At the age of 50 (sorry, 50 minus three months), Tsahi Halevi is doing something he’s never done before. It might be absurd to assume that the man who’s spent his life, like a salmon, swimming against the stream, might surprise even himself.
This is the man who spent his childhood frequently changing global locations as part of his father’s work as a Mossad agent, sang without studying music, danced in Mayumana without training as a dancer and acted in a string of TV series and musicals, never having trained as an actor.
He married and had a child with a Muslim woman in a society whose national wound is far from healing. But yes, now, for the first time, he’s doing something brand new and he hasn’t gotten used to it yet. For the first time ever, Tsahi Halevi is donning eyeglasses.
“I’m having trouble with them,” he says with a smile. “I can’t believe this is where I’ve gotten to. I’m also having trouble not losing them. In reserve duty, I shoved them into my vest and there were times I put them on and they got all cracked and scratched up. It looks like I haven’t gotten it into my head that this is it. I’m now a spectacles man.”
Wearing eyeglasses, however, isn’t the only thing the aging Halevi is doing for the first time. He’s now starring in a musical (which doesn’t require any singing or dancing skills) at Habima, playing Uriel Skolnik in the stage production of Joseph Cedar’s highly acclaimed film, Footnote (He'arat Shulayim).
Skolnik (“I’ve no idea how I ended up being Skolnik, but okay”) is a Hebrew University Talmud scholar who wins the Israel Prize. Uriel’s father, however, who’s also a Talmud scholar, and who has fostered a professional rivalry with his own son, is mistakenly notified as the winner. This incident serves as a springboard to examine the complex father-son relationship. The father is played by Aryeh Cherner.
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'I’ve no idea how I ended up being Skolnik, but okay'; Footnote cast
(Photo: Hanan Asur)
“His father claims that, unlike himself, the son has turned populist - and there’s something to it,” says Halevi. “But what I feel is that, at the end of the day, every child wants their parents to see them. It’s not just about the duo’s professional aspects. Uriel is raised in a home where the father isn’t truly present as he’s fully engrossed in his research work and doesn’t notice his son. In the play, this leaves a void in the child that never goes away, and it affects Uriel’s relationship with his wife and daughter. There’s an interesting emotional complexity in play.”
Did you bring to the play anything from your own life? Your father also wasn’t always present.
“My father really was physically absent because of his job. He could disappear for three or four months - and this was before cellphones or any easy ways of calling home. I remember drawing him a picture of my 6th-grade graduation. I drew our seating order in the playground and he’s kept it to this day. I wasn’t raised feeling that his presence was lacking as he was there at the important moments, and when he was there, he was present. I think my mother bridged the gaps, always making him present even when he wasn’t physically there. I’m very emotional about everything regarding parent-child relationships. My strongest triggers are from my children.”
What do you find most challenging about being a parent?
“Parenthood isn’t easy. It always comes with the guilt of having done something wrong. I do my best to see my son whenever I can. Looking back, I see points where I realize I haven’t seen him enough, or that I’ve been too distracted. My greatest test is the discrepancies between what I want and what actually happens -because of life and the fact that we’re human.”
You have an interesting take on parenting as there’s a 17-year age gap between your two children.
“Yes, I sometimes find myself comparing the father I was with my elder son, Dean, to the father I am with Adam. It’s never sterile. I’m 17 years older and more experienced. The situation is different. Dean’s mother and I divorced when he was five months old and I was 28. On my days and weekends, it was just him and me, with no phones, etc. With Adam, because I’m there all the time, and there’s Lucy (Harish), I let my guard down and go for the phone and I have to remind myself to be just with him. I have a deep bond with my elder son and no less so with Adam, but with Adam, I’m also in a relationship, so it’s different.”
Can you look at Dean and understand you’ve done something right?
“I don’t really say to myself, ‘Here I did something right’. At the end of the day, only they can tell us that.”
Halevi is currently doing both TV and theater work and doesn’t even have the time to compare the two. He’s filming a new series of Atara Frish’s Dismissed (Hamefakedet) for the Israeli Public Broadcasting Corporation, playing a charismatic, hotheaded volleyball coach - i.e. definitely not a police officer, soldier or special forces operative (“Isn’t that funny?” he chuckles).
On stage, he’s a level-headed Talmud scholar. “At first, the crazy amount of lines stressed me out,” he says. “Anthony Hopkins says that the first thing he does, no matter what, is learn his lines. So, I took it upon myself to learn my lines as fast as I could, so that I’d feel comfortable, but I’m using this muscle I’m not very familiar with. I have experience on stage, but in a musical, the choreography makes it easier for you to learn your lines, and in TV shows, there’s so much time before everything’s in place, that you have time to prep for every scene. Here, I have to be the character on stage and talk. Once you’ve started, you’re off, and you have to run to the finish line.”
Have you seen the film?
“No. I thought about it at first but decided against it - so that I could have a clean slate for my own moves and choices. I’ll watch it after we start with the show.”
One might say that Halevi’s life has not only opened up his chakras in terms of trying out new things and taking risks but has also taught him an important lesson in separating the wheat from the chaff. With a father working for Mossad, his family moved country every couple of years, taking him to Denmark, Egypt, Italy and Belgium.
Fame came to Halevi on reaching the final on The Voice reality TV show (compensating for that almost a decade later, winning The Masked Singer.) It was around this time he acted in Bethlehem, his first cinematic film, his performance winning him an Ophir Award for Best Supporting Actor. He’s graced the small screen in TV series such as Fauda, Virgins (Betulot), Hostages and The Cops (HaShotrim), as well as content produced outside Israel.
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Halevi and his wife journalist Lucy Ahrish in The Masked Singer
(Photo: Courtesy of Keshet)
As for his personal life: He’s married to Muslim journalist and news anchor Lucy Harish. They managed to keep their relationship secret for four years before announcing their upcoming nuptials to the world, and have since persevered through the talkback backlash. Their son, Adam, is nearly four and the ethnicity section on his ID card reads, “of no religion.”
When Halevi was just a toddler in Italy, his kindergarten teacher returned from a visit to the Vatican one day with cross necklaces for the children. Halevi was the only child who didn’t get one as he was Jewish. He came home in tears, “and my mother called the kindergarten teacher to ask why. She said she didn’t want to offend us as she knew we were Jewish. So, my mother with her emotional intelligence said, 'My son is three-and-a-half. Don’t you worry about his Judaism. Let him feel part of everything,” recalls Halevi.
The boy walked around with a cross around his neck for a while and felt like he belonged. “When I think about it, it was 1977, around 30 years after the Second World War, and she nevertheless understood what really mattered.”
“I come from a traditional home and I have generations of rabbis dating back in my family. I think there are beautiful things in religion and faith and I feel connected to the basic value of what being a good person is. I assume you have this in every religion. What human beings do with it after that, driven by the desire to rule, intimidate and accrue power, is beyond me. We just registered Adam for a Christian kindergarten here in Jaffa, where they speak French and Hebrew. For Hanukkah, we have a menorah and a little Christmas tree as that’s what he wanted.”
Is that why you registered Adam “'of no religion” on his ID card?
“It’s a funny story. At the hospital, when we were registering him, the nurse started typing and asked us all the details and had already printed out the card reading ‘Jewish.' Lucy and I smiled at each other. The nurse looked at us and, not understanding, then said, ‘One minute, aren’t you Jewish? Sorry,’ and just tore up the stub. Lucy said, ‘Wow. That was close, we could have gotten away with it, but at the last minute, she caught our glances.' The nurse started retyping everything and asked what we wanted her to put down. We asked what the options were and she said we could write ‘Muslim’ or ‘of no religion’. We said, ‘Okay, of no religion’ and that’s how it stayed.”
Does Adam understand the complexities of a Jewish-Muslim home? Is Islam present in your home?
“Lucy laughs about it. She says it turned out for the best as Islam only has about three holidays. Adam is still young. He hears Arabic and knows he has Arab grandparents. He doesn’t understand what either Islam or Judaism are. Everything’s a celebration for him, and he celebrates them all. When Lucy’s family are fasting during Ramadan and we go there for a meal, he celebrates with them, and with my family, he celebrates the Jewish side.”
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“It’s much easier for us to just put it away in a drawer and not sweat it, and that’s what happens in the world. People generally don’t want to challenge themselves mentally. The easiest thing for her is to say, ‘Okay, everything going on with Israel and Gaza is either Free Palestine or pro-Israel.' In interviews I’ve given overseas, I’ve told them a quite few times: if you have nothing bridging to say, you better shut up as you’ve no clue what’s going on here. You might think it’s doing anyone any good, but it isn’t.”
“I grew up overseas for many years, and I’ve experienced antisemitism. I’m no stranger to that feeling of being a despised minority. I’ve learned to cope with that feeling. Lucy experienced it from a different place, as the only Muslim girl at her school in Dimona. She’s always said, ‘Yes, things are very complicated but we can simplify them if we want.'”
Perhaps that feeling of being a minority is what connected you?
“We can definitely understand each other on a very deep level. If I think about what connects me and Lucy, it’s the understanding that we’re firstly human beings, and our common values as human beings, not as a Muslim or a Jew - what we were raised with at home. People say I’m assimilated. I haven’t changed. I’m still who I am, and Lucy is still who she is. She’s a Muslim and I’m a Jew. She has a family with its roots and I have mine, and love transcends all. For some people, these differences are more important than love, but we want to take the good things, not the differences, from either side and intensify them. This is how we’re raising Adam. What can we do? We’re living in a region that constantly reminds us of this complexity. These are our challenges.”
Has dealing with outside reactions been harder since October 7?
“To tell you the truth, I sometimes see reactions like that, but I’m not so bothered by them. I must say, at least on my part, in the reserves and in Gaza, most people I meet – young or old, religious or whatever - everyone’s crazy about Lucy. ‘You’re cool, but Lucy…’ I’m very proud of the sweeping appreciation she’s getting. I’m not very concerned with what people are writing on social media. It’s not that interesting.”
Halevi’s age means he was discharged from reserve duty service five years ago. During his regular service, he served in the elite Duvdevan unit and played a role in setting up the undercover Shimshon unit that operated in Gaza. With the IDF’s blessing, he founded a voluntary unit of Shimshon and Duvdevan vets, as well as a foundation to support these volunteers.
On the morning of October 7, understanding that this was war, Halevi donned his uniform and joined the volunteer unit. Very quickly, however, he attached himself to Yahalom.
Ahrish, then working as a news anchor for Channel 13, stayed at home with Adam as pleas for rescue quickly came flooding in from people in the Gaza border region. When Harish realized there were no active security forces, she forwarded the locations to Halevi who passed them on to his unit comrades in the Kfar Aza area. This connection saved the lives of Smadar and Roy Edan’s children, hiding in the saferoom wardrobe as their parents were murdered in the house, along with seven more families in the community.
Halevi racked up a fair amount of reserve duty days between October and January, repeatedly going in and out of Gaza. “It’s been a difficult year for us all,” he says.
What has your time in Gaza done to you?
“It was different from the other times in the reserves. I served in Gaza 30 years ago. I knew Gaza and Gush Katif when they were under our military control. After the Oslo Accords, our unit was disbanded and we left. The first time we went in, I asked myself, ‘What have we done over the past 30 years?’ On the other hand, I saw the money invested by Hamas, this consciousness of evil, the sheer amount of money they put into the tunnels and weapons - instead of cultivating their society. After the destruction there now, I ask myself what will be in the next 30 years?”
“At the end of the day, with all the terrible things that have happened, I can’t not think about the hostages. I’ve hosted events at Hostages Square and I’m in touch with some of the families. I really don’t understand why there aren’t a million people at the square. We’re talking about parents and children. It may seem trivial, but we have families without them. They’ve been dealing with something I can’t describe. We, Israeli society, aren’t not doing enough. That’s for sure.”
What can we do?
“Firstly, more people need to be involved. We need to step up the pressure and say, ‘With all due respect to our supposedly trying to get back to life as normal, we can’t. There’s nothing normal about there still being hostages there. First, bring them back, then there are lots of ailments that have to be treated. Whenever I meet the families, I find myself frustrated and lost for words, and with the sense that none of us are doing enough.”
Earlier this month, Hamas released a video of kidnapped IDF lookout Liri Albag. Addressing the Knesset's State Control Committee, captivity survivor Meirav Tal, who spent 53 days in Gaza, said, “Whenever a video of a captive is released, everyone is suddenly horrified. What were you thinking? That they’re in Thailand?"
“I understand everyone’s need to restore some kind of sanity because we’re all human, but I don’t think we can let ourselves do that. I don’t need these videos. I live with the media at home and I live the news all the time. I understand that, sometimes, it’s too much and you can’t take it all in, but the least we can do is go to the square, meet the families and express our protest in every way. Our society isn’t like others in the world. We don’t have that privilege. With the values on which we were raised, we have to be there for each other. If not, we won’t be here at all. It can’t just remain lip service. It has to be action. Otherwise, something’s very broken.”
So, you believe this pressure can make a difference
“I think we have no choice but to believe that. If people don’t take to the streets because they feel hopeless that it won’t change anything, at the end of the day, it’s just to give strength and support to the families who have no choice. I heard one family say, ‘Don’t make us fight among ourselves’. That’s insane. We sometimes let ourselves off too easily. Our national anthem is Hatikva (Hope) and we can’t afford to lose it. If we do, let’s just change the anthem.”
Looking through the lens of your career overseas, has anything calmed down regarding Israeliness since October 7?
“Things are changing, but slowly. Some people are distancing themselves, not necessarily because they’re critical, but rather for fear of touching the fire. They just don’t want to get embroiled. Last March, I was the only actor they didn’t fly over for the première of an Argentinian movie I filmed for Amazon. The actresses from Spain and Mexico and everyone else was there. They made their excuses, saying they thought I was in reserve duty, but I felt it was more like, ‘Why do we need the demonstrations here now?”
Do you feel your age?
“When I was filming a comedy called All In, there was a scene where Shlomi Koriat and I were hiding among the rocks and Maor Cohen was shooting at us. Mid-take, I looked at Shlomi and burst out laughing. When he asked me why I was laughing, I said that we were 45 years old and just look at what they’re giving us money for. Acting like we’re hiding and they’re shooting at us. For me, this has no age. Thank God, I don’t feel the age. Acting, the stage and the art keep me alive. I play my music and I’m the same 16 or 17-year-old Tsahi playing my music in my bedroom in Belgium. The very same.”