state should be formed side by side with Israel. But it takes two to tango, and it seems to him that not only is the dance floor called the Middle East unstable, there's no one to dance with anyway. Maybe the right thing is to stall, and wait for a more stable reality.
       Perhaps, he wrote, in my position as a teacher and a writer I should consider taking a step back. He disagrees that complacency and fear exist in Israel. What does exist, he thinks, is the heavy burden of personal safety combined with a difficult socio-economic reality. Under such conditions, Israel is trying to make decisions that often minimize risks rather than maximize opportunities.
       I understand the resentment of Israelis who are offended by the opinions of outsiders who do not share the anxieties of living in Israel in spite of caring deeply about the country. But sometimes an outsider, especially one who has been part of the Israeli milieu and understands it, may see things clearer than the insider, who is deeply immersed in his own reality. I liken it to a family who needs outside intervention to improve its complex relationship. As for a solution, though I didn’t attempt to offer any in my post, I too support the existence of two states. But the longer the wait, the less likely it would remain on option.  

A note to my readers:  I do get responses in my e-mail, which I rather see in the “comment” box at the end of my posts.

On Fear and Complacency

             For my last blog from Israel I wanted to write about the French tourists who dominate the beaches of Tel Aviv (as well as other beaches), and how their presence there constantly reminded me of my shock and despair when a month before our wedding the man I ended up marrying forty-eight years ago cheated on me with a French tourist who he had met on the beach.  But I never got to write that blog. Like other things I write about, the story is part of my memoir War Widow, which my followers can read once the book will be published.          
            Since I was approached by some of my readers who were waiting for my promised blog on my conversations in Israel about the political situation there, I chose to write about the complacency I detected there, in spite of the regression in Israeli-Palestinian peace talks and the growing likelihood of another Palestinian uprising if meaningful negotiations are not resumed.      
           I sensed that complacency everywhere: in social gatherings, on the beaches, in cafes and restaurants, in concert halls, and in the theatre.  Most of my friends agreed with me. Others who live elsewhere referred to Tel Aviv as another state that is removed from the Israeli reality. But when during supper in a charming Tel Aviv restaurant I discussed with my cousin the apparent contentment I sensed, she got terribly upset.        
         “How can you talk about complacency,” she asked me angrily, “when we send out children to the military, worrying to death during their service?”    
         “How can you talk about complacency when everything we read in the daily newspapers affects us? Aside from the headlines about the Euro crisis, there is hardly an issue that does not distress us, whether it is Iran, Egypt, or Syria. The uncertainty about whether Israel will attack Iran’s nuclear facilities, what kind of governments will emerge in Egypt or Syria and how those governments are going to relate to us causes me extreme anxiety, and I am not alone.”    
           I proceeded with an analysis of Iran’s rationality, and the Egyptian military which will not give up its privileges by permitting the Muslim Brotherhood to reign, regardless of the elections results there. And in any event it is not in Egypt’s interest to abrogate the Camp Davis peace accord it had signed with Israel in 1979, and certainly it is not in the interest of any leadership there to instigate Israel. Syria is a different story though, with an unknown outcome after the fall of Assad.        
        “Your analysis is based on expertise, and most of us here are not experts,” my cousin said.”
“Do you read reports about settlers’ behavior in the territories, and some of the things that are going on in the checkpoints, in your name?” I asked her?    
        “I do not want to read anything that upsets me,” she replied. “Life here can be stressful enough.”             
          Therein lies the complacency I detected, I thought. It begins with fear.

Coffee by the Sea Shore

           As a day of rest the Sabbath is a family day in Israel for the religious and the secular alike. For the latter segment of the population, in summertime, Saturday is a day when people take trips, spend the day in country clubs or on the beach. These activities are not different from what people do in some other parts of the world. But not too many big cities are located on the sea shore like Tel Aviv is. Here, the beach’s sand and the city’s old ports are dotted with cafes and restaurants that are busy with diners from morning till the small hours of the night. Many of these patrons are couples, others are groups of friends. Loneliness does not appear to exist there.
          Until he left for New York last Thursday, my husband and I were one of those couples who enjoyed eating breakfast in the open air in those restaurants on our way back to our hotel from the daily walks we took by the sea shore.
           I always stay behind after my husband leaves, relishing my days by myself in Tel Aviv, seeing childhood friends and more of my family, and enjoying the theatre in my native tongue which he doesn’t speak. Alone, I end my daily morning walks by the sea shore drinking an ice coffee in one of those restaurants facing the Mediterranean Sea. Unlike a regular weekday, it is hard to find an empty table on Saturday in any of them.
           This past Saturday I was lucky to find a bar-seat facing the water. On my right a young couple was giggling while having breakfast, on my left a young man was reading a book while drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. He could have been lonely, but not bored. Alone, I was enjoying the sweetness and the chill of my iced coffee, breathing the scent of summer and delighting in the clear turquoise water in front of me. Suddenly I felt a pang. Not because I was alone or lonely, but because the moment brought back to my days of widowhood, when I spent my Saturdays alone on the beach. Sometimes I stopped for a bite in a restaurant on my way home late in the afternoon, other times I ate at home the food I had cooked for me the previous day.
        I could have spent those Saturdays with family and friends. But I preferred going to the beach by myself, enjoying my privacy and my sense of independence. I enjoyed even more the sweet telephone calls I received on those Sabbath afternoons from my famous married lover, who wanted to find how my beach days were, or whether I had eaten. Sometimes he would whisper on the telephone, instructing me to call his home, and he would pretend he had an emergency and come over to see me. Those were the things one did for forbidden love, which I escaped when I left my country more than four decades ago.
        Yesterday afternoon I visited my fallen husband’s grave in a military cemetery near Tel Aviv. There was no one around; only I and the hundreds, and hundreds of graves. Alone in the cemetery, there too I cherished my solitude. This time, however, the quiet was roaring.