The Tinder Swindler has hit Netflix and here in Israel was immediately second in the Top 10 in Israel Today chart, right behind sci-fi thriller Manifest, which has been keeping rain-shy and quarantined Israelis busy since 1 January.
Its arrival coincided with the second day of my own isolation at the hands of Omicron, so I immediately started watching – I needed something to cheer me up. Sadly, this was not it.
The documentary tells the appalling tale of Simon Hayut, a young Israeli man who repeatedly used dating app Tinder (and a slew of fake names) to match with attractive young women, only to swindle them out of huge sums of money. It’s estimated that Hayut stole $10m from women who were unfortunate enough to fall for his deliberately manipulative, criminal ways.
As someone who’s been using Tinder in Tel Aviv intermittently since I moved here, I’ve now been asked by several Netflix watching friends back home if Hayut is representative of the men I’ve matched with on the dating app.
The answer is no, not at all. Hayut is now a convicted criminal. His profile boasted pictures of “private jets, cool cars and amazing parties all over the world,” to quote Pernilla Sjoholm, one of his victims.
His fake lifestyle was funded with stolen money and his modus operandi was emotional manipulation. And while dishonesty and white lies can abound on dating apps in any country, it’s important to point out that most Israeli men are not criminals, nor liars like Mr Hayut. In fact, where Hayut promised his dates the world, I find that, by contrast, most Israeli men on Tinder promise very little.
In their profiles, they assert their masculinity via an assortment of selfies, including but not limited to the gym-floor selfie (with arm muscles bulging); the topless selfie (with or without surfboard); the living-room selfie (with support from pet cat or dog); and the sunglasses selfie, where the man peers at you seductively in a way that means you can’t see what he really looks like, nor how tall he is.
Details about what they’re looking for tend to be thin on the ground. Many men say nothing at all, or offer basic factual information such as: “172cm. Hi-tech. Ramat Gan.” The spiritual contingent say things like: “Nature. Vegan. Yoga. Meditation. Hiking. Looking for a true soul connection, but also to flow. D+2.” The last bit means he’s divorced with two kids, the bit before is anyone’s guess. There’s also a fair few in open relationships who want to add spice to their marriages.
Yet while Hayut started conversations with women by sending a map-link to a five star hotel, before inviting them on to his private jet, most Israeli men open proceedings with a basic, “Hey, what’s up?” before disappearing for a week when you reply. If you do get into a conversation, they’re likely to come back with my least favourite of all dating app questions: “What are you looking for?”. I sense they never want to hear the truth (which for many women is “marriage and babies”), and prefer it if you say something mildly ambivalent, such as “not sure yet, what about you?”
If you do get to the actual date stage, typically it won’t be a glamorous affair. “You want to drink wine on my balcony?” is very often their idea of a perfectly reasonable first date. If you’re looking for a relationship and not a fly-by-night hook-up, you’re advised to decline the balcony date and insist on a local bar instead. Summer brings with it beach dates (sitting together in wet swimwear has never been my idea of a perfect date but it’s par for the course here); winter lockdown brought illegal calor-gas fuelled picnic dates. In four years here, I’ve never seen a private airfield or even a three-course dinner.
But what Israeli men do have in common with Mr Hayut is an innate ability to raise expectations through strategic use of emojis, and a reticence to speak the truth. Last July I met a handsome 35 year-old architect. Tall, earthy, calm and cool, he sat with me at a pavement cafe in Tel Aviv and told me over a glass of rose that all his friends were getting married one by one. “Do you ever think the universe is trying to give you a sign?” I asked.
“It’s clear that you are trying to give me a sign,” he joked in reply.
After our date he pursued me for weeks, signing off every WhatsApp message with a zebra emoji. I’m not sure why this worked but I began to fall for him. It was boiling hot so it made sense to meet at home, where we had access to air conditioning. I forgave him a lack of proper date etiquette and enjoyed sitting with him, talking, drinking tea and cuddling. We began to fall in love.
Except as it turned out, it was only me who was doing the falling. He was actually “not looking for anything” – a fact he reluctantly clarified six weeks later, when I finally asked where this was going. Stories like this abound on Belle Aviv, a Facebook group for women in Tel Aviv. We have all been led to believe that we are the special one and they are falling for us, when in fact they’re only interested in being our once a fortnight midnight guy.
Yet for every rule there’s an exception. While many Israeli men are just looking for casual dating experiences, I know several British and American women – new immigrants – in their 20s, 30s and 40s, who have married Israeli men they met on Tinder. They’re building families and lives together and have never been happier. For that reason we keep swiping. Perhaps slightly savvier and cynical thanks to the illegal actions of Mr Hayut, but onwards we go. Because that next match could be the one. And even if it’s not, it’s bound to give us a bigger adventure than a night in alone with just Netflix for company.
