ISRAEL – PALESTINE: A PROGRESSIVE JEWÕS DILEMMA
Talk by Kay Halpern at Paintbranch Unitarian
Universalist congregation
Adelphi, MD, June 28, 2009
IÕm going to start with two
stories.
HereÕs the first one. Some of you know it. When I was a child in Hebrew school, we
learned the story of two Jewish sages, Shammai and Hillel, who lived 2,000
years ago. Someone seeking to
convert to Judaism goes to Shammai and says, Òteach me the whole Torah while
standing on one foot.Ó Shammai
tells him to get lost. So the seeker
goes to Hillel and asks the same question. Hillel says it pretty much boils down to this: Òthat which is hateful to you, do not
do to others. The rest is
commentary. Go and study.Ó We also learned another famous saying
of HillelÕs. Some of you may know
this as well:
If
I am not for myself, who will be for me?
If
I am only for myself, what am I?
If
not now, when?
HereÕs the second story. When I was in grad school in the early
1980s, I went to hear an American general give a talk about the war in
Lebanon. Afterward, as was the
custom, a group of students took him out for drinks. We asked him his opinion about the war. ÒThe Arabs,Ó he said, Òhave their
claims, and the Jews have theirs.Ó
Solomon the Wise. ÒWhy is
it, General,Ó I blurted as he poured me more wine, Òthat the Jews are just like
everyone else – Ó He
finished my sentence: Òonly more
so.Ó
These two stories infuse
everything I am about to say. As a
Jew I often feel tugged in two different, seemingly opposite directions: toward the Jewish People, on the one
hand, and toward humanity as a whole, on the other. Toward myself, my tribe. And toward others.
I am frequently reminded that this Jewish tension between the particular
and the universal is part of the human condition. It is a dilemma that all of us – regardless of our
ethnic or religious background – grapple with to some extent.
* * *
As I stand before you here
today I feel like I am straddling two very different worlds: the world of the ÒmainstreamÓ Jewish
community, and this world here, of peace activists focused on the Middle East. In an effort to promote communication
and understanding, I will try to give you a little perspective from the Jewish
side.
Some of what I have to say
will no doubt unnerve people on both sides.
For starters, I am not what
some might expect as a presenter of the ÒJewish perspective,Ó since I am often
critical of Israel. As many
members of my synagogue could tell you, this criticism is not always welcome. There are members of my congregation
– good, intelligent, people, many of whom would describe themselves as
liberal or progressive – who
view much of what Israel does, including the January 2009 war in Gaza, as a justified
reaction. As Jews, many of us find
it hard to believe that we, too, are capable of fomenting cycles of violence
and deliberately missing opportunities for peace. Sometimes, in a perverse twist on ShakespeareÕs famous line
from the Merchant of Venice, I feel like shouting, ÒHey – if you prick
us, do we not bleed?Ó Meaning, we
are no different – no better – than anyone else. When our people have both power and
fear we are just as vulnerable as the rest of humanity to feeling ugly emotions
and committing acts of cruelty. We
are just as vulnerable to seeing others as less than ourselves. To return to ShakespeareÕs intended
message of compassion for the vilified outsider, if you prick a Palestinian,
does he, too, not bleed?
What is so jarring, so
painful, for me as a Jew is that this message of compassion for everyone is the very core of Jewish identity: vÕger lo tilchatz – do not oppress a stranger – vÕatem
yÕdatem et nefesh hager – for
you know the feelings, the soul, of the stranger – ki gerim hayitem
bÕeretz mitzrayim – since you
yourselves were strangers in the land of Egypt.
Do I think, for example, that
IsraelÕs war on Gaza was justified?
Israel has a right to defend itself. But this war didnÕt have to be. Israel had many opportunities to avoid it – and the
rockets that provoked it. Here is
what Rabbi Arik Ascherman, of Rabbis for Human Rights, said:
We
Israelis tend to believe that the laws that apply to the rest of the world
don`t apply to usÉ Most Israelis
truly believe that we have the most moral army in the worldÉ While I have
very serious concerns about the conduct of the Israeli army in the recent Gaza
War, and no illusions about the morality of some of those we face, I first ask
whether we could have avoided the renewal of rockets on Sderot that
precipitated the war. As I have written previously, few Israelis are
aware of the connection between the mood in Gaza and our failure to uphold our
commitments in the June cease fire agreement to open up the border crossings
and let in essential goods. What would have happened if Gazan civilians
had more of their basic humanitarian needs met and saw that Israel could be
trusted to abide by agreements? What would have happened had we spoken to
Hamas? What would have happened had we taken more decisive steps to
ending the Occupation? We might have found ourselves in exactly the
same position, but I suspect not.
— April 7, 2009 ÒPassover
ThoughtsÓ email from RHR
As for the Hamas charter
– which I have read, and yes, it is a blatantly anti-Semitic document,
with explicit references to The Protocols of the Elders of Zion – the PLO had a similar charter and yet it was
able to set this aside and enter a new agreement in which it recognized
Israel. Hamas has indicated in
writing that it is willing to accept, if not formally recognize, Israel. Marc Gopin, an experienced mediator and
negotiator – and a rabbi – has said that it is wrong for Israel and
the U.S. to insist on such recognition as a starting point for negotiations, since, from HamasÕ point of
view, doing so denies Palestinian ties to Jaffa and all the other Arab towns
that have been taken over by Israel.
Recognition is a two-way street.
So. I am critical of Israel. How, then, can I stand in my 11-year-oldÕs Hebrew school
class (parents are encouraged to attend) and sing Hatikvah, the Israeli national anthem? ItÕs not that we are pledging
allegiance to the Israeli flag.
The kids get to choose several songs to sing at the end of class; sometimes
they choose religious songs; sometimes they choose Hatikvah. Hatikvah means Òthe Hope.Ó The lyrics speak of a Jewish soul, a
longing for Zion, and the hope of two thousand years to be a free people in our
land of Zion and Jerusalem. Many
in this room will see these lyrics as chauvinist and exclusionary. How, for example, could I sing this
song if I were an Arab citizen of Israel?
And yet the lyrics resonate
with me as a Jew. Even for the
vast majority of American Jews who, like myself, are more secular than
religious, we know that, through the centuries, our people have always prayed facing
Jerusalem. The powerful ritual of
the Passover seder, the meal at which we retell the story of the exodus from
bondage in Egypt to freedom – a ritual that even the most secular among
us tend to keep – ends with the words, Ònext year in Jerusalem!Ó And what does it mean to be a free
people? Freedom from a long
history of persecution. Freedom to
take charge of our own destiny.
And what of Zion and
Zionism? There are some who claim
to be working on behalf of justice, peace, and reconciliation who use the term
ÒZionismÓ as shorthand for all the evils of the world. They speak of Israel, or of Zionists,
as the root cause of strife. They
focus only on Israel and ignore unjust or violent acts committed by other
nations or groups in the Middle East or elsewhere. To call Israel to task is fair – and necessary. To attribute all ills to the Jewish
state alone is anti-Semitic. If
one is going to focus on Israel, there are legitimate reasons for doing so that
need to be voiced so that those – Jews and others who might be hostile to
criticism of Israel – will listen.
For example, it is relevant for Americans to focus on Israel because it
receives more of our tax dollars than any other country, and because, as the
only remaining superpower with a long history of close association with Israel,
we have a great deal of influence over it.
Words matter. While there are many things that are
and have been done in the name of Zionism that I abhor, Zionism is the national
liberation movement of the Jewish people. It is first and foremost not a colonial enterprise but a
movement of self determination. It
started in the latter half of the nineteenth century, in the wake of the
Dreyfus Affair and the pogroms in Eastern Europe and gained critical momentum
during the Holocaust, after which many Jews simply had nowhere else to go. (The United States infamously refused entry
to a ship with Jewish refugees.) [hold up page on St. Louis refugee
ship from 6-21-09 Wash Post Outlook section]
To disrespect the national aspirations
of one people – Jews – in the name of promoting those of another
– Palestinians – does not help.
Because these topics are so
sensitive, so volatile, I am compelled to continue this talk in a very Jewish
way, by asking questions and having an argument with myself. Asking questions and grappling with big,
sticky issues are a central part of the Jewish tradition. The name, ÒIsrael,Ó given to Jacob
after he struggled with the angel of God, literally means Òhe who wrestles with
God.Ó So here goesÉ
Wait a minute, Kay –
donÕt you have it backwards?
ArenÕt the Jews literally denigrating the national aspirations of
Palestinians while promoting their own?
Yes, in many ways. Israeli historians documented the
expulsions and atrocities of 1948 and today the facts on the ground and the
defensive mood in Israel, with the rise to power of an openly racist politician
like Avigdor Lieberman, are making things much worse for Palestinians. But my point is, if youÕre trying to
improve communication and prospects for peace, each side has to recognize where
the other is coming from. It is
just as important for Palestinians and other non-Jews to understand what
Zionism means to Jews as it is, for example, for Israel to recognize that it
bears some responsibility for the creation of Palestinian refugees, or that a
Hamas negotiator may find it hurtful to recognize Israel without Israel also
acknowledging its capture of Arab homes, towns, and land.
So, Kay, are you a Zionist?
If being a Zionist means that
I believe there is an entity called the Jewish People, with a deep, spiritual
and emotional attachment to Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel, then yes, I am a Zionist.
If being a Zionist means that
I believe this people, just like any other people, has a right to survive
– especially in the face of millennia of persecution, culminating in
attempted annihilation – then yes, I am a Zionist.
If being a Zionist means that
I believe the Jewish People, like any other people, have a right to self
determination, then yes, I am a Zionist.
If being a Zionist means
being for my people, then yes, I am a Zionist.
But – if being a Zionist means being only for my people and ignoring HillelÕs admonition to
treat others as we would want to be treated, thenÉno, I am not a Zionist.
Some in the Jewish community
would consider me a Òtraitor to the Jewish peopleÓ for even asking this
question. So let me try to flesh
out my answer.
There are many things about
Israel that I admire. The
incredible revival of Hebrew as a modern, everyday language. The vibrancy of its institutions of
higher learning, medicine, research, and its artistic and cultural scene. The fact that many Israelis freely speak
out against their governmentÕs policies, document unjust acts, and seek to
build connections with Palestinian counterparts. And there was Ilan Ramon, the Israeli astronaut. A son and grandson of Holocaust
survivors, he died with his colleagues when the space shuttle Columbia broke up
on reentry on February 1, 2003. A
few days later, I remember sitting on the metro on my way to work, staring at a
picture of the fallen astronauts on the op-ed page of the Washington Post. I could not take my eyes off the Jewish
astronaut and the Star of David on the Israeli flag sewn onto his orange
spacesuit. I was sad but also very
proud: this was not a yellow star
of shame but a symbol of Jewish vitality. For the entire 25-minute ride, I could not stop staring at
Ramon and that Jewish star through eyes filmy with tears.
And yet there are many things
about Israel that make me cringe: the
treatment of Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank, and even of IsraelÕs Arab
citizens. Is it fair that I can
automatically become a citizen of Israel even though my family and I have only
been there a few times, whereas Palestinians who were born there and grew up
there and whose families have lived there for generations, cannot? Can a Jewish state be both Jewish and
democratic? Many in the Jewish
community would say yes; the key is making sure there is a sizeable Jewish
majority. But how will this
demographic ratio be maintained?
By trying to get more and more Jews to immigrate to Israel? By expelling non-Jews? By forcing a drop in the Arab
birthrate? By building walls and
living in a self-imposed ghetto of domination? And what of the rights of the minority population? It is
helpful to remember that in the decades leading up to IsraelÕs establishment as
a state, there were divergent views regarding the meaning of Zionism and how it
should be implemented. Some Jewish
thinkers, like Martin Buber and Ahad HaÕAm, spoke of returning a Jewish
presence to the ancient land of Israel, but not one that would displace or
dominate the indigenous population.
Doing that, they said, would negate what it means to be Jewish.
Shamai Leibowitz is an
Israeli lawyer who has defended Palestinians in Israeli courts. He is a religious Jew and grandson of the
late Yeshayahu Leibowitz, a revered and often outspoken Israeli intellectual. In a February 2009 blog entry, he said,
ÒIf we want an Israel that is really true to the
best of Jewish values, it cannot be exclusively Jewish.Ó Prophetically, Yehayahu wrote in
1968 that Jewish rule over Arab populations in the West Bank and Gaza, as well
as inside the green line, would lead to a ÒcatastropheÓ for the Jewish people
and corrupt both Jews and Arabs. He
went even further, calling the religious-nationalist attachment to the land a
form of idolatry. These are strong
words. What do they mean to
me? That our attachment to Zion,
to Jerusalem, is not – cannot – be purely physical. That if we make
it only physical, these sacred places
loose their power. They loose their promise of a better world for all –
for a sheynere und bessere velt, as
generations of my forebears dreamed of in Yiddish. When we say Ònext year in Jerusalem,Ó we are not talking
about booking an El Al flight there.
We are talking about hope, about striving for a more just and humane
existence. Having obtained physical
control over Jerusalem and the Holy Land and all its inhabitants, we seem to be
loosing the moral force that has propelled our survival as a people.
WhatÕs the point, then, of
having a Jewish state if itÕs Jewish in ethnicity or shared history only,
without the values that – to echo the shehechiyanu prayer – have kept us together, sustained us
through adversity, and brought us through the centuries to this critical point
in time? In a sense, this is what
we wanted – to be a nation just like all the other nations. To no longer be special, Òchosen,Ó
different. To be left alone, free
to shape our own destiny. But the
direction we are shaping it is increasingly ominous. We are acting more and more like Pharaoh every day, with
myriad structures and actions that control and humiliate another people. While some of these measures may
protect Israel from suicide bombers in the short run, they do nothing to make
it more secure in the long run. In
fact, the Palestinian frustration and rage they engender do just the
opposite. Is this how we will survive
as Jews? Do we need the humility
and sense of Òotherness,Ó the identification with the stranger, that living in
a multi-ethnic society provides?
What does it mean
to survive as Jews? How do we
resolve the tension between the tribal, the exclusive, the desire for a state
of oneÕs own, and the universal moral imperatives that underlie Jewish
identity?
Judith Weis, a Canadian Jew and
self-described Òformer Zionist,Ó speaks out eloquently against Zionism on a
youtube video. While I would not unequivocally
condemn Israel the way she does, one of the last things she said touched me
deeply. It was meant to touch the
heart of every Jew. ÒHere O
Israel,Ó she chanted, echoing the ShÕma, the most sacred prayer in Judaism that every Jewish child knows by
heart, Òwe are all one – humanity is all oneÉÓ The prayer goes, ÒHere O Israel, the Lord our God, the
Lord is one.Ó When I was little,
what made the most sense to me – and still does – is, we are God
– when we are one. If there is a God, the presence of the
Divine becomes manifest when we are in harmony with each other, when we
recognize ourselves in each other.
When we see that the Palestinian youth with humiliation and anger in his
heart and a rock in his hand, and the Israeli soldier joking with his comrades while
squinting at him through crosshairs do not have to be defined by the
circumstances that set them against each other. We sense the presence of God when we realize that both these
young men are made in the image of what we all hold dear.
ThereÕs something missing,
though, from this we-are-one message.
Is universal all good and particular all bad? Is it best to loose our specific identities in a universal
melting pot? Perhaps the very
things that make each of us distinct, that separate us as individuals and as
peoples, enable us to connect with one another. Think about it.
A good novel conveys a universal message but we can only apprehend it
through characters rooted in a specific time and place, with nuances that bring
them to life. Listen to what the
Quran says:
O
Mankind! (God) created you from a single pair of male and female
And
made you into Nations and Tribes, that you may know each other
Not
that you may despise each otherÉ (Sura 49:13)
There are Israeli Jews and
Palestinians who have found a way to connect through their common grief and specific
stories. Members of the Bereaved
ParentsÕ Circle are people who have had children killed in the conflict. They are parents of Palestinian
militants and Israeli soldiers.
And they are parents of the victims of both. As these families who have suffered the deepest loss teach
us, our differences do not have to translate into threats. We do not have to condemn ourselves to
playing a zero-sum game. When we
harden our hearts against others and seek to destroy their dignity, we poison
ourselves as well. Ultimately, we
cannot advance ourselves at othersÕ expense. As we remind ourselves on Passover, we are never truly free
until all people are free. LÕshanah haÕbaÕa bÕYerushelayim. Next
year in Jerusalem, with freedom and dignity and justice for all who live
there.
Word count:
3345
SOME POINTS FROM THE Q
& A DISCUSSION THAT FOLLOWED
á
DoesnÕt Jewish
self-determination mean a Jewish state?
Not
necessarily. The cultural Zionist
vision articulated by Buber and others was mentioned. And there was Moshe Sharett – IsraelÕs first foreign
minister and second prime minister – who was much more open than Ben
Gurion to living and working with the indigenous population. It is interesting that many Jews in the
U.S. have never heard of Sharett.
His views did not prevail, and his diaries, which were very critical of
Ben GurionÕs approach to the Arab population, are not widely available.
á
Since the views of
Buber, or even Sharett, did not prevail, isnÕt the above point just
theoretical? We have a Jewish
state. Do you want to see that
destroyed? What do we do now?
Given
the current situation, a Jewish state is what we have, so the way to move
forward is a two-state solution. Many
Jews, obviously, but also many Palestinians (for different reasons), are more
comfortable with this option than a one-state solution. However, the viability of a Palestinian
state is increasingly threatened by the settlements, particularly those poised
to encircle the envisioned Palestinian capital of East Jerusalem.
á
WhatÕs to prevent a
two-state solution from becoming a two-ÒstageÓ solution, where the second stage
ends up being one bi-national state?
The
only way to keep a Jewish-majority state is by continuing to restrict
citizenship, land acquisition and home building in that state primarily to Jews,
and possibly expelling non-Jews and limiting intermarriage. Because these actions run counter to
human rights and the Jewish emphasis on justice itself, they are not
sustainable in the long run. ItÕs
true, other peoples, like the Italians or the French, say, take their
homelands, their states, for granted.
DonÕt the Jews, a long-lived and persecuted people, deserve – and
need – a state of their own as well? The problem is,
these other groups have been living in the same general area for many years,
where they form a natural majority.
We Jews had our ancient homeland, but the simple fact is, we havenÕt
lived there in large numbers for 2,000 years and others have been living there
for many generations. Another thing to consider is that history is
dynamic. If a two-state solution
is actually achieved and the two peoples begin trade and other peaceful
exchanges so that the two states eventually begin to function more as some kind
of single, federated entity, is that a bad thing? Consider also the Jewish community in the U.S. Jewish life in this country is
different than that in Israel but in many ways it is just as vibrant, and in
some ways, such as religious options, perhaps even more so. The challenge is, whether in the
diaspora or in the land of our forebears, how do we maintain our identity
– our values, our history, our culture, our religion? How do we continue to evolve as a
people, navigating between assimilation and isolation? How do we avoid passivity when
threatened without abusing power?