This Broken Home
Revisiting Israel
by Nir Rosen
April
23, 2002
Over a year ago, I revisited Israel after a three-year
absence. As my El Al plane landed in Tel Aviv, the intercom played an Israeli
folk song of my childhood, “Its so good that you’ve come home.” Despite my
cynicism, the child in me wanted to cry. I stifled the nascent tears, which I
rejected as a vestigial remnant of the nationalist propaganda they had
inculcated me with in the summer camps of my coastal village. Just like every
other time I came, I was entering a maelstrom, new and unique, yet a mere
variation on the same theme of bloody nationalism, paranoid identity and
violent religion that defined Israel.
This time it was a literal reiteration
of my childhood, when the original intifada (Palestinian uprising that started
in 1987) forced us Israelis to confront the fact there was a population of
oppressed Arabs whose aspirations we were denying and whose land we were
occupying. A new intifada had erupted last year due to Palestinian frustrations
with Israeli arrogance and their own leadership’s failures. The only feeling I
recollect from the original intifada is a sudden fear of every Arab I saw, for
perhaps he would stab me, or overturn my bus into a ditch. Now I was returning
as a man, having swallowed years ago from the painful chalice of truth and
realized that my whole conception of good guy and bad guy, of victim and
victimizer, was backwards, and I belonged to the onerous Goliath asphyxiating
the Palestinian David. I was also returning with the knowledge that whereas
once I had dreamed of joining Israel’s elite special forces, now, even if I
wanted to I could not. An Israeli foreign service officer had informed me of a
file possessed by the Israeli government identifying me as pro-Palestinian,
anti-Zionist and an “enemy of the state.” Not bad for a 23 year old.
My first morning in Israel I was awakened by
the high-pitched voice of my grandmother shouting to other family members: “We
will never give up the Temple Mount! It is the heart of hearts of world
Judaism!” The Temple Mount is called the Haram al Sharif by Muslims. It is in
East Jerusalem and both sides wanted it. I groaned to my grandmother my hope
that they give back the Western Wall too, and pulled the pillow over my head.
The day I arrived, Prime Minister Ehud Barak had indicated his acquiescence to
a Clinton plan for Jerusalem’s partition. I had arrived at a time when the
country was engaged in a violent debate over whether a bunch of rocks were more
sacred than human life.
My aunt drove me to the bus station to go to
Jerusalem. She lived in a Tel Aviv suburb and described how idyllic it was.
Indeed, I agreed with her. Green hills, peace, silence, playgrounds, flower
gardens, you wouldn’t know that a brutal war was being waged against the
indigenous population half an hour away. On the way we heard on the radio of a
terrorist bombing on a bus. Three explosions, six wounded, one of them
critical. “The shopping malls were all empty when the intifada started,” she
told me, “we were all afraid to go to crowded public places. You never know
where they will strike. At least in a war you know where the fighting is, what
the targets are. You can do something. All we can do is be afraid.”
Everybody in Israel spoke with resigned dread
about the next “attack,” meaning terrorist bombing. They all expected it.
Although the malls and streets were full, everybody was worried about attacks
-- they were taken for granted. Indeed, there were attacks nearly every day I
was there, and my mother insisted that I call her all the time. People expected
to die any time they went to public places. Still, Israel has enough chemical
and nuclear weapons, not to mention conventional ones, to blow up the world,
and it has one of the most powerful militaries in the world. It should get over
its pretensions of being the besieged victim. Israel is now more often the
victimizer than the victim.
As I waited at the bus stop, the paranoia of
living in Israel finally got to me. I wondered if any of the cars driving by
was a suicide car that rams into crowded bus stops. I looked at the two
orthodox Jews standing next to me and wondered if they were terrorists
disguised as Jews (it’s happened before). They were smoking cigarettes, I
thought that was suspicious. When I got on the bus I looked at everybody on it
to make sure that they did not look like terrorists. I figured the back of the
bus was the safest place because it was the emptiest and afforded me the best view.
At one point the bus stopped and a young guy
with a machine gun examined the baggage compartment and then went on the bus
and looked for suspicious objects. This is routine. A young soldier sat next to
me. He couldn't have been more than twenty. He was armed with a long M16
machine gun and a shorter cell phone on his belt so his mother could be in
constant contact with him. His hair was slicked back and carefully spiked with
gel. He wore designer sunglasses. He was a kid. I thought it was absurd to give
children power over life and death. What experience and judgment could he have
acquired that would allow him to properly decide when to shoot? I used to
admire those soldiers, with the red berets of elite units. Now for the first
time I was older than they were and I saw what little skinny kids they are, so
young.
When the bus entered Jerusalem, I saw many
posters supporting Ariel Sharon, the right wing leader expected to win the
elections next month, with slogans such as “only Sharon can bring peace.” Well,
I suppose even Slobodan Milosevic claimed he was bringing peace. Sharon had
been the architect of Israel’s invasion of Lebanon and the slaughter that
followed. An Israeli judicial inquiry had subsequently held him partly
responsible for a horrible massacre of civilians and recommended that he be
fired from his position as minister of defense. Street signs in Jerusalem are
in Hebrew, Arabic and English. Somebody had carefully erased all the Arabic
from nearly every sign I saw using black spray paint. They had actually taken
the time to do so to every sign. It was a clear statement that Arabs were not
welcome. I saw graffiti like “Arabs out!” and “Kahana was right!” Rabbi Meir
Kahana was a right wing leader who advocated the expulsion of Israel’s Arab population
and imposition of Nuremberg type laws. He was killed ten years ago. I saw some
posters commemorating the anniversary of his death and mourning him.
I got off at the main bus station and
transferred to a local bus. It was crowded. I nervously looked at the other
passengers to see if they looked like terrorists. How suddenly the pressure of
Israeli life had gotten to me. A man was looking at me suspiciously. I wondered
why. Did I look suspicious to him?
I walked through Jerusalem’s Old City. The markets
were empty. Tourists weren’t coming because of the violence. The Palestinian
shopkeepers stood idly until I approached, whereupon they excitedly displayed
their tourist trinkets and T-shirts. It seemed ironic to me that they were
selling pro-Israeli shirts, with slogans such as “America don’t worry, Israel
is right behind you!” and even Israeli military slogans. I asked one
Palestinian salesman how he could sell such items. “This is fucking shit!” he
gestured at the shirt, “but we need money!”
I stopped by the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
Christians believe that Christ’s body had been placed there when he was taken
off the cross. Faithful Christians could be seen in the dim light, kissing
stone, pictures and nearly everything else. I walked up to the entrance for the
Al Aksa mosque, from where Muslims believe Muhammad rose to the sky. Israeli
soldiers barred me from entering. It was closed to tourists. This was the
Temple Mount for devout Jews. Here, they believe the Jewish Temple had stood.
And would one day stand. Finally, I made my way to the Western Wall, Judaism’s
holiest sight. It was allegedly the last remaining wall of the ancient Jewish
Temple. Hundreds of Orthodox Jews clad in black swayed by the wall. The wall
did not seem that big or impressive. Large worn out yellow stones with a few
brown bushes growing out of the cracks.
It seemed odd to me, to invest rocks with
sacred qualities. Even if there was a god, would his presence be in a rock?
Could a wall ever be holy? Wasn't it the idea that was supposed to be holy? How
can you kiss an inanimate object in reverence? An icon, a wall, a rock? How can
you kill or die for a rock? If there was a god would he want you to? I, who
reject religion as absurd and backwards, can at least differentiate between
holding ideas as sacred, and being truly religious, by acting in accordance
with ideas through a genuine belief, and merely going through the acts, the
formalities, the rules. Cross now, bow
now, kiss this, say that. It’s like military marching drills, a way of
achieving conformity and unthinking obedience.
I woke up one morning to hear of another
attack. A Jewish settler’s car had been ambushed in the Occupied Territories.
It turned out that the Palestinian who shot at the car had killed none other
than Benjamin Kahana, the son of the slain Meir Kahana, who had continued his
father’s crusade. Also killed was his wife, and his children were all injured.
On the radio I heard one of Kahana’s friends on the radio: “An Arab is an Arab.
They all want us out of here. They have to get out. There will be terrorist
attacks as long as there are Arabs here…”
My aunt quipped, “or as long as there are Jews here!” The interviewer
asked, “should they [the Arabs] be expelled or exterminated?” The man
responded, “One way or another they have to get out.” And would there be any
revenge attacks? “We Jews don’t believe in turning the other cheek and we don’t
believe in whining about our misery for profit. We believe in revenge.” And
would the acts of vengeance be directed against the perpetrators or against any
and all Arabs? “An Arab is an Arab. They are all the same and all want the same
thing. It doesn’t matter.”
I sat on the train from Tel Aviv to Israel’s
northernmost towns to visit a cousin. A pretty female soldier in khaki fatigues
kept on making eye contact with me and then darting her glance away when I
looked back. An elderly couple sat across from me. They were complaining to
each other about the dead and the victims in the ubiquitous attacks. I looked
out the window. Tel Aviv was beginning to look like Manhattan, with skyscrapers
glistening beneath Mediterranean skies. Everywhere there were wide highways
being built. An uncle bragged to me as he drove over one in his town, “this is
the longest bridge in Israel!” Israel’s burgeoning technology and software
industries can be seen along the roads. My mother looked out the window and
commented on how ironic life in Israel was, referring to the war it was
conducting while people in Tel Aviv pretended life was normal, living in happy
oblivion. I looked at a forty-story statement of Israeli power, squinting as
the sun shown off its windows and thought that there was no foundation for all
this.
Israel and the Palestinians cannot be
reconciled. My father always spoke about the coming blood bath that would make
Israel look like Bosnia and I am now inclined to agree with him when before I
dismissed him as a sardonic veteran of three wars. “The Palestinians want
justice and the Israelis want a compromise,” he told me. And never the twain
shall meet. My father sighed, “It was a mistake for us to come here to begin
with. Zionism was a colonialist idea. The Palestinians were the American
Indians. It was not an empty land. The blood will soon be up to our knees.” I
looked out the window and wondered if all this could be erased. I had been to
Bosnia before, and I had seen the rotting carcass of a country.
In Tel Aviv, I took my 9-year-old brother to
National Square. It had been renamed Rabin Square after Prime Minister Yitzhak
Rabin was assassinated there five years ago. In the open square stood 315 life
size white cardboard silhouettes of human figures. Organized by peace
activists, this exhibit had been intended to demonstrate to the apathetic Tel
Aviv residents who lived a safe distance from the war, just how many people
were dying. A sign by the tent that served as the activists’ headquarters
explained that each silhouette represented a person killed during the latest
intifada. I went into the tent to take some flyers. A bellicose religious Jew
entered and asked us if we believed in God. I told him to get the Hell out. By
the time I left Israel there were fifty new silhouettes in the square. Soon
after the exhibit was taken away. The organizer confessed that the nation did
not care about peace.
My last morning in Israel I read the paper by
the window, overlooking my grandmother’s vast orchard. I could smell the ocean
breeze. Birds were singing, the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. I was at
peace. As usual, the television was on. Pundits were shouting at each other in
the brazenly rude way they always do on Israeli television. The headline in my
newspaper was “Powderkeg!”
I wrote those words more than a year ago. The
powder keg has exploded and my father’s predictions of a bloodbath have come
true. There would now be at least 1,500 silhouettes in that Tel Aviv square,
but like the man said, nobody cares. To my dismay, my parents, and all moderate
Israelis have been radicalized. Now I find an unbridgeable rift widening
between myself and my family, over which we communicate only by screaming. We
no longer understand each other and I feel as though I live in a different
world from all the liberal, sensitive and intelligent Israelis who were in my
family.
They remind me of Serbs I have known, whose
epistemology was dominated by propaganda and denial. They have the same
defensive sense of persecution, the excessive and preposterous protestations
of victimhood that cannot mask the
guilt that they deny. The Serbs deny the rape of Sarajevo, the slaughter of
Srebrenica and the destruction of Vukovar, and the Israelis deny the original
sin of their foundation, the expulsions, humiliations and massacres of the
Palestinians for over fifty years. The Serbs call themselves the “heavenly
people” and the Jews anointed themselves the “chosen people.” The Israeli
“Defense” Forces have “Purity of Arms,” they are the most moral army in the
world, killing only in self-defense. How do you begin to answer such “big lies”?
Trapped in their Palestinian Masada, besieged
by the Israeli Romans, some Palestinians give their lives meaning only through
an act of murderous nihilism. To blame this on the pathetic, authoritarian and
corrupt Arafat is foolish and disingenuous. Arafat has control over nothing.
The Israelis have deliberately targeted his police forces, his jails, his
entire government, and effectively wiped out the Palestinian Authority, only to
punish the Palestinian leaders for not controlling the terrorists in their
ranks. This intifada was as much a rebellion against Arafat’s rule as it was
against the Israelis. His popularity with the Palestinians was only restored
when Israel made a hero out of him by imprisoning him.
The Palestinians are not above reproach. No
conflict is black and white, good versus evil. If the Israelis were ever to
withdraw from the occupied territories, the Palestinians, as well as the rest
of the Arab world would have to begin a process of introspection and cease
placing all the blame for their poverty, ignorance, lack of achievement and
lack of freedom on external factors. But how can the Palestinians engage in any
sort of intellectual process while they are being starved and slaughtered?
I asked a Palestinian friend of mine to
respond to an article from USA Today that portrayed all Palestinians as
supporters of suicide bombers and quoted a father’s words of pride over his
son’s suicide mission. I asked him if the father could really mean it? My
friend, whose father is a prominent Palestinian politician under siege in
Ramallah, responded, “Personally for me it's different. You are still searching
for an answer, an argument. You have to, as the liberal you are. You see, for
me it is this article and its racist mentality that drove the suicide bomber.
There is a direct relationship between the damage caused by this fascist
journalist and the blood of the next Israeli to die in a suicide bombing. I
unfortunately am beyond arguments, because no argument will work. If we
Palestinians are to succeed in achieving our rights, it is only by being more
barbaric than our enemy, on a consistent, i.e. daily, weekly basis. It is sad,
and by all means you can and should disagree. The worst thing is that a whole
country has lied to itself and believes this crap, they are not willing for one
second to dwell on the reasons and the feelings that led to this horrible act.
When it comes to Jewish feelings, from the holocaust on, they spare no
argument. This is massive racism that they will not acknowledge. At least in
South Africa they legitimized their racism. No the father doesn't mean it, the
father is so shocked deep down to his core, that the pain he tried to hide from
his child was even bigger in his son. He is not proud of killing young girls, no,
he is proud that his son had the courage to end his miserable, painful life, by
at least striking at (what appears to be the cause) the Israelis, instead of
continuing to live in pain and humiliation.”
It was the Racak massacre of several dozen men
of fighting age by the Serbs that provoked the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia. Now,
before the whole world, Israeli buries Palestinians in mass graves, stores
their corpses in refrigerator trucks, bulldozes over their bodies, places
hundreds and possibly thousands of them in concentration camps where they are
tortured and makes all of the occupied territories one giant Sarajevo. And
nobody does anything!
I heard Condoleeza Rice on Meet the Press
yesterday, prattling about Ehud Barak’s “generous” offer that Arafat refused.
This myth must be destroyed. It is not generous to do justice, it is not
generous to stop denying people freedom, it is not generous to end a 34-year
military occupation. Moreover, the offer denied any possibility of a viable
state, since it gave all control over air, sea, borders and resources to the
Israelis and it divided the Palestinian areas into hundreds of segments, cut
off from one another, obviating any possibility of a Palestinian state that
could function economically or politically
This
and other myths must be combated. The Israelis are now engaged in “hasbara,”
which literally means explanation, but actually means propaganda. They have the
handsome and eloquent Benjamin Netanyahu speaking on their behalf. The
Palestinians have only buffoons arguing for them. I see the propaganda effects
on my parents, who tell me that “they” (the Palestinians) do not want peace,
they all support the suicide bombers, Arabs only understand force, if “we”
withdraw they will see it as weakness and continue their attacks, they want to
throw us all into the sea, and so on. And they point to the other Arabs and
remind me that their regimes are all brutal and corrupt, and that they never
cared for their Palestinian brethren. It is this “we” and “them” mentality that
precludes objectivity. My parents, like Israelis, and Serbs before them, fear
the collective guilt, fear the admission that their soldiers have committed
crimes against humanity, so they divert every argument to the Arab crimes.
There are Arab crimes, and they should be addressed, but they do not diminish
the severity of the Israeli crimes. A crime is a crime.
Does Israel really want to place itself in the
category of countries like Egypt, Syria, Saudi Arabia or Iraq, where the
concepts of human rights or freedom are not even given lip service by the
regimes, or does it seek to belong to the community of enlightened nations that
exist to secure the rights of their citizens? At least Israel has the political
and intellectual infrastructure to belong to the second category, if it ever
remedies the racism in its culture and the horrible contradiction of its
continuous occupation of an entire nation. And because it is a democracy,
Israel deserves particular reproach, because its citizens are accountable for
the actions of their leaders.
The sanctions that cripple Iraq and starve its
people do nothing to the dictator whom they did not choose and cannot remove.
Israelis on the other hand chose the war criminal that leads them, voted for
the bloody policies of their government, and half of them support the
“transfer” (the Israeli euphemism for ethnic cleansing) of Palestinians from
the occupied territories. So I find myself in the unique and painful position
of calling for international sanctions against Israel and wondering if a
punitive bombing of Tel Aviv, the city I love, until it complies with
international law, might be a good (albeit quixotic) idea.
“No,” my father says, “we are not part of
Europe. We are in the Middle East, in the Arab world, and we should not pretend
that we are different, we have to be more brutal than they are or they will
never respect us.”
Is this a solution?
A Palestinian friend of mine expressed consternation
at the deliberations over a solution. To both of us, it seemed so simple. “Just
get out of the occupied territories,” he said. What of my father’s fear that
the attacks would not cease with an Israeli withdrawal?
My friend was cautious and uncertain. Resentment is growing
among the Palestinians, if Israel does not withdraw soon, the hate and thirst
for revenge might preclude any possibility of reconciliation and peace.
Nir Rosen,
25, is a freelance writer based in Washington, DC.
Home