The Jewish People are not my People
- The Jewish People are not my People.
My People are Hashem and his Family from Bil`in.
2 April 2007
Hebrew original: http://www.haaretz.co.il/hasite/spages/845020.html
Translated by Rann Bar-On
There is nothing festive in this posting. Passover, shmassover, I
hate the holidays because while we celebrate, while us Jews babble
slogans about freedom, and fantasize that we are a miserable
enslaved nation, we are in fact busy enslaving the Palestinian
people. It`s become banal and boring to repeat this a thousand
times, but in my eyes, the hypocrisy cries out to the heavens. [The
Passover prayer] `Oh bread of poverty` is no longer the bread of
poverty of Jews but of numerous Palestinian families in the Occupied
Territories, who live off thirty or forty shekels the head of the
household manages to scrounge together doing temporary jobs once
every few days.
I got to know one such family this past Friday. I joined my
daughter, Talila, at a demonstration against the Wall in Bil`in. The
protocol involves gathering at Tel-Aviv`s Northern railway station
and from there somehow organizing ourselves into Arab minibuses and
private cars, and driving to those Palestinian villages whose income
has been affected by the Wall. That is, the Wall separates between
the villagers and their fields. My daughter is well-accustomed to
these demonstrations. For me, this was the fist time. This is how I
met Dr. Ilan Shalif, the living spirit of the the demonstrations and
organizer of rides.
Shalif is a psychologist and an anarchist, who surely has better
things to do with his time than to busy himself organizing taxis.
This is what it means to be an idealist: to do things for altruistic
reasons. He comes equipped with special large glasses to protect
against the sting of tear gas the border police will throw at him.
What encouraged me was that not all the demonstrators were
youngsters, some were more-or-less my age, like Yisrael and Dvorah
(Dvorah Ferdel-Zilberstein) who in the end volunteered to drive us
in her red Vauxhall to Bil`in.
We agree on a cover story in case we get stopped at the checkpoint
after the turnoff from Road 443. We were to say that we were on our
way to a circumcision ceremony at one of the settlements. But as it
turned out no one stopped us at the checkpoint, nor did they stop
the cars behind us. And so we climbed hills and descended into
valleys between quiet and beautiful villages, between olive groves
and fields of flowers, until we arrived at Bil`in.
In the interest of calm and sanity, it is best not to look at the
new settlements that are popping up on the way to Bil`in. All sort
of ugly piles of cement that destroys the beautiful vistas of this
land in the name of some fake `love of Israel`. When I stare at this
colossal ugliness, designed to house all sort of orthodox parasites
from abroad whose only job is to hate the non-Jew, I understand that
what is called the `Jewish nation` is not my nation at all, and that
I feel far more sympathetic and empathetic towards Palestinian
residents of the Occupied Territories like the family from
Bil`in who accommodated myself and my daughter after I was (lightly)
injured during the demonstration by an exploding stun grenade.
The father of the family is called Hashem. His wife is named Zahara.
They have two married daughters living nearby, and they have lovely
little children. I felt at home immediately. Hashem brought me herbs
from the garden, which were supposed to help alleviate the effects
of the gas thrown at me by the soldiers. Zahara hurried to bring us
a tray filled with fresh vegetables, pita bread, olive oil and
za`atar. Their house was small, pleasant and brightly lit. Hashem
works occasionally as a gardener in the houses of rich people in
Ramallah. Luckily, his brother owns the only supermarket in the
village and sells him good on credit. This is how they manage to
As I was walking with the demonstrators - some villagers, some from
Ramallah, and some Israeli and international activists - towards the
gate in the Wall that is protected by armed border policemen, my
daughter told me that one border police unit occupied Hashem`s roof
and fired at the house next door, where stones were supposedly
thrown from. My daughter shouted at the soldiers that the house they
were firing at had elderly and disabled residents in it, but they
In the mean time, I stood facing the soldiers guarding the gate in
the Wall and watched them. They put on tough-looking faces, but to
me they appeared to be just a group of cute kids. I thought to
myself that any one of them could have been my son. The only ones
who looked agitated were those who stood behind them, with the badge
of the army spokesperson`s office on their shoulders, filming the
The main attraction of the demonstration was a elderly Palestinian,
who had Parkinson`s, who came in a black suit and a Palestinian
keffiyeh and threw himself on the soldiers` shields. They pushed him
back, though they did try to be gentle, not because they are gentle
by nature, but rather because they knew foreign television crews
were filming them from the adjacent hilltop.
Once in a while the commander of the unit, who seemed slick and
devious to me, one of those who will declare at a party a few years
down the line that he`s really a leftist, instructed with a nod of
his head the use of a water cannon to disperse us. Then the stun
grenades began flying. What a disgusting man! How could I say that I
belong to the same nation as this commander, who orders stun
grenades to be thrown at me, while seemingly unable to wipe a vile
smile from his lips. It`s clear to him that I am non-violent, and I
will not lift a finger to his soldiers, nor I nor the elderly people
I was with, much less the villagers who were even less violent than
I was. All they wanted was to demonstrate a symbolic presence near
the Wall. One day I will bump into this commander when he is back to
civilian life and I will spit in his face(symbolically, of course,
not really, because I am not violent like he is).
This is how the Occupation functions. On the front line are good,
youth, who could have been my children, about whom I could never say
that they are oppressive occupiers. Behind them stands a commander
who looks like a marketing executive who cannot harm a fly. And
behind him stand all sort of slick-looking youths from the army
spokesperson`s office who look like future cinema directors and
authors. And even further back behind them stands a water cannon for
dispersal of demonstrations. And what`s the big deal about a water
cannon - water doesn`t kill. Nor do stun grenades. The whole thing
looks like child`s play, and despite all this there is an
Occupation, despite all this Hashem lives in a cage, much worse-off
than black slaves in the US in their time. All the people of Bil`in
can do is go to Ramallah, where the world they can travel freely in
stops. All this misery is created by people who look like dorky
So on the night of the Seder, while listening to the dull text of
the Hagadah, I will think about Hashem and his family from Bil`in,
who fed me a sparse meal, and yet I, even if I wanted to fulfill the
commandment telling me to share my food and my home with the needy
will not be able to, because of those fences and walls of Occupation
separating between us, disguising themselves as elements in an
`enlightened` Occupation. And I will think that they are truly my
people, not the disgusting officers who look like marketing
executives, who destroy my beautiful land with fortified cement.
Upon them will I pour my scorn, as is commanded to do upon non-Jews
in the hagadah.
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