THEATRE REVIEW

MAY 2026 | Volume 263

 

Itai Erdal and I are both secular Jews, both atheists, both highly critical of Israel. I think it would be fair to say, based on Erdal’s commentary in Soldiers of Tomorrow, that we both find Israel’s attitudes toward Palestine and its treatment of Palestinian people appalling. So you probably shouldn’t expect my review of the play, which is explicitly about the Israeli relationship to Palestine, to be objective.

The key differences between Erdal and me: he was born and grew up in Israel, migrating to Canada in 1999; and he served three years in the Israeli Army. In Soldiers of Tomorrow, a monologue accompanied by Syrian-Canadian musician Emad Armoush and directed by Anita Rochon, Erdal offers his own first-hand views and experiences.

He confesses his love of Israel—the friendly people, the weather, the food, the urban pleasures of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv—and his deep disillusionment with the country, its policies and politics. He states explicitly what ought to be clear to anyone: “Antisemitism is not the criticism of Israel.” He talks about “the fascist Israeli government,” the “massacres and ethnic cleansing” carried out against Palestinians in Gaza (“Israel has built the largest open-air prison in history”), his hatred for Netanyahu, his having been “brainwashed” by a warped, one-sided version of Israeli history. He offers in contrast a history of the Palestinian experience since 1948, when the state of Israel was established: the nachba, Palestinians call it, the catastrophe, when 700,000 Palestinians lost their homes and were moved into refugee camps, now swelled to 2,000,000. And he acknowledges his responsibility for contributing to that oppression as a soldier.

His military experience occupies the center of the performance. Although he uses toy soldiers to represent individuals and groups in his regiment, Erdal employs the same straightforward narrative technique throughout the hour-long evening. He is a lighting designer by trade, not an actor, yet his mostly matter-of-fact, unadorned narration is spellbinding. The story he tells of his army buddies and commanding officer in a confrontation with an elderly Palestinian woman and her sick infant grandson is painful to hear and must be excruciating for him to repeat nightly. But it crystallizes his feelings and serves as an objective correlative of why he felt he had to leave Israel.

There’s a good deal more to Soldiers of Tomorrow, especially bits and pieces of the region’s history which we need to know or should at least be reminded of. The title refers to a box his young Israeli nephew brought home from school one day, intended to be filled with gifts for soldiers: “From the soldiers of tomorrow to the soldiers of today,” it said. Erdal tells of his struggle to convince his nephew, now of age, to refuse his mandatory military service. It’s all part of the burden this man of conscience carries, the burden of sorrow and guilt that compels him to speak.

On opening night there was a noisy, peaceful pro-Palestinian demonstration outside the Cultch, urging theatregoers not to attend the performance. The demonstrators handed out informational pamphlets, and someone had scrawled on the sidewalk, “Palestinian voices not oppressor GUILT.” A part of me understands that sentiment. The larger part has great respect and admiration for a man willing to publicly educate, renounce and repent.

 

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