First Person an Empty Book Fair and a Full Mall: Signs of a Superficial Israeli Public

To celebrate Hebrew ulpan graduation in 1979, our teacher took our class of immigrants across Israel in a convoy of old VW Beetles and secondhand Sussitas, an often-ridiculed Israeli car.

Our festive destination: the ninth Jerusalem International Book Fair. There we found ourselves engulfed in throngs of visitors perusing a sea of words. It was our ever enthusiastic teacher’s aim to encourage us that one day we too would be flipping through Hebrew books with pleasure. It was hard to keep track of one another among the surging crowds.

Two years ago, again attending the book fair, I barely managed to find a seat in the overflowing auditorium where author Susan Sontag accepted the Jerusalem Prize and sparred with Mayor Ehud Olmert about politics and literature.

On one recent morning, I arrived at this year’s book fair. I drove my car straight into the underground parking, expecting to have to circle for a free space. When I encountered only half a dozen vehicles in the giant lot, I congratulated myself for arriving early.

But I was stunned after entering the fair. As in past years, the halls were lined with the riches of the publishing world: best sellers and classics, children’s books and religious literature, art books and novels. But where were the crowds? The trickle of visitors seemed hardly to outnumber the exhibitors, who gamely sat with fixed smiles hoping for a miracle that didn’t occur.

Fair organizers admitted that fewer publishers attended this year — down from 750 last time to 543 — yet there was an impressive array of international stands, including countries like Austria, Romania and China, as well as heavies like England, Germany, and the United States. And the rooms positively bulged with Hebrew volumes, from picture books and magazines to academic treatises. It wasn’t books that were lacking, it was readers.

At a panel discussion featuring international and local literary luminaries — among them David Grossman, Meir Shalev, Edgar Keret and Michal Gouvrin — the seats were only half-filled.

Visitors were swallowed up by the voluminous spaces of the Hall of the Nation, which the nation preferred to ignore. I stayed until evening, watching out for the crowds which never came. Despite excellent organization and a staff happy to help welcome and direct, the 21st Book Fair was an anemic shadow of its former self.

A host of unfortunate coincidences undoubtedly contributed. The fair was held on the heels of Hebrew Book Week. Many around the country hesitate nowadays before coming to Jerusalem. Internet book sites are ever more popular choices for orders. In a depressed economy, buying books may be a dispensable luxury.

Yet I cannot help but suspect that isn’t all. Notwithstanding popular wisdom that the Israeli public is a reading public, I hardly see evidence of this around me. Riding the train, going to the beach, sitting at a municipal pool, it is unusual to see somebody immersed in a book. And if I do spot one, more likely than not the words are in Cyrillic.

Perhaps the poor reading test results recently reported among elementary school pupils are already having their effect upon the reading public. Contrary to the impression given by literary supplements in newspapers, as a mass pastime, reading is on the back burner. On the same day I attended the Jerusalem Book Fair, I also stopped by the Harel Mall on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Even in mid-morning, it was a lucky feat to find a parking space. While the mall was a beehive humming with life and commerce, not even free admission to the book fair could attract today’s Israelis to a celebration of the printed word.

I left the 21st Jerusalem International Book Fair with a book under my arm, but with a heavy heart. Are the passions of the People of the Book now reserved for bread and circuses?

Helen Schary Motro, an American attorney and writer living in Israel, teaches at the Tel Aviv University Law School. E-Mail: motrom@post.tau.ac.il.