A childhood shaped by Gaza
That day — somewhere in the early 1970s — remains the most profound and painful memory of my childhood
Every Israeli has a tragic story about Gaza—just as, no doubt, every Gazan has a tragic story about Israel. This is mine.
It is the tragic story of the Aroyo family, a beautiful young couple who had migrated to Israel from London in 1969. Bob became one of the top advertising creatives in the country. He and his wife Preeti (who was indeed very, very pretty) had two gorgeous children—Mark, 7, and Abigail, 4—charming little kids in Mary Janes and impeccable English accents.
Bob had Maltese heritage, Preeti was of Indian descent, and at the age of 11, I thought she must have been an Indian princess. To me, they seemed like the perfect family.
There weren’t many English-speaking families in the absorption centre in Lod, near Ben-Gurion Airport, where we were first placed. It was a world away from the eastern suburbs of Sydney. My three siblings (aged 9, 9, and 13), my parents, and I soon became close friends with the Aroyos. When both families moved to newly built apartments in Kiryat Ono, our friendship only deepened.
Like many new immigrants, weekends were for exploring our new homeland. Israel was still a very young country—barely 20 years old and, in many ways, a backwater. There wasn’t even television back then.
comments