Dreams of Zion

I am in Israel, studying sociology under a highly charismatic Jewish teacher. We are both in some public place, either a shopping centre or a train, dressed in ceremonial robes (his white, mine black.) Above our heads, a bank of monitors relays our conversation to other shoppers, and vice versa. A loud American woman, mistaking me for an Arab, opines that it would be best for non-religious Israelis if the two tribes (Jew and Muslim) simply destroyed each other; my teacher interjects, cutting her argument down with calm incision that fills me with something like awe.

I had failed to understand the content of my first lecture on Israeli soil and I am beginning to feel completely out of my depth. Until, that is, a video-simulation is shown to me, which illustrates the lecturer's point brilliantly. Watching it, I am filled with a rising sense of destiny; suddenly I know why I am here.

On the screen, water laps against a shore line, depicted as a pulsing red line. A short distance away from it, following the same contours, there flows a second line... After a while I realise that these are the historical and present borders of the land of Israel, and I am watching the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, sweeping in and out. The realisation that the borders of the present align so closely with those of the Bible is extremely moving. The throbbing line of the land, filled with its blood-like cargo, seems heavy with symbolic resonance.

My teacher and I then head to a synagogue. Immediately upon entering, my teacher, a priest, anoints his hands with blood; I am expected to wash mine also. I ask him whether I too should use the blood, and he looks at me very strangely. The blood is the sole preserve of the priest; I must use oil. He shows me how.

To reach my next destination I have to use an underground train. Being in Israel, and using the (imaginary) Metro is very frightening to me. There is another platform directly in front of the one I am standing at; I can already see, as the car rushes in, perilously close to my feet that the train I need to catch is already standing there and I am going to miss my connection. Avoiding the onrushing train, I sprint to the opposite side... Where, miraculously, somebody has pressed a stop button, giving me just enough time to enter the carriage before it departs.

The interior is cavernous... I find myself in a hangar-like space, more like an airport than a Metro train. Cockney voices ring out; a young, slightly retarded man wearing a McDonald's uniform introduces himself to me. A little overfriendly, I move on quickly; I have to find my colleagues before the train pulls in or I will lose them forever. A few carriages down and I reach a large empty hall. There is a bar and a stage, and a small flight of stairs leading down to a cellar. Descending, I am elated to find my friends, including the charismatic teacher who greets me with no sense of surprise. Beautiful, hypnotic music plays in the background; we talk about modern classical music, and I realise that I would gladly live (and die) for Israel...