TV series on quiet heroes captures Israel's mood

"It was an austere, even Spartan society," says Professor Wistrich. For many decades, its socialistic roots made it one of the world's most egalitarian countries.

By 2003, when Kimor's new version of "Heroes" hit the airwaves, Israel had changed.

Exposure to TV and the advent of cable helped create a more Westernized, materialistic culture. According to a December 2002 parliamentary report, an economic boom and bust helped open an income gap between rich and poor that, among developed countries, is second only to the US gap.

Now, economic reforms threaten to put a nail in the coffin of Israel's traditional welfare state, fundamentally changing the country's character. The war in Iraq only compounded anxieties caused by Israel's ongoing conflict with the Palestinians.

"Maybe Israelis are seeking heroes," says Kimor, whose series is garnering 17 percent ratings - a good showing, when the competition includes shows like "Friends."

After his first series, Kimor kept collecting stories of bravery and found he was drawn less to tales of military derring-do than those of "quiet heroism, heroism without sparkles. There is so much greater strength in people than they know.

"The stars of our reality are always the same, the head of the army, politicians," he continues. "But maybe the greater stars are the unknown ones. A lot of what has happened in Israel since its founding is based on the strength of unwilling heroes."

He may be striking a chord because there's a greater skepticism about what heroism is. Indeed, conscientious objectors who refuse to follow military orders have become an issue in the conflict with the Palestinians.

"The older, more naive idea of patriotic self-sacrifice for the country - it's never going to be that again," says Wistrich, noting that the concept of heroism changed as warfare became more technological. "The camaraderie and ethos hasn't changed, but there's less scope for what was traditionally considered heroism."

Kimor's new subjects include a respected professor who, as a young man, was left for dead after a massive brain injury; a Jewish Ethiopian girl who walked to Israel alone; and Abramson.

Her story is less about her rescue of her family than of her fight to live afterward. No one anywhere is known to have survived severe burns on 85 percent of their body. Abramson, a thoughtful woman with hazel-green eyes, says she held on because no one told her she was expected to die.

"I used to think people on their death beds should be told," she says. "This changed my thinking."

Kimor lets his subjects tell their own stories with input from family and friends. Doctors help recount Abramson's 1981 ordeal. Kimor uses old photos to show her charred skin while his camera lingers on her damaged hands.

Occasionally, his voice is heard off-screen. Kimor's presence is unintrusive, but his questions are probing. Abramson's children admit they were ashamed of her appearance in the mask that kept her skin in place after she left the hospital.

Her husband tells Kimor she looked no different to him, saying, "her insides were still the same."

Throughout the series, Kimor deftly shows viewers the strength in his subjects, strength they might not even see in themselves.

Abramson's story was filmed during Hannukah, a holiday when candles are lit. In one scene, several candles flicker behind her on a table. There is a pause as the camera lingers on Abramson's face, its slightly rumpled skin, then Kimor asks if she can still see beauty in a flame.

She smiles and says yes.

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