Jewish-Palestinian Pillow Talk

We were barely five minutes past orgasm when the conversation suddenly turned to genocide. It was late on a weeknight this past August—the tail end of what New York Magazine recently described as “the sluttiest summer ever”—and “Amir” and I were busy doing our part.   

We’d met, as so many gay men do, on a hook-up app and found that we possessed both mutual attraction and a lot to talk about. He was sexy and sophisticated, worldly and well-spoken—age-appropriate and properly employed. 

He was also from Palestine, which I learned after initially saluting him with shalom—mistakenly assuming he was an Israeli-Jewish “Amir” rather than the Muslim-Arab equivalent. But no matter. Amir graciously corrected me and invited me to visit; how could I say no? And so I said yes.  

But suddenly I worried I should have declined. The “genocide” Amir referred to was, of course, in Gaza—committed, he believed, by my people against his own. But I see things differently; Israel’s two years of war with Hamas have certainly been brutal, but not genocidal—neither manifestly or legally. I agree with what Donald Trump declared last month—that the “real” genocide was committed by Palestinians against Jews on 7 October 2023, not in the course of the military response that followed.

Encouraged by my talk of fatherhood, Amir explained that many of his childless Palestinian friends—both straight and gay, in New York and across the globe—are talking about forming families to replenish their nation decimated by that “genocide.”  

“We’re all seriously considering having kids,” he explained. “We feel like it’s almost an obligation.” 

Such sentiments were hardly novel—or illogical. Amir’s emotions reminded me of the generations of Jews and Israelis who felt compelled to procreate after so many were lost during the Holocaust. (Eight decades on, Israel has the highest birth rate in the OECD.)

Still in a state of carnal euphoria and hoping for a second round, I let the genocide comments slide—until I couldn’t. Unfailingly sweet and sincere, Amir wasn’t trying to be confrontational. He was just dreaming of being a dad. And as the dad of twin sons, I could hardly blame him.

But his motivations were certainly a problem—at least the way he’d framed them.  And so after some half-dozen “genocide” references, I let Amir know that unlike our bodies, our politics could not be less aligned. “There is no genocide in Gaza,” I declared resolutely. “And there is very little you can say that is likely to change my mind.” 

I’ve always made for an unlikely Zionist. My father is black and Baptist, my mother white and Ashkenazi—and so I am brown in a nation, America, where most of us Jews are considered Caucasian. I’m okay with this; it’s always been that way—except in Israel, where I’m usually not the darkest Jew in the room. 

But because I’m not white, Amir likely assumed I was gentile—not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I’m not. I take my Jewishness very seriously. Which can hurt, sometimes badly. Only last week, my son deadpanned while walking down the street one Friday evening: “Daddy, why do you say Shabbat shalom to so many people… but not a lot of people say it back to you?” 

“Who knows,” I deflected in return. But I knew; as a good friend once said to me, “you look like a brother—but you sound like Woody Allen. People are easily confused.”  

What I did know was that Amir wanted to talk—and I wanted to hear him, even if I’d warned him (truthfully) that our views would always be different. I rarely encounter Palestinians in New York, let alone wind up in their beds—post-coital and politically charged. Despite my mildly exotic visage, I’m basically a middle-aged divorced dad making the most of my kid-free downtime—not the multi-culti #queerforpalestine many might assume. True, I’ve spent lots of time around Israeli Arabs in Israel, but very little in the United States. 

And so Amir and I went at it, assailing each other with facts and figures—data points and death tolls. But the goal wasn’t to prove the other wrong—a fool’s errand, as had already been established—but rather to demonstrate that we actually knew what the hell we were talking about. 

And so the conversation went on for an hour. Amir was the only member of his family in the United States, which lent an undeniable authority to his views on, well, everything: Israel, the West Bank, Zionism, Hamas, the media, global governments, NGOs—and Britain’s messy experiments with Levantine colonialism. 

Amir clearly did know what he was talking about. But so do I, having lived for years in Tel Aviv (where I picked up fairly fluent Hebrew) and reporting stories from Israel, the Palestinian Territories, and the entire Middle East. Horrified by the demonisation of Israel in the aftermath of 7 October—and by the tidal wave of antisemitism that went with it—I’ve unexpectedly become something of a pro-Israel activist. And I’ve paid a price for it, both personally and professionally (just ask my last boyfriend).

What I found surprising about my time with Amir was how civil, cordial, and truly kind we were to each other. So much so that I stopped him mid-chat and said simply, “Forgive the sudden pivot, but I just want to say how proud I am for the way we’re speaking to each other. This is probably the most sensitive, politically charged conversation imaginable right now.” Not once had we insulted each other, impugned one another’s motives, or even raised our voices.”    

This was an actual dialogue, discourse—listening. And not the listening of the echo-chamber, yes-bubble, trigger-warning type. But risky, vulnerable, soul-baring, literally naked to the world—and each other—kind of listening.  

This is a rarity. There are the ubiquitous watermelon emojis on many a gay’s app profile, making their pro-Palestinian positions clear. Zionists, like me, know to keep swiping. But not everyone uses them. An Israeli-American friend of mine, also gay, has seen a few casual hook-ups end abruptly when talk turns to Gaza and “genocide.” He quickly sends such dates packing. Amir and I, however, couldn’t stop talking. 

Amir was neither sentimental nor naive, freely criticising Hamas for its recklessness and tyranny, even as his central critique remained squarely focused on Israel. Eventually, we both began to doze off, exhausted from the late hour—but also from a global news cycle that refused to allow us respite from brutality. 

Still, if he and I could retain our humanity amid such circumstances, I’m sure others can, too. Amir and I were just two horny guys looking to connect—hardly exceptional, despite the exceptional moments we had shared that evening.  

Amir didn’t blame me for the genocide he believed was erasing his people. But he properly understood that I was more an adversary than ally. We could talk, touch, laugh, listen—but for each of us, the “genocide” would always feel our own. As we reach the second anniversary of the 7 October massacre and Israel’s war with Hamas, what Amir wanted most was for his people to stop dying. 

I completely understood him—because I do, too. 

Our hook-up ended like so many others, him confirming he had a good time—me suggesting we do it again. Of course, we both knew the latter was unlikely, no matter how true the former. We both knew the next get-together might not be so civil. 

Still, we had established that civility and respect can prevail, even amidst duelling accusations of genocide. In a city filled with loneliness and isolation, Amir and I had experienced not one but two forms of intimate connection.