In One Israeli Cab, the Whole Catastrophe

There’s something about a late-night taxi ride that can turn small talk into something profound. One recent night, riding from Jaffa to central Tel Aviv, I found myself in a microcosm of Israel—its divisions, its contradictions, and its unanswerable questions, all playing out in the cramped intimacy of taxi hell.

I had just wrapped up a TV appearance on the Hebrew Channel  I24 where I was on a panel with a woman I’ll call Y., a sharp representative of Israel’s political right (I’ll identify her in no other way for reasons that will become clear). By chance we were heading the same way, and so we split a ride.

Somewhere between the alleyways of Jaffa and the glimmering towers of Tel Aviv, I turned to her and inquired: “So tell me: Why the hell do you support the right?” She smiled politely. “What makes you think I do?” “Come on,” I said. “For God’s sake, let’s not pretend.” She didn’t quibble, which was nice.

This taxi represented most of the country. Which is, of course, the problem.

I explained my diagnosis of the Israeli right: It isn’t really about economics or tradition; it’s about a number of things (like letting the Haredim go wild in their rejection of civic responsibilities, the military draft, participation in the economy) but mainly about one — clinging to the West Bank at all cost.

Actually, I noted, with Gaza having re-entered the political conversation, it’ll soon again be about holding onto both territories, even though this means living alongside a Palestinian population that already equals, if not surpasses, the Jewish one.

“How will this work?” I asked her. “What are you thinking? You can’t suppress millions of people forever. The numbers don’t lie. Is the right too dim to count all the way up to 7.5 million Palestinians? It will be a binational state, and when those Jews who are able to emigrate figure it out, they’ll flee. This place will have a Jewish minority—and will be renamed Palestine, not Israel.”

Y. was quiet for a moment, then replied evenly. “They can be compelled to leave. There’s nothing wrong with population transfers.”

It was an extraordinarily calm, matter-of-fact statement. Normally, with Israeli right-wingers, they either don’t realize that this is what they’re subconsciously supporting—or they hide it. The casual confidence with which she declared this audacious strategy, as if this were the weather forecast, was mesmerizing in its way. I felt I was looking at the sun.

I tried to argue that this wasn’t practical, wasn’t moral, wasn’t remotely feasible—but before I could finish, the cab reached her stop. She got out, smiled charmingly, said it was so nice to meet, and was gone.

As the car pulled away, I sighed and leaned back in my seat. That’s when I noticed the driver for the first time.

He was an Israeli Arab, steering us through Tel Aviv’s quiet streets. It was safe to assume he wasn’t a fan of the political right, which has never hidden its racism; almost no Israeli Arabs are. Then again, he probably also wasn’t exactly horrified by the prospect of Israel’s loss of the Jewish majority; a rational Arab might feel that the Jews should be allowed to destroy their own state with their territorial overreach. Perhaps it was I—with my plainly stated desire for a Jewish majority—who was the more offensive to him.

It’s not that the right doesn’t also want a Jewish majority, somehow. It’s just that they care about the control of territory more, and they figure—idiotically, in my view—that the Arabs can be forever subjugated.

I sighed again—honestly, I did. “I have to apologize for that whole conversation back there,” I told the driver.  

It is a tangled web we weave. Why do I even care about the Jewish state? Is it the Nobel prizes? Albert Einstein? Jerry Seinfeld or Bob Dylan? The Talmud?? Maybe a little of each. The heart wants what it wants. What, in the end, can you possibly say?

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror and smiled. In flawless Hebrew, lightly accented with Arabic, he said this: “Apologize to yourself, habibi. You were foolish enough to argue with a woman! A woman can never be convinced. It is truly a waste of a man’s time.”

I laughed at this absurdity, perhaps caught off guard.

This taxi ride had become a microcosm of Israel itself: a “liberal” like me earnestly (and perhaps pathetically) concerned with preserving the Jewish state; a highly rational lawyer (from the right wing) entertaining criminal fantasies of mass expulsion, which will almost certainly destroy this state; and an Arab citizen who seemed utterly detached from the debate, and a proud misogynist at that.

None of us fit neatly into the frameworks of the West. Not the left, which is actually nationalistic, just more intelligent; not the right, which clings to impossible dreams that will bring only ruin; and not the Arab minority, navigating its own complexities, with too many of their number stuck quite deeply in the past: honor killings of women, patriarchalism and tribalism.

In the immortal words of Zorba the Greek, the whole catastrophe.

We should never generalize, and each person is a world unto themselves. But stereotypes did not come out of nowhere. This taxi represented most of the country. Which is, of course, the problem.

As I stepped out of the cab and into the humid Tel Aviv night, I weighed the driver’s words. Maybe he was right in his way. Maybe trying to convince anyone, of any gender, in this country is foolish. No point beating your head against the wall: We may all be just stubborn passengers, hurtling toward an uncertain destination, convinced the others will see reason before we drive straight off a cliff.

Then again maybe not. I may continue trying to persuade. That’s human nature, too.

Dan Perry is the former chief editor of the Associated Press in Europe, Africa and the Middle East, the former chairman of the Foreign Press Association in Jerusalem, and the author of two books about Israel. Follow his newsletter “Ask Questions Later” at danperry.substack.com.

Top image: Created by Dan Perry and ChatGPT.