Chapter 10: The Buddhist Oak, the Troubadour, the Turtles, and Divine Revelation
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I'm a little tired.
I decided that Tinder was a fire zone. I deleted, blocked, declared abstinence. I told Dekla: "That's it. From now on, only coffee shops and artificial intelligence. This jungle is not for me."
But Mark Zuckerberg had other plans. The Facebook algorithm, that tireless digital pimp, popped me a "friendship offer." Handsome Alon. A friend of a friend's friend. Interesting face, gray hair, bright blue eyes, a melancholy look. I wrote to him:
Buddhist. Remember that word. Later we will discover that his interpretation of "Buddhism" mainly involves clinging to armor, eating emotional lettuce, and nirvanic disappearance when someone dares to make a sound.
The Troubadour, the Turtles, and Divine Revelation (Through a Snake)
Alon is a character. Think of him as a combination of Shmulik Kraus (in the Ali Express version), a philosopher truck driver, and an obsessive turtle breeder. He lives in a settlement in the territories (the Light settlement, but who's counting when you're in love), rides a motorcycle, and works as an errand boy all over the country. He's the troubadour who writes sad and beautiful songs. But the soul? The soul is that of a modern prophet of wrath.
But wait, this isn't just any "poet." In retrospect, it turned out that I had stumbled upon an amateur theologian with a questionable medical history. It turns out that in 2019, the man who sits with me for coffee and talks about Buddhism published "The Book of...". No less. According to Alon's teaching, the religious establishment is a bunch of robots that didn't understand anything. He, the secular emissary from (former) Holon, cracked the code:
Abraham our father? He did not invent monotheism.
Lot the Tzadik? Was he even an alcoholic?
And the real kicker: Cain and Abel had children with "primordial women" in an enclave that didn't freeze during the Ice Age. Yes, you heard that right. Game of Thrones meets Genesis.
Where did these startling insights come from? From divine revelation, of course.
Alon is a magnet for trouble. Once a Palestinian attacked him with a knife, once he was injured in the reserves, but the climax was when a snake bit him. He went into a 24-hour coma. When he woke up, he didn't ask for a serum, he realized that there was a higher power watching over him and that he had to write the truth about the Big Bang and the Torah. The snake bit him, and the mind... how to say it? took a turn in the plot.
And the funniest? In his book, he claims that the flood happened because God was angry that people ate meat. This is the same Alon who took me to meat restaurants, ate steaks with me, and talked longingly about "carne asado." Hypocrisy? Not with us. With us, it's "flexible interpretation." Oh, and he also claims that the main message of the Torah is maintaining relationships and monogamy. "Each man will have only one wife," he preaches. I wonder how that fits in with the fact that he changes women like socks, lives separately, and has complicated relationships with exes, 4 divorcees, and potential partners at the same time.
"We flew for life" (for 48 hours)
The connection was immediate and dizzying. Alon was a warm campfire (or at least the whispering embers of a barbecue on Independence Day). He was available, he was simple, he was there. We met for lunch in Tel Aviv. He arrived on his motorcycle, wild and gnarled, and not just for nothing - he is
Chemistry? Wow. He stayed overnight. It was a night of adjustment. I wrote to Dekla in a crazy high:
Rabbit hole, African tortoises and armor
There were signs. Of course there were. Like every other man his age, Alon fell down the rabbit hole of the Internet. Aliens, numerology, anti-vaccination, anti-doctors.
The highlight: A Sukkah in the Desert (or: How to Throw 1,180 NIS in the Trash)
We were at our peak. We decided we needed peace. He asked for a secluded place. "Tiz El Nabi." I found "Sukkah Bamidbar" near Mitzpe Ramon. A place with no electricity, no reception, just the stars and us. I booked a place for Rosh Hashanah Eve. I paid in advance (of course). He was supposed to give me half back. As befits a modern couple who share everything! The excitement was at its peak. We planned a list of equipment: flashlight, towels, wine, swimsuit (for the desert? He insisted. Maybe he thought we would find the frozen enclave of paradise there). He slept over at my place on Saturday night. First morning was perfect. He went to work, and we were supposed to leave for the desert on Monday morning.
The Fall: "I Want My Peace"
Sunday evening. He called. He started digging. Maybe it was about the movie, maybe his absurd theories about the creation of the world from a mutation. I was tired. At some point, I made the critical mistake: I asked him to stop talking. I said something like, "Mommy, I don't have the energy to chat on the phone right now. Let's leave it for tomorrow, when we're face to face in the desert."
Silence. Then his voice changed. The prophet of wrath walked out.
I felt my stomach turn. I sent an apologetic message. I tried to make amends. At 8:59 PM, the last message from him arrived. The verdict of the man who survived a snakebite to teach us about relationships: "I'm in my own quiet, and I want to stay in my own quiet, so have a good night and we'll talk tomorrow."
The Morning After:
Monday morning. The day of the trip to the desert. The bag is packed. The car is fueled up (after he changed a tire for me! At least that's it). The B&B is paid for. 8:00 AM. Quiet. 9:00 AM. Silence. I called. Busy. I called again. Busy. I went on WhatsApp. His picture disappeared. The messages with one gray V. Blocked.
The man who wrote an entire book about how the Torah requires "trust within the family," erased me from his existence because I asked to cut short a phone call. No explanation. No goodbye. Just... poof. He went into his turtle shell, locked the door, and left me with the B&B bill.
Dikla, the fighting lioness, tried to intervene. She sent him a message from her phone. He called (there were two blue Vs!), and didn't respond. They called from "Sukkah in the Desert." They're not willing to give up the money. I was left with a hole in my heart, a hole in my pocket, and a suitcase packed for a trip that wouldn't happen.
The Disturbed Epilogue: The Song on Facebook and the Scream That Wasn't There
Did you think it was over? Wait. A few days later, when I had already started licking my wounds, Dikla sent me a screenshot. Our "Buddhist,"
Scream?! The man who hung up on me with freezing coldness? The man who barely raised his voice, but simply disappeared into his armor? Suddenly in his songs he is the tormented hero who is forced to "scream" to get a moment of rest from the digging woman. He turned things around 180 degrees! Me, who asked to be silent! Me, who begged that we talk face to face and not dig on the phone! He turned me into the noise monster, and he is the victim.
It was a moment of enlightenment. I realized that Alon is not a Buddhist, not a scientist, and not a prophet. He is a classic narcissist. A small, cowardly man living inside a movie he writes and directs for himself, in which he is always the victim or the hero, and the facts? They are just a recommendation. He needed drama to fuel his mediocre work, and if reality didn't provide drama - he simply invented it. Including the screams that weren't there.
The African tortoises? They are probably the only ones who can tolerate his violent "silences," his theories about ancient women, and his poetic lies.
Next.
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