Many of us remember the images of Jews, huddled around their radios across the globe, listening to the UN vote on the 29th of November, 1947, as the General Assembly voted to create a Jewish state. The 27th of October, 2004, wasn't quite as momentous, but it may prove to be no less decisive. That was the night of the Knesset vote to proceed with Sharon's disengagement plan.
The outcome was relatively assured even before the vote, but still, the sense of tension as the roll of the Knesset's 120 members was called was palpable. At home, we were all crowded around the TV, watching, and waiting. With the sense that maybe, just maybe, something good would come out of all the angst and hatred of the past years, months, weeks and days. Even if it means concessions that many of us don't want to have to make. Even if it means concessions that break our hearts, for the land we love that we will have to leave, and for the people who have settled it, often in the most selfless of ways.
Like windows on the soul, billboards in Israeli life offer a glimpse
into the psyche of a country in turmoil. This week, in ways that those who distributed them probably did not intend, those posters evoked not just the cavernous rift in this society, but its agony as well.
"Ha-mefaked, anakhnu yehudim, ve-et zeh ani lo mesugal," read one that's appeared all over. "Commander, we're all Jews, and this I cannot do." It is a call to soldiers, encouraging them to declare that even if ordered, they will not force Jews from their homes.
The phrasing was brilliant, I thought. Not "I won't do this," but "I
can't do this." It evoked, in almost wordless fashion, the bewilderment of those in Gaza who will be moved. It suggested that the Knesset's decision is not simply wrong, but that it verges on a violation of nature. This simply cannot be done. It is an assault on too much of what we stand for, an assault on fairness, on decency.
Even those of us who (however unhappily) favor the disengagement can, and must, understand this sense of betrayal. Because these Israeli citizens were encouraged by Labor no less than by Likkud to build homes in Gush Katif, and they did so with exemplary dedication. Because, our protestations to the contrary notwithstanding, we are withdrawing under fire. Because Ariel Sharon effectively promised these people that this would not happen, and they supported him with that assurance in mind. Because homes will be destroyed, communities dismantled, playgrounds abandoned, synagogues emptied, batei midrash razed. Because those who left Yamit (in the Sinai, when it was returned to Egypt, and was then destroyed by Israeli bulldozers) could at least console themselves with the knowledge that it was land for peace, while this week, we could not point to anything that we were getting in return for our evacuation.
Because there are cemeteries in the Gaza settlements, where these citizens have buried their parents and their children. And what should happen to those graves? Shall we disinter the children killed and buried there, and force those people to relive once again the torment of those funerals? Or shall we leave the graves there, even as the Palestinians move in, pretending that we don't recall the desecrations of Joseph's Tomb in 2000, or of the Mount of Olives before the Six Day War?
Sadly, we hear little validation of the settlers' angst from those who favor the withdrawal. Where is the grieving on the "left" for a human tragedy of enormous proportions? Have we become so embittered that we feel nothing for those whom we must dislodge? Is that what statehood has wrought?
"Yotz'im me-azah, matchilim le-daber," proclaimed the other side.
"Leave Gaza, and Start Speaking," as if there were anyone with whom to speak. What was intended to be a declaration of hope, struck me as naive, as Pollyannaish, as a reflection of precisely what is wrong with those with whom I agree that we need to leave, but who see our part of the world with an optimism I do not share. The arms-smuggling tunnels between Egypt and Gaza will continue, and Israeli papers warned this week that Palestinians may have smuggled in weapons capable of bringing down a plane. (The Ben Gurion airport isn't that far from Gaza.) The firing of Kassam rockets will also continue, that we know. The IDF will be in Gaza long into the future. The residents will leave, but our forces will not be able to. Ironically, "yotz'im me-azah, matchilim le-daber" confirms the sense of futility which has Kfar Darom in its grip. We are leaving out of desperation, because too many of us are dying, not because we have a peace partner.
As the Israeli news was carrying live coverage the Knesset debate and vote, it occasionally cut to Tel Aviv, where a memorial ceremony was being conducted as the country began to mark the Hebrew anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, z"l. Cutting back and forth between the Knesset and Tel Aviv, the broadcast reminded us that these days, with their vitriol, histrionics and character assassination, are harrowingly reminiscent of the period in which Rabin was murdered.
Another poster has appeared. In jarring red and black, with a large photograph of Social Welfare Minister Zevulun Orlev at the bottom. The poster reads "Olrev shutaf li-devar akirah." "Orlev is party to uprooting," roughly translated. (Because Orlev, a member of the National Religious Party, though opposed to the disengagement, has not quit the coalition.) Again, the finger pointing at an individual. The insidious invocation of halakhic-sounding language, as if that makes Orlev's political position not just wrong, but evil. Which makes one wonder: Have we learned nothing? Has the sickness that produced Yigal Amir been completely forgotten?
So, I found myself wondering, about that, and more. About the poster that was missing, about what we were not saying. Did no one think of reminding this society of the searing pain of those whose lives are at stake? Or, at the other side of the scale, of the undeniable political fact that though the human cost is awful, Israel has no choice? For if we cannot leave Gaza, we cannot leave any of the territories. And if we cannot leave, we will rule the Palestinians for years to come.
The world's patience has run out. Sharon pointed to the bottom line when he spoke at the Knesset on Monday night; Israel cannot rule the Palestinians forever. As occupiers, no matter how benevolent we may try to be, we ask our children to do things that we do not want our children doing. On the whole, Israel has fought this war morally, very morally, I believe. Much more morally than any other modern army would have. But still, one listens to the stories of too many of the soldiers, the kids who graduated high school last year, the ones who understand that what they do is necessary but who still hate doing it, and we know -- we just don't want to have to ask our kids to do this.
But it's more than that. Sharon understands that it's not just the
borders of the country that are at stake -- it's the very survival of the country. With no peace agreement in sight, if Israel refuses to follow Sharon's lead, the world -- first Europe, but inevitably America as well -- will conclude that the "occupation" is not temporary, but permanent. And then the world will treat us like it did South Africa, and little by little, it will isolate the Jewish State diplomatically, militarily, economically, academically and in innumerable other ways, until the State that now is busy trying to save itself will begin to crumble.
When a human life is saved by removing a critical part of the patient's body, the correct medical decision may have been made, but the trauma is real, and no one involved has any cause for rejoicing. The loss is permanent, and life altering. Even if the patient survives.
This week was cause for mourning. Because of what we did. What we had to do, and will have to do. And because, as the anniversary of Yitzhak Rabin's murder reminds us, though we may have taken the first steps to save our bodies, we have a long way to go if we are to repair our souls.
But there is reason to be hopeful, as well. Ha-Aretz, Israel's leading daily, ran a cartoon on Wednesday morning, "the morning after" the vote, which showed Ariel Sharon sitting by Rabin's grave. (see cartoon) As Sharon sits, almost Rodin "Thinker"-like, Rabin says to him, from the grave, "Shalom, Haver," the words that Clinton said to Rabin at Rabin's funeral.
"Shalom, Haver," of course, can mean either "Goodbye, Friend," which was what Clinton meant, or "Hello, friend." And here, in the cartoon, that's apparently what Rabin is saying to Sharon. The cartoon lends itself to a cynical, sad read, in which Rabin foreshadows to Sharon that he, too, will soon be killed, a prospect that has some sectors of this society very worried, particularly as the vitriol of the radical right escalates. But the basic read is simpler, though no less poignant. In this read, Rabin is saying to Sharon, "Welcome, friend," to the company of those who have tried to push unpopular concessions through the Knesset. To the company of those who understand that ultimately, this country is not about real estate, but about what we do with and in the land that we keep. To the company of warriors, who, at the dusk of their careers, have come to understand that the sword (though we will always need it) will not end this conflict, and even in the terrible neighborhood in which we live, even without an "agreement," we will have to compromise. Not because our enemies deserve it, but because we want something different. For ourselves, for our children, for this State.
One can look at the political machinations consuming the Knesset, or the ongoing possibility that Sharon will be killed, or the myriad ways (including Arafat's possible demise) in which the process of leaving Gaza could still be derailed -- and despair. Or, one can take consolation in the cartoon in Ha-Aretz, and realize that once again, a man who rose through the ranks of Israeli public life as a warrior has decided to pursue something different.
From warrior to statesman to seeker of peace. Or if not peace, then at least a separation. It happened with Rabin. And it's happening with Sharon. Particularly in a week like this, the fact that this country, despite everything it has faced during the past decades and the last four years, continues to witness this metamorphosis in its leaders, is, to me, a tremendous source of pride. And, with so much so unclear this week, it is a wellspring of hope, as well. |
Leaving Gaza is, I agree painful but necessary.
Good site btw.
Posted by: Ricki | December 22, 2004 at 01:40