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There is a sense of calm, a deep quiet in the soul, that befalls me when I come face-to-face with an Israeli soldier In that moment, I have to accept what is, who I am A simple truth washes over me We lost, they won He is the descendant of victors, I am a son of defeat   Somewhere on him will be an emblem of the state Israel A word I can pick up in the din of the busiest London cafe, on a street, in a club If it has been said within earshot, I will hear it If Hebrew is spoken in my vicinity, the same happens My ears perk up and my attention is summoned   Thinking of Israel, I often remember a line by William Faulkner: ‘There is a victory beyond defeat, which the victorious know nothing of’ When I first read it, in London, it was a revelation It lifted me, gave me pride and hope, and inspired in me a stoic resolve   Here, in Jerusalem, it leaves me unmoved It inspires nothing but want I want to be the victor I want to be the flash, the gleam, the passing star That fleeting victory Faulkner speaks of disparagingly — I want it I am not interested in the self-reflection of defeat; the long, long road to recovery It is like bitterness in old age, nothing but a constant gnawing at my core   And so, I fantasise Especially in Jerusalem, I often find myself fantasising Crude, over-the-top, Warner Brothers–style fantasy I want to be the Hulk, Superman, Silver Surfer, Wonder Woman I want to be Gal Gadot I want to grab a tank by the barrel and swing it around, destroying every settler outpost in the land I want to wreak havoc and bring forth great fires and spectacular violence I fantasise and it feels good A momentary pleasure, with a steep price   I try to articulate the despair that follows, and I fail My brain shuttles between Arabic and English, never staying at one end long enough to form a convincing thought, all the while knowing that the man