In September 2023 I finally got my British passport renewed. The only reason was that my daughter was taking an extended trip to Bali and, as an Israeli, I’m banned from this Muslim country. So, to be on the safe side, I waded my way through the nonsensical passport office paperwork, submitting the worst DIY profile shot ever — me, a perfect combo of old hag and criminal — and sent off the form. Just as my shiny new reminder of my British origins arrived via registered delivery, October 7th broke out.

My daughter realized she was in the wrong country at the wrong time and was heading home faster than you could say ‘Island of the Gods’. Oh well, there went one hundred quid down the drain.

And since then, my passport has been sitting unused in a forgotten corner of our bedroom — our safe — a bit like my British identity.

My accent gives it away. I still like my black tea with milk, and Dairy Milk is my chocolate of choice. I am drawn to the banter of my landsmen, I miss the Life of Brian quotes, I miss the ‘Here’s one I made earlier’ — but I don’t miss England.
And even if I did, the England I knew and loved, the land of my childhood, no longer exists.

I grew up in a seaside town. A place of parks, cricket fields, grammar schools, a wonderful pier, a town center, and an Odeon Cinema. My parents chose it because it offered a ‘Jewish life’, with two synagogues that didn’t require 24-hour security protection.

The population of Southend was mainly white but had a substantial Asian/Indian population. Many of them were doctors; others owned and ran 24-hour pharmacies for the late-night aspirin emergency, or newsagents, or delicious Indian takeaways for drunk crowds with the munchies after a few beers in the local pub.

My best friend at junior school was an Indian girl called Maria. I spent countless hours in the immaculately clean Patel house eating samosas and watching Bollywood movies that didn’t have subtitles.

There were other minorities who I got to know too — like Salvatore from Sicily, who ran a fantastically authentic Italian restaurant, long before antipasti and pecorino cheese became standard consumer fare.

I attended the local senior grammar school and was a beneficiary of an excellent education. Despite being the only Jewish girl in my year, I rarely felt anything less than safe. I was excused from ‘religious assemblies’, which was kind of cool, but I still gave out Christmas cards to my friends.

I studied at London University. Everyone who knew me at uni knew I was Jewish. My professor made a big deal about my ancient roots — making it clear I should be proud of them rather than embarrassed, as I often was.

The college next door to mine — SOAS — was a place I frequented. They had a better coffee shop and a good cloakroom. I remember my feeling as I handed my coat to a girl wearing a T-shirt with the words ‘Free Palestine’ inscribed. This was the first time I felt........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)