Sarah Tuttle-Singer is the author of Jerusalem, Drawn and Quartered: One Woman’s Year in the Heart of the Christian, Muslim, Armenian, and Jewish Quarters of Old Jerusalem and a writer for The Times of Israel. In this three-part series, Sarah soundtracks her Israeli experience. Through a series of songs, Sarah takes us on her journey from her first visit as a teenager from Los Angeles to the present day, as a mother of three Israeli children in the aftermath of 7 October. Part One can be read here and Part Two here.
INFECTED MUSHROOM — any song, all the songs.
It was a warm, spring day shortly after moving to Israel when I got into Israeli psytrance.
Renowned for its energetic beats, intricate melodies, and innovative soundscapes, and rooted in the vibrant electronic music scene of Israel, psytrance artists like Infected Mushroom and Astrix have gained international acclaim, blending traditional Middle Eastern influences with cutting–edge electronic production techniques.
It’s a fast way to escape the racing thoughts in your head, sometimes, and I learned this on the road to Jerusalem while riding in a taxi.
The driver was really, really happy. The radio is on. Infected Mushroom. It reminds me of dawn in the desert and a lone falcon chasing the sun.
The driver was bopping along. ‘What’s today?’ he asked me. ‘Sunday? Monday?’
‘Sunday.’
‘OK. So I still have to wait two days for my weed.’
I laughed.
‘Look, I don’t smoke weed because it’s fun. I mean, OK, it’s fun. Sometimes, it’s a lot of fun,’ he sighs. ‘But I smoke because I have to, I swear. After what I went through in Gaza, I have to smoke.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Through the rearview mirror, I could see this look come over the driver’s face.
‘I watched my best friend die in front of me,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘If the gunman was just one step to the left, it would have been me – it would have been my guts all over the sand, and Aviv would be alive, you know? Fuck. I shot back and hit the son of whore who shot my best friend, and then I just sat there with him – Aviv, while he lay there.’
His eyes were still fixed on the road, and I have no idea why he told me this. He was deep in his own world as he stared straight ahead.
‘So I had my hand on the hole in Aviv’s stomach, and I kept saying to him “you’re ok, it’s ok, you’re going to be ok, it’s ok, you’re ok, don’t worry man, in a few days we’ll hit Dizengoff and meet some hot chicks, don’t worry man, you’re going to be ok, I’ll even let you take home the prettiest one, don’t worry, just stay with me, you’re ok,” and Aviv tried to laugh, but there was this sound, you know? The worst sound, like a clogged toilet, that kind of sound. And blood came out of his mouth, and it just soaked out of everywhere, and then his eyes turned to glass and he was staring at me, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. Just glass. It was like the movies, except they don’t tell you that you piss yourself when you watch your friend die.’
He stopped talking.
‘I’m sorry you went through that,’ I said .
He shook himself, as though he was startled that I was still there, and with a shudder, he returned to his body.
He looked at me in the rearview mirror.
‘It’s fucked up. The whole situation is fucked up. Weed and music keep me sane.’
Most Israelis have served in the army – it’s part of the cost of living here. And many of those who’ve served have seen the horrors of war firsthand, have nightmares, and struggle to function. Like the man driving the taxi right now.
And it’s something we all try not to think about, but we think about – it’s always there.
Even my kids think about it. My middle son was only a little kid then, but he had already told me he’s afraid to be a soldier.
‘Mom, I don’t want to die, Mom,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to kill anyone either.’
I wished then – and now – I could tell him that he will never have to feel the mighty weight of a gun in his hand, and smell dirt and sweat and fear and blood and measure his life against someone else’s. I wish I could tell him that he will never have to stand there terrified and soak himself in sweat and urine, or – the worst – his own blood – or the blood of his best friend and hold his hands over his guts to keep them from leaking out, or even the blood of the person he had to kill because it was his life or their life.
I felt fear and despair rise in my throat just thinking about it.
The driver turned up the music and I shook myself, closed my eyes, said a quiet prayer for my son and the driver and all of Israel’s children, and let myself escape with him for the rest of the ride. From that moment on, Infected Mushroom has been a portal for me into a gentler, more serene universe where I can go to try to reconnect to the cosmos.
I never saw the driver again – he disappeared into the wind in one direction, me in the other. But I think of him, still and wonder how he’s doing.
Especially these days as war rages on.
And after so many people in the psytrance community were raped, kidnapped, tortured and murdered on October 7 at the NOVA music festival, I turned on Infected Mushroom in his honour, took a very deep breath, and said another quiet prayer for him that he had been spared — and that all of us here in Israel will be, too.
YAEL DEKELBAUM – Prayer of the Mothers
In May 2022, I gave birth in Jerusalem to a baby boy.
He was struggling to latch, and awash in a flood of hormones and debilitating exhaustion, the two of us spent a long two hours sobbing together in the nursing room at Hadassah hospital.
There was another mother in the room – a Palestinian woman from East Jerusalem… she wore a purple hijab, and her bloodshot, hooded eyes were somehow rimmed with perfectly applied kohl.
I sat there weeping while my newborn baby boy shrieked at my breast.
The other mother tried to help me. ‘Lift him on a pillow… express a little on her lip… Let him smell it, let him taste it.’
Finally, my baby latched on one side.
‘Maybe I should express the rest of the milk on the other side,’ I said. ‘I can save it in a syringe.’
(These were early days when there was only colostrum.)
‘Here, you keep nursing and I’ll do it for you,’ the other mother said to me. ‘Is that ok?’
I shrugged. Sure. It seemed like the only reasonable thing to do at 3 am on my baby’s first day of life. I nursed my son on the left breast, and the other mother milked me on the right.
And it made me think of the song ‘Prayer of the Mothers’ written by Yael Dekelbaum in honour of the holy work of the women of Women Wage Peace.
A whisper of ocean wind
Is blowing from far away
And laundry is flapping
To the shadow of the wall
Between the sky and the land
There are people who want to live in peace
Don’t give up, keep dreaming
Of peace and prosperity
When will the walls of fear melt
When will I return from exile
And my gates will open
To what is truly good
Women Wage Peace is a grassroots movement in Israel that advocates for a peaceful resolution to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. It was founded in 2014 in the aftermath of the Gaza War, and it brings together women from diverse backgrounds and political affiliations. Women Wage Peace emphasises the importance of women’s voices in the peace process and aims to create a sustainable peace that ensures security and equality for all people in the region.
The founder, my friend Vivian Silver, was murdered on October 7. And still, the sacred work of Women Wage Peace continues — they won’t stop until there’s an agreement between our communities, and a just and safe and abiding peace for all.
Once, we lived in a village and we took care of each other. When one mother couldn’t nurse, another mother nursed her baby. Our children were like her children and her children were like our children. This is still in our nature. I have to believe this.
EHUD MANOR – Ain Li Eretz Aheret (But the Gali Atari version from the memorial CD in honour of Prime Minister Rabin)
AND
HATIKVA 6 – Hachi Yisraeli
‘What are you picking for your last song?’ My son asks. ‘You need a good one.’
‘I was thinking of Ein Li Eretz Aheret,’ I answer. And I sing the first few lines.
I have no other country אין לי ארץ אחרת
Even if my land is on fire גם אם אדמתי בוערת
‘Ok, first of all, Mom? Please don’t sing. And second of all, you DO have another country – you can go back to LA anytime. You have two passports.’
‘Yes, I do have two passports and I CAN leave Israel anytime, sure – but I also can’t, because I won’t. I’ve CHOSEN Israel and she’s chosen me and we choose each other every day,’ I reply, ‘and there is nowhere else I want to be.’ I tell him.
Ein Li Eretz Aheret captures that feeling — it holds a deep and powerful truth: there is only one Jewish homeland, shared by us all. We cannot stay silent, detached, or indifferent. We owe a debt to those who came before — whose struggles and legacies have gifted us the Jewish world, which includes the miracle of the modern State of Israel. And we owe it to the future, too — to fight for this place during times of internal political strife, and during times of war, when our very existence is on the line.
‘Ok, ok, I get it,’ my son says. ‘I get it. This is home even with your other passport . Fiiiine, but you know there’s a song called Hachi Yisraeli that’s a lot more fun that you might want to use instead. And they even have the line ‘Ein li eretz aheret’ in it which should make you happy.’
He doesn’t roll his eyes but I can tell he wants to.
He isn’t wrong though: the song is quintessential modern Israel — a little cheeky, but with nuance…
India South America is the most Israeli
Outsider kids in the kibbutz is the most Israeli
Pogs, pennies, slurpies, and the Financial Night News
“I speak but” not enough is the most Israeli
Sing!
Shekel shnekel, oy kapara, Arik Einstein the great
Forward forward, forward Hitech- the police is 1-0-0
Checkers checkers, racket racket
We love you Shimon Peres!
A new evening, cold watermelon
That way and no other!
Paratrooper team building arak deer
We have no other land!
Red Sea Dead Sea Mediterranean Sea Sea of Galilee
Sunday nights on Saturday that keeps on coming back
A traffic jam on holidays with a Kaveret album
Another World Cup but without the Israeli team
From Halfon Hill to a lemon popsicle
Who is bothering Miko?
Give hummus french-fries salad and radish
But with a Cola zero or diet
And don’t forget the clapping when the plane lands
And if the line is long please skip
Right they promised that when we were big there would be no army?
Everybody stands up to sing the national anthem
Turkish coffee Belgian waffles is the most Israeli
Also: A French kiss and a Greek dance
A Swedish key and Scottish whiskey a Spanish burger
And Nachman MeUman is the most Israeli-collect call!
It will be okay-I’m unpacking merchandise
It will be okay-if there is no choice use waze
It will be okay-Obama will help
It will be okay-and G-d will watch over us
It will be okay-we’ll try
It will be okay-there is the Iron Dome
It will be okay-the whole song is original
It will be okay-only the tune isn’t It will be okay
(In other words, it’ll be ok — it’s all going to hell in a hand basket — it’ll be ok! — and we are here for the ride and loving every second of it. It’ll be ok.)
It’s a total insider’s joke of a song — a musical wink and a nod — and I know I would have loved it years ago when I was just a little older than my son and falling in love with Israel for the first time , and I ALSO know I wouldn’t have understood it for what it really means even with an English translation written out word for word.
But I understand it – mostly – now, and this delights me. And when I find a part that I need explained, I can ask my kids.
I smile.
‘What?’ My son asks. ‘I’m just happy,’ I say. ‘Yeah things are tough here right now, but at least we get to be HERE.’
‘Yihey beseder,’ he smiles back. ‘We are totally doomed, but it’ll be ok. At least we are home.’
