A president under scrutiny
For the past two years, since his election to the presidency, Anat Rivlin has been photographing her father on her cell phone; as he picks up his granddaughters from preschool; as he lights Hanukkah candles; as he rests his eyes in the yard; nothing professional or official, simply moments, slices of life, snippets of intimacy.
I would eagerly await that breeze. We barely got to see each other even though we lived in the same house. He would disappear to his daily work, which to him, represented a calling. An hour would go by, then another, and another, until all hours of the day had just disappeared, dispersed… all the hours we could have spent together, never to return.
Still, without finding the time to tell him, he has this uncanny ability to know everything about me. During the rough times, he would show up, throw me a colorful lifeline, filled with humor, the kind that would give me a different perspective, that would enable me to see myself more clearly; like a beacon, he would show me the way I wasn’t even aware existed.
I find myself doing this, going into my girls' room at night, flipping their blanket in the air, letting it land softly, quietly to cover them back up. The gust of wind would blow wisps of hair out of their faces as the blanket wrapped itself around their bare feet. I would watch them as they cuddled into the blanket and think: how much compassion was there, when he would put down his briefcase and immediately run over to tuck his little girl in.
So that if this was to be their moment, just theirs, a moment she was destined to forever remember, then it truly was beautiful.
The time that passes has taught me that in my relationship with my parents there is deep and mutual compassion. And from my side of the matter, I try to return it with my encompassing gaze.
He is still the busy man he ever was, his time remains somewhat limited, but I gaze at him longer, I watch as he affectionately caresses toddlers’ hair (he told me once that the smell of babies’ hair reminded him of his father’s hair, whom he loved dearly), the way he scrunches his forehead when he is listening, and lays his hand under his chin with one of his fingers standing out over his mouth, smiling cunningly before responding, clamming up when he’s worried or when he has nothing clever to say.
And I photograph him. Sometimes even post to Instagram, assuming he’s dressed casually, which is no trivial matter indeed.
I hope anyone looking at the pictures thinks, "Yes, in the end, we’re all just people."
(Translated and edited by N. Elias)
