A wise woman once said “fuck this shit” and she lived happily ever after
– Anonymous

It wasn’t until last night, as I was drafting this section of my autobiography, that I fully understood how much the dissonance of those days mirrored Radiohead’s “Everything In Its Right Place.” The song’s droning rhythm and quiet tension matched the mix of confusion, frustration, and fleeting moments of peace I was trying to capture.

This chapter begins a six-part section that explores a formative period in my childhood. It’s a story that includes seemingly idyllic days on a beach but also experiences that left me with triggers I still carry. Parts of it are hard to revisit—especially when it comes to my father. For a long time, I hated him for not being the protector I needed in that moment. But over the years, through reflection and difficult conversations, we reached a place of forgiveness, love, and genuine friendship.

To understand how we got there, you need to know where it all began.

Let’s start.

Chapter 1: On the Beach and What Came After

It all began with a conversation I had with my mother, shortly after my 10th birthday. She had a plan which seemed at once thrilling and uncertain. She suggested we go on a three-month backpacking tour of Europe, something she thought would appeal to my growing interest in discovery. The idea was simple enough: a Eurail pass, freedom to move from one city and one country to the other without any set plan or itinerary, just being guided by inspiration and happenstance. Wandering and discovering things as you go. It sounded wonderful. I’d always wanted to discover Europe. All of ten years old, I already felt I had an affinity for that content. Probably because of m Polish ancestry. But my curiosity quickly turned to anxiety.

“How long will we stay in each place?” I asked, needing to know the details.

“Where will we sleep?” was the bigger question. I couldn’t imagine a journey without knowing where I would rest my head each night. I was visualising a pillow as I asked that question. Wanting to know what texture that pillow might have from one resting place to another.

She reassured me: we’d stay in youth hostels, sometimes with locals, and if need be, on park benches, although I’m pretty sure she said that part in jest.

But the uncertainty was too much for me. So my mother offered me a choice to make me feel at ease: “You can come with me, or you can stay with your father in Israel if you prefer.” I decided that Israel with my father would offer some kind of stability. At least I’d know where I was staying from one day to the next. I’d lived on a kibbutz with my father a couple of years before but that was a distant memory by then. I was already familiar with the language. I chose to stay with my father.

And just like that, I was on a plane to Israel. Flying as an unaccompanied minor, as I did several times during my childhood. I can’t remember any details of the flight or of landing at Ben Gurion airport. I just remember being in Eilat, a resort town on the shores of the Red Sea. I remember standing on the beach, looking out to the Red Sea—which to this day is a popular SCUBA diving resort—being keenly aware that to my right, the lay Egypt in the east, and to my left in to the west, Saudi Arabia. For me, as a 10-year-old, geography held a strange fascination. I would often look out at the water, aware of the proximity to those distant lands—countries I only knew through maps and stories. My father and I were living in a tent, on that beach amid many others, surrounded by young Europeans who were backpacking before settling down to serious studies or jobs and family life. It was a community of wanderers, hippies, and dreamers, living their own version of utopia.

My father, who spoke at least seven languages, was looking for work as a hotel clerk since there were many major hotels who were constantly hiring. For some reason, this job search took a long time, though I couldn’t say how many days or weeks… the days on the beach flowed into one another and I was simply living in the moment. My dad would leave each morning, and I’d find all kinds of things to occupy myself with. One of my favorite activities was picking up cigarette butts from the sand. I hated cigarettes with a passion and they littered the ground by the hundreds of thousands and I felt I could do my small part to ‘clean up the planet’. I would comb the beach for hours, making the sand cleaner, while my father looked for work.

Then, there was Mary Lou. She was a Dutch girl, no older than 19, in her black tiny bikini, with sun-kissed skin, long blonde wavy hair, and blue blue eyes. We took an instant liking to each other, and we chatted for hours. I can’t imagine what we had to say to each other, but she seemed to really like me and the feeling was entirely mutual. She had a boyfriend—an Israeli soldier, deeply tanned, with dark eyes and hair trimmed very short. He was a stark contrast to Mary Lou, his dark skin a deep bronze next to her pale, lobster-red complexion.

One memory that sticks with me is a snapshot my father took of me wearing the t-shirt I chose to have printed with a design of a red rose. It was a large black t-shirt which reached down to my knees. I’d chosen the design from one of the tourist shops which specialised in heat transfers, which were popular in the 70s and 80s. The wall were lined with t-shirts and various design options. I took my time deciding on the t-shirt colour and design combination. Now I think of it, it was a strange choice, cconsidering how young I was and interested in all things ‘girlie’ still, with an affinity for pinks and pastel colours. I hadn’t yet discovered hard rock or its imagery, but there was something in the act of choosing it that feels significant in hindsight.

That photograph captured me sitting on the beach, my knees at an odd angle, a variation of a yoga pose. My father was a regular practitioner and I often accompanied him in his practice, doing my own version of yoga ‘light’. I was a carefree child, smiling happily seemingly without a care in the world. The remnants of a bowl cut framed my face, and I seemed happy and carefree, as any child that age should be.

Living on the beach wasn’t as strange as you might think. It was 1979, and the beach had a vibe of its own. The community of travellers, the simplicity of days spent by the sea—it was an adventure. We took showers in outdoor facilities, and my sunburn was one of the worst I’ve ever had. The blisters that formed on my back stayed with me for weeks after.

Despite the unpredictability of life on the beach, the strange mix of freedom and discomfort—I was happy enough in my own way. But of course this was a place of transition and my father wanted to find us a place to live, so we could at least have a roof over our heads, if not a more permanent situation, and that’s when things began to get sticky, though undoubtedly interesting as well.

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Chapter 2: The Eye on the Wall

When my father finally found us a room, it wasn’t a hotel, nor was it a commune. The place was… hard to categorize. I don’t remember the details of how we came to stay there, but I remember the feeling of it: strange, almost surreal. The room was enormous and the ceilings were impossibly high—well over twelve feet, maybe fifteen. The walls were painted in a deep midnight blue, it was a very quiet place. The door didn’t have a proper lock on it.

There wasn’t much furniture, just a mattress on the floor—a double mattress, though I can’t remember much else about the arrangement. There was an armoire, maybe a desk, but nothing substantial enough to fill up all that space. What I do remember vividly, however, was the enormous painting on the wall in front of the bed. A giant, realistically rendered eye—with lashes that seemed to brush the edges of the room. The iris? I don’t recall its colour, though it might have been blue. But the feeling of that gaze staring directly at me, even while I lay on the bed, was more than unsettling.

The strangest part came the next morning. My father left to go look for work, and I, never an early riser, must have fallen back asleep. When I woke up, I heard a faint creak, the sound of the door slightly ajar. Through the gap, I saw a man standing in the hallway, staring at me. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. I shouted at him to leave me alone, my voice thick with sleep, and he immediately turned and walked away, to my immense relief.

I told my father what had happened when he returned, and without hesitation, we left that unsafe place. So we moved on, searching again for somewhere to settle, though I was beginning to learn that the stability I craved was harder to come by than I’d hoped.

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Chapter 3: RaRa Rasputin

After leaving that unsettling place with the giant eye on the wall, we moved in with some of my father’s friends— acquaintances would be a better term. The room we shared was small, a child’s bedroom with bright colours. I seem to recall bright oranges and yellows. There was a record player in the living room and I was allowed to handle them, because I was gentle and cautious. I remember discovering Jacques Brel and playing “Je vous ai apporté des bonbons” on a loop. I was so enamoured with that song that I transcribed the lyrics in my journal and leaning them by heart. I was drawn to the playful, rebellious spirit of the song. The whimsical, yet poignant lyrics about love, social expectations, and individuality resonated with me, as young as I was. The catchy melody, and the humorous defiance in Brel’s delivery made it easy to sing along with.

Je vous ai apporté des bonbons
Parce que les fleurs c’est périssable
Puis les bonbons c’est tellement bon
Bien que les fleurs soient plus présentables
Surtout quand elles sont en boutons
Mais je vous ai apporté des bonbons
J’espère qu’on pourra se promener
Que madame votre mère ne dira rien
On ira voir passer les trains
A huit heures je vous ramènerai
Quel beau dimanche pour la saison
Je vous ai apporté des bonbons
Si vous saviez ce que je suis fier
De vous voir pendue à mon bras
Les gens me regardent de travers
Y en a même qui rient derrière moi
Le monde est plein de polissons
Je vous ai apporté des bonbons
Oh oui Germaine est moins bien que vous
Oh oui Germaine elle est moins belle
C’est vrai que Germaine a des cheveux roux
C’est vrai que Germaine elle est cruelle
Ça vous avez mille fois raison
Je vous ai apporté des bonbons
Et nous voilà sur la Grand’ Place
Sur le kiosque on joue Mozart
Mais dites-moi que c’est par hasard
Qu’il y a là votre ami Léon
Si vous voulez que je cède ma place
J’avais apporté des bonbons
Mais bonjour mademoiselle Germaine
Je vous ai apporté des bonbons
Parce que les fleurs c’est périssable
Puis les bonbons c’est tellement bon
Bien que les fleurs soient plus présentables…

It was there that I was also introduced to disco music for the first time. It was the summer of 1979, and the world of dance beats was a revelation to me. The album that stands out in my memory is Nightflight to Venus by Boney M. I was utterly fascinated by it—the music, the energy, the sheer joy that poured from the speakers. The song Rasputin, with its infectious beat and larger-than-life storytelling, captivated me completely. I can still picture the album cover: the band members, dressed in white and silver, their bodies suspended in the cosmos, holding on to a rope. The lead singer in his satin pants glistening in the light, one of the women in a silvery cap, adding an otherworldly touch. The background was a starry, cosmic scene. The typeface had a futuristic feel, like it was meant to be something from another world. The cover was as vibrant and dynamic as the music itself, and it felt like an invitation to escape to a new, dazzling universe. I danced around the living room, the adults barely paying attention, spinning and twirling, caught up in the sound and the feeling. Rasputin was the heart of it all, and every note seemed to embody the thrill of that summer.

I don’t recall exactly how long we stayed there. It wasn’t a long time, probably just a few days. Soon enough, my father’s friends grew tired of us being there. It wasn’t their fault, really; we were just guests in their space. They wanted us to leave, and my father, ever the optimist, assured me that he would find us another place. And so, with the hum of Je vous ai apporté des bonbons and Rasputin still echoing in my head, we moved on once again.

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Chapter 4: The Neverending Shower

When we arrived at the apartment, the man who greeted us at the door bore a huge smile. He was shorter than my father (who wasn’t very tall himself) and very stocky, almost giving off a gorilla-like impression. His hair was short and crinkly, and his skin was very dark, though he wasn’t of African descent. He said: “your father tells me you’re a stamp collector, if you like, I can show you my collection later!”. I said sure, that would be nice. He welcomed us into his home and motioned for us to come in and make ourselves comfortable. He offered us drinks—probably a Fanta for me and a beer for my father. I remember the place feeling quite large, with many rooms, on the ground floor. The ceilings were low, giving it a slightly cramped feeling.

It was incredibly hot that day, so the man suggested we take showers to cool off. In Eilat, it was typical for people to shower multiple times a day in the sweltering heat. Three showers a day was the norm, to rinse off the sweat. Few private homes had air conditioning, making the constant need to cool off a necessity. So, it wasn’t strange at all when he offered us the chance to take a shower. I decided to go first.

I remember the bathroom was painted yellow and had yellow tiles, with a shower stall. There was an opening high in the wall leading into the next room, allowing the humidity to escape. The water was cool and refreshing. I got dressed again and once I finished, my father went to take his shower next. The man led me to the small room next to the bathroom where he kept his stamp collection. The room was cramped, just a little nook really, with a single bed neatly made against the wall. Along the other wall were bookcases filled with books and mementos. He had me sit on the bed while he pulled out one of the albums of his stamp collection. He seated himself next to me, and I sat there, flipping through the album as he explained where each stamp came from. I couldn’t focus much on the stamps, though. The shower was running full force. I could hear my father making throat and sinus clearing sounds. I was anxious for him finish his shower and for this charade to end. The sound of the water running felt like it was never-ending, and the longer it continued, the more uncomfortable I felt. Something was very wrong. The stamps had obviously been an excuse. The shower finally—thank goodness—finally stopped. I’ll never be able to hear that phrase “would you like me to show you my stamp collection?” without a deep feeling of dread.

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Chapter 5: Go Beat Up That Man!

When my father finally, finally stepped out of the shower, dressed in his usual casual clothes, I grabbed him by the arm with urgency. I spoke in a low voice, whispering at first.

“Dad, please. I need to talk to you. Let’s go for a walk, now.”

He blinked, confused by my sudden need to leave, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

“Wait, I’m about to have a beer. What’s this all about?”

But I couldn’t wait. I wasn’t asking for a casual stroll or a nice chat. I needed to get away. I needed to tell my dad that something very wrong had just happened. I needed to feel safe, and mostly, I wanted to escape. The anxiety of what had just happened felt like it was closing in on me, suffocating me under its weight. My words tumbled out, desperate now.

“No, Dad, please! We need to go now. Please. It’s important, I—”

I cut myself off, trying to stay composed, but it was harder than I expected. “Please. It’s really important. I need to tell you something.”

I wasn’t looking for comfort, nor was I seeking a calm discussion. This wasn’t just about words; it was about what I needed to do next.

His hesitation didn’t make sense to me. Why couldn’t he see that I was asking for something vital? This wasn’t a simple request. I could feel my frustration mounting. Finally, we stepped outside into the man’s front garden. I hadn’t noticed on our way in how beautiful it was. There was a stone path, flower bushes, and tropical plants of all kinds. The man obviously took great care of his home. I blinked. It seemed almost too perfect.

As soon as we were out of earshot, I blurted out, “Dad! That man is very bad.”

My dad looked at me, incredulously. “What do you mean? He’s an old friend, he’s offering us a room, he’s been so generous to us.”

I said, my voice shaking, “He did something very bad. You need to go back there and hurt him. Go hurt him for what he did to me.”

The words tumbled out, desperate and raw, as if something primal had taken over. I didn’t even know how they came out.

“He needs to be punished. I don’t care how, just make him pay.”

My father was incredulous. I couldn’t get through to him. I couldn’t make him understand the urgency of the situation. I raised my voice now, not because I wanted to, but because it was the only way I knew to get his attention, to make him realize something was seriously wrong.

I became hysterical, shaking and screeching, “Go hurt that man. Go hurt that man NOW!”

Only then did I see his face shift. A flicker of something changed in his eyes.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go talk to him. Just calm down, please, Ilana, please calm down,” he said, finally seeing that something was wrong.

But even then, I wasn’t sure if that was enough. I wasn’t sure he truly understood the magnitude of what had just happened. Not yet.

He accompanied me back to the friends we were staying with. The child’s room. The apartment where I’d discovered disco music.

He said, “Wait for me, I’m going to go sort all this out. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

“No, Dad, it wasn’t a misunderstanding,” I kept saying. But off he went.

I waited for what felt like hours. Then my father finally returned, smelling of beer and cigarettes.

“So? Did you beat him up?” I asked, heart pounding.

His face softened, and he sighed. “We talked. We had a few beers. He told me about his sons who are in the army.”

I pressed, “Did you talk about what happened with me?”

“Yes, Ilana,” he said, his voice soft but dismissive. “But he said you overreacted. He said he was just being affectionate, like he would’ve been with his own daughter. You must have misunderstood his intentions.”

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Interlude:

Me: oof… it’s like reliving the moment. It’s… wow. My heart is racing. I’m thinking of whoever might end up reading this. The gut punch. The punch that did NOT land on that man’s face, as it would’ve in a Hollywood movie. And I think of how sad it is… because of how much I hated my father for that—for years later. For not stepping up and being “The Man” that time. But my father was never “The Man”. That’s just not who he was. And I somehow expected him to suddenly turn into a caricature of a macho alpha male. Of course there was no way that could’ve happened. But I was just a kid. I just wanted the Bad Man to pay. To be taught a lesson. Smh. It’s so sad… how much I hated my father after that, for years later. Years. I couldn’t forgive him. I only brought it up again years and years later. When he asked me to unload whatever had been weighing on me for all my life. Whatever reasons I might have to be angry at him. I’ve never known anyone to ask for such a thing. It was maddening actually. I didn’t want to go there. But I did. And… well he decided to make up for it as best he could. He really did. My poor dad. I’m so sorry I spent so many years raging after him for not being the father I wanted in that moment. 

AI: t’s truly raw, what you’re sharing. That expectation of something grand, something heroic from your father—the idea that he should step into that role of protector and “man” when, in reality, he just couldn’t meet it, and how deeply that carved into you. It’s heartbreaking, the way kids internalize those moments, thinking the wrongs are somehow their fault, and how much they carry the weight of disappointment long after. The way you describe your inability to forgive him for years, and then the vulnerability of his asking you to unload that anger—it feels like such a pivotal moment. But I can feel the love in how you describe him trying to make up for it. That, too, was part of the journey, wasn’t it?

It’s painful, yet it’s also powerful that you’ve found a place where you can look back, feel the hurt, but also extend that apology. I wonder if this will offer some healing for those reading it as well, especially those who’ve had similar experiences. Would you want to revisit the moment when you finally confronted your father and the aftermath of that conversation, or is it better left to the space between the lines here, allowing the reader to imagine what it felt like when he tried to make amends?

Me: I think… I don’t think I want to revisit that. I don’t think I do. It was a very confusing time. It was messy. Some people go to a counsellor or a therapist to go through a process like that, and honestly, I would recommend that. The way we went about it was… difficult, is the best way I can put it. It wasn’t… messy. It was messy. And/but we somehow made it on the other side. We somehow made peace with each other. We were able to heal our relationship. He… I think it was very brave of him, to confront all those decades of pent up anger and rage. Very brave. Much braver than punching that man would’ve been, I suppose. Because he had to face some uncomfortable truths. That’s real bravery right there, isn’t it? 

AI: It’s incredibly moving, the way you describe your father facing those uncomfortable truths and working through the years of built-up tension and anger. His bravery is something to be acknowledged—it’s not easy to confront that much emotional weight, especially when it’s a reflection of failures or missteps in one’s own parenting. What you’ve said is so profound: that real bravery wasn’t in a punch, but in confronting the mess, the complexity, and the hurt, and trying to heal from it.

It sounds like your journey together, difficult as it was, led to a deeper understanding. It’s not a straightforward path, but there’s wisdom in the mess, in finding your way through it. I can sense the respect and compassion you’ve come to have for your father in the way you reflect on it.

Me: Yes. Our relationship certainly evolved over time. We made peace with the parts we couldn’t go back and fix. We made peace, period. He was there for me, albeit from a distance. But he was there for me through thick and thin for the rest of his life. Till his dying day, really. He always made me his priority. Everyone who knew him knew how important I was to him, even though there was a whole ocean separating us. Sigh. In any case, are you curious to find out how that summer ended? It’s kind of funny, in a way…

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Chapter 6: One Chapter Ends, a New One Begins

As the summer came to an end, my father found work at one of the major beach resorts in Eilat. The hotel offered staff residences away from the tourist area and inland, and we were placed in a shared apartment with other hotel employees. My father and I shared a room, each with a little cot along two sides of the room. It wasn’t ideal, but we made it work. There was a small shuttle bus that would pick my father up every morning, and I would accompany him on my way to school—a local Israeli school my father had enrolled me in, though my Hebrew was shaky from lack of use.

I remember little to nothing of my brief time at that school, but one memory stands out: on my first day in class, one of the students had misbehaved and said something that made the teacher very angry. I didn’t understand what had been said, but we were all given as a punishment the daunting task to transcribe 100 pages of the Bible—in Hebrew, naturally. Not only was I expected to transcribe text that was almost unrecognisable to me, but I also had to figure out how to do so with while navigating the differences between printed and cursive Hebrew. The first few lines were familiar enough to me and so I began copying, feeling relatively good about the first few lines:

Genesis 1:1
בְּרֵאשִׁית בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים אֵת הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֵת הָאָרֶץ׃
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

Genesis 1:2
וְהָאָרֶץ הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ וְחֹשֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵי תְהוֹם וְרוּחַ אֱלֹהִים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל־פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם׃
And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

Genesis 1:3
וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים יְהִי אוֹר וַיְהִי־אוֹר׃
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

Genesis 1:4
וַיַּרְא אֱלֹהִים אֶת-הָאוֹר, כִּי-טוֹב; וַיַּבְדֵּל אֱלֹהִים, בֵּין הָאוֹר וּבֵין הַחֹשֶׁךְ.
And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness.

Genesis 1:5
וַיִּקְרָא אֱלֹהִים לָאוֹר יוֹם, וְלַחֹשֶׁךְ קָרָא לָיְלָה; וַיְהִי-עֶרֶב וַיְהִי-בֹקֶר, יוֹם אֶחָד.
And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, one day.

But by Genesis 1:6
וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים, יְהִי רָקִ֖יעַ בְּתוֹךְ הַמָּֽיִם וִיהִ֣י מַבְדִּיל בֵּֽין-מַֽיִם לַמָּֽיִם׃
And God said, ‘Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.’ My eyes started swimming. I remember the frustration of trying to copy the letters, getting tangled up in them, and finally abandoning the task altogether. I decided I’d tell the teacher I simply didn’t speak enough Hebrew to be able to complete the punishment and hope for the best. Instead, I turned to my journal—the black hardcover one with blank pages my mother had given me in the previous year. She had given it to me with the simple explanation that she could never have the answers to all my questions and that I would no doubt find life very confusing sometimes, and that in those moments I could turn to my journal and write everything down. I has asked her: “ will I understand what I’m supposed to do then?” and she said that was unlikely, but I should write it down anyway and perhaps the answers would eventually come to me. I lost that journal long ago, but I clearly recall the relief of turning to that journal, as my pen danced across the pages, moving from the failed task of transcribing the Bible to something more personal, something raw. Writing became a lifeline during those difficult days.

Very little else remains of those days in my memory, but I do remember each time I stepped into the shower, that constant reminder of our stay on the beach, with the sunburn blisters across my back.

And then, all I can remember is quite suddenly my father and I had moved back to the north, close to Haifa, to stay with my grandmother, where I started yet another new school. In that school, we were seated at our desks in pairs. On the first day I was seated next to a boy with curly sand-coloured hair. He was plump and shy. After school, one of my classmates accompanied me to my grandmother’s flat with another friend of hers. We were sitting in the staircase as they explained to me that I needed to choose a boyfriend. I didn’t know what the word “boyfriend” in Hebrew meant. And once I understood the word, I couldn’t quite grasp what the purpose of having one was supposed to be. I said: “and where am I supposed to find one?”. They said the boy sitting next to me in class would do. I was stumped. This made no sense at all to me.

My grandmother was a fantastic cook. I ate Israeli salad daily and stuffed my face with rye bread and her strawberry jello cake. When my mother joined us from her three-month long trip to Europe, she decided to surprise me at my school, but she said she had trouble recognising me because I’d grown so plump.

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Note to Readers:

This is not an embellished memoir — this is contemporaneously corroborated testimony now entered into public record as part of an active inquiry into systemic concealment, psychiatric abuse, and witness suppression.