The Time Remaining

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141 24 Not that it had been much different from what he expected. He had read enough about Israel to know what its internal and foreign policies were. But knowing in theory, as he knew from his experience as a reporter, was never the same as knowing in fact, and now, at the conclusion of his two-week stint in Israel, he knows much more in fact. Sitting in the airport lounge and looking out at the very hills that Tabry had told him so much about over the years, he feels himself party to an old dispute. He recalls Tabry’s visceral resentment of the government ’s indifference to the displaced Palestinians, its arrogance when it was reminded of its exclusionist policies, its barely hidden scorn for the “occupied.” The days of the previous weeks relive themselves for Gilchrist as he waits in the lounge for his return flight from Tel Aviv to New York, but first he remembers how he stood in his editor’s office one day after he opened Raya’s letter in his apartment and decided he had no choice but to respect her plea that he not try to find her. “Why in the hell do you want to go?” asked the editor. “You haven’t exactly put yourself in their good graces. I doubt if they’ll even admit you. And if they do admit you, I doubt if you’ll have freedom of movement in the country to find anything worth writing about.” “I want to take a crack at it. I’m an American, after all. They might make life a bit difficult for me there, but I doubt if they’ll deny me entry. That would make them look bad.” “Have it your way.” “Have passport. Will travel.” “Need visa. Don’t forget that part of the slogan.” Two afternoons later Gilchrist was amazed that it took less than twenty-four hours for him to receive his visa. 142 | The Time Remaining “Enjoy your trip to Israel, Mr. Gilchrist,” said the embassy official as he stamped his documents. “Perhaps this visit will help you clarify your view of us.” During his flight from New York to Tel Aviv, Gilchrist tried to sleep, but he thought only of Raya. His memories of her were so raw and painful that he periodically stood and walked up and down the commodious aisles of the jet and tried to distract himself by looking at the faces of the passengers. Seated now in the airport lounge and surveying the very runway he had landed on two weeks earlier, Gilchrist knows that he is being watched. His “watchers” have made no secret of their assignment. They are the same men who tracked him during his entire stay—except for one night. He realizes now that it was that one night that made the whole trip worthwhile . But that night had not happened until he had been in the country for eight days. During those eight days he was escorted to farms, offices of politicians, newspaper editors, and those he came later to identify as “governmentapproved ” authors. From the politicians he learned little. True, there was an opposition party, but its views vis-à-vis the Palestinians were not radically different from those of the majority party. “We must ensure the survival of the Jewish people as a majority here,” a former prime minister told him. “But the demographics don’t favor you.” “Then we will have to find a solution that guarantees our majority status.” “Is it a matter of majority or exclusivity?” “We cannot permit our culture to be diluted, Mr. Gilchrist.” “Your culture or your power?” “I see no point in continuing this conversation.” The newspaper editors whom Gilchrist saw spoke openly of dissent in the country, but it was dissent at the fringes of power. “Do you think it possible for there to be a ‘Tom Paine’ in the journalism profession here?” he asked one editor. “We have them now. Avineri and others. But they are marginal. They run the risk of being accused of disloyalty to the people, their own people. No journalist here could survive long with that kind of reputation.” The Time Preceding | 143 “What if his case were not against the people but against the government?” “The response would be the same. For many here, the government and the people are one entity.” “I see,” said Gilchrist. The...