Poolside genocide.

Yesterday I went to the mountains, a town called Banya, known for its mineral waters. I sat by the pool, glorying in the majestic view.

There were two late middle-aged couples there, cheerfully chatting and frolicking in the water, sipping their drinks from plastic cups. One of the men sat down at the table next to mine.

“Where are you from?” I asked. I’m curious when foreigners end up in Bulgaria, especially an obscure mountain town.

“Israel,” he said, smiling politely.

“Ah, Tel Aviv?”

“Yes about 40 miles away.”

He asked me where I was from, and I said I live in New York but am here working on a book.

“About what?” he asked, genuinely curious. I explained that it’s a Cold War history chronicling my grandfathers’ escape attempts—four illegal border crossings—that draws parallels to today’s Mideast refugees. He shot me a look. “Good luck,” he said with a smirk and turned around.

AskhimaboutGazaaskhimaboutGaza.

I texted my friends back in New York. “I want to say something. But they’re on vacation. But also … genocide?” I decided to use my most girly and polite voice so it wouldn’t come across as antagonistic. And I didn’t want to start a fight, I wanted to have a conversation with a real person, not a bitter Twitter clash. “I’m sorry to bother you but I’m just curious, what do you think about Gaza?”

I assumed he’d tell me he didn’t want to talk about politics on vacation, but boy, did he want to talk. I’m sorry I don’t remember exactly what he said word-for-word at first (crack reporter here) but it was very pro-genocide and so extreme my next question was, “But what about all the dead children?”

“I don’t care about the dead children,” he said without skipping a beat. When he saw my face he slightly course-corrected. “It’s sad but it’s their parents’ fault.”

“But their parents aren’t all in Hama…”

“What about our children! I was there! Eight babies baked alive in ovens! Our women raped! ” he shouted. I asked him if he was in Zaka, the first responders known for fabricating atrocity reports, and he said no, but reiterated that he had seen with his own eyes the babies cooked in ovens. I was like, “That’s been completely debunked.” (As far as I know no one officially even claims this anymore).

“No it hasn’t! You’re brainwashed.”

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Eventually we turned to the perfidies of Islam. “In any Muslim country in the world they would throw you off a roof for dressing like that!” I was wearing a long Maxi dress. The Syrian guys I talk to mostly innocently flirt without trying to throw me off a roof but who knows?

“Gays too! Hamas throws them off roofs.” I point out the video he’s referring to is ISIS in Iraq. Anyway. That was the gist. I think we ended on me being a spoiled Westerner and that I should be grateful to Israel for protecting me from Islamism.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I watched his wife and their friends laugh and soak in the warm mineral pool and thought about a recent Israeli directive prohibiting Gazans from going to the seashore. The language makes it fairly clear they’d get shot. It could have been a scene in “A Quiet Place” the brilliant film depicting the daily, luxurious lives of the families of Nazi officials right next to the death camps.

“OK. We disagree.” We did agree that we would not change each other’s minds. Common ground.

“But two questions for you. One, young people in the West are drastically shifting. In a decade or even earlier they will hold prominent positions in politics and media and this have been a defining event for so many of them.”

Shrug.

“By then we’d have won.”