In Israel, you can be many different things. Arab or Jew, of course, but beyond that basic distinction the categories are endless: Fatah or Hamas; West Bank Palestinian or Triangle-born; Sephardic or Ashkenazi; Orthodox or ultra-Orthodox. You can even be an immigrant in your own country, as Arab-Israeli author Sayed Kashua points out. Born in Tira, an hour’s drive from Jerusalem, he now lives in the Holy City—but as things stand, he’ll never be accepted as a native.

Nor is it likely that he’ll be accepted as himself. Every Israeli, whether Jewish, Muslim, or Christian, is a walking screen onto which is projected a flickering array of cultural stereotypes and religious caricatures. This shifting play of heritage and allegiance is at the heart of Kashua’s third novel, Second Person Singular. The book is a modern-day comedy of manners, focusing on two Arabs who, like Kashua himself, are newcomers to Jerusalem. One, referred to only as “the lawyer”, is a Mercedes-driving sophisticate who reverts to tribal concepts of honour after discovering what seems to be a love note from his wife to another man. The other central figure, Amir, is a disaffected social worker who discovers his true calling, photography, only after assuming the identity—and, to some extent, the personality—of Yonatan, a young Jewish man left comatose by a failed suicide attempt.

The book is as complex and heartbreaking as life in Israel itself.

“There is really no place for individuals in Israel,” Kashua advises, interviewed by Skype from a London, England, hotel room. “The minute you are born, you belong to a fighting team or group, and whatever you do, you will always remain an Arab or Jew. Many Israelis are educating their kids in a very nationalist, powerful identity, since kindergarten—and the Arabs as well. As is written in the book, we always try to protect our Arab identity, and to protect our nationality, and to protect our kids from becoming Israelis—which is a problem when you are Israeli.”

He goes on to say that, unlike many novelists, he has no problem seeing his characters as allegorical figures.

“The lawyer is more an allegory for someone who’s confused, someone who was told that if he leaves his village, and if he wants a city life or an urban life, he can suffer a lot, and it’s dangerous. We were, as Arabs in Israel, educated not to leave our villages, in order to protect our identity. So for the lawyer, yes, he left the village for the city and he’s not sure if he did the right thing. And of course as soon as he discovers this letter he immediately thinks it was because he didn’t listen to his parents, because he didn’t listen to the older people, and because he left the village that he wasn’t supposed to leave.

“And with Yonatan, yes, it’s an allegory trying to deal with the meaning of identity, and trying to deal with cultural differences. What determines who we are? Is it the clothes? Is it the music? Is it the language? Or is it just what nation you belong to: were you born as Jewish or an Arab?”

These are issues that preoccupy Kashua in ways that extend beyond the realm of fiction. As a regular contributor to the Hebrew-language newspaper Haaretz and as the creator of the popular TV series Avoda Aravit (Arab Labour), he’s obsessed with the social distinctions that define contemporary Israel, especially the many petty acts of discrimination directed against that country’s Arab minority.

It’s a marvel that his writing remains as even-handed and witty as it is, but Kashua says this is in part a deliberate strategy to ensure that his message will be heard.

“Sometimes I can write very angry columns, but I know that it doesn’t work,” he explains. “I know very well that I have to be convincing as a human being, and to make people listen it generally doesn’t help when I’m shouting at them. Especially Israelis, because if you shout at them they will become more sure of their failures. On the TV show, it’s very clear, because I need to use a lot of humour to humanize Arab characters in order to bring them to Israeli living rooms. In Haaretz, it’s probably the same: it must be human, it must make people think a little bit. And sometimes it should be funny here and there, to put in a punch line that can also be very painful.”

There’s also the fact that Kashua—who in conversation displays a ready, if wry, smile—appears to have a genuinely sweet disposition. Opportunities for this to flourish are few and far between in a country that has experienced ongoing civil war for nearly the entirety of its existence.

“I just want to write love stories,” he says, with a palpable sense of yearning. “But, in my case, every time I try to write a love story a war or an intifada breaks out.”