South of Jerusalem, North of Prague

My friend Y the Spy is now writing for a huge daily newspaper. A few days ago she was sent on assignment to Hebron. She returned strongly affected. I wasn't surprised.

Yesterday, while putting final touches on her piece, she rang me up and asked a quastion: "What's the name of the area in Hebron with the narrow streets and the little shops, where the Jews live on one side and the Arabs on another?"

"Little shops? Open shops?"

"Yeah."

"That's strange, in Hebron wherever the settlers live the shops are closed by order of the army."

A little bit of questioning taught me that she was referring to the Casbah. "but how come you went through the Casbah?" I asked her, "Israeli visitors are not allowed in there."

"Not allowed?"

"No. Who guided you?"

"The soldiers."

"I guess with them you can go there. Anyway, that's what they pointed out? that Jews live on one side and Arabs on the other?"

"Well, among other things."

"You know, those windows you saw over the Casbah are the back of the selttlements. Did you also see the front side?"

"I think so. Yes."

"So you did see the parallel street, Shuhada street, where all the businesses are closed and the Palestinians are not permitted to walk."

Y the Spy seemed baffeled. "That area did seem pretty dead, but wait, not permitted to walk?"

"Yeah, only Jews and tourists are allowed to walk there, the army welded the doors of the Palestinian houses. They can only leave through the roofs and make their way down to the Casbah, where they may walk, and that's only the beginning. Are you seated?"

Y. the spy went to Hebron to write about the "Shimshon" regiment. When I first visited the city, the soldiers at the deserted street corners were from "Nahal" units, mostly kids from north Tel-Aviv suburbs who were raised to respect human rights. Seemingly, they brought up too many hard questions and were eventually replaced with soldiers closer to the political right. "Shimshon" soldiers made news during their taking of oath ceremony. They presented a banner claiming they will not participate in the evacuating of settlements. These pro-settler soldiers were seen as just the right stuff for maintaining order in Hebron's H2 sector, where several hundred settlers are terrorising a population of nearly 30,000 Palestinians.

"What did they say about their relationship with the settlers?" I asked.

"Not much. They said the settlers give them pizza sometimes."

"This is problematic, they don't get pizza from the Palestinians, if they did, they wouldn't be allowed to eat it, but the settlers are their friends. That's how come they let them do whatever they want, even beat up schoolgirls on their way home.

"They said they have an order to interfere when settlers are harrassing Palestinians" Y the spy said.

"Well that's as may be, but the taste of the pizza is still in their mouths. There's an olive still stuck between their teeth! who will they protect?"

Y the Spy is not naive, and her research of the Shimshon-Hebron question is to be thorough. I'm confident. But I was left upset. Avi Benayahu, IDF's spokesman, who arranged the tour, is the deciple of some great teachers.

When the Nazis allowed journalists and members of the red cross to visit the ghetto at Terezin (Theresienstadt), they were taking them to the only ghetto in Europe where kids were well fed and the Jews' dignity was preserved. Directly across the mountains was Poland and its horrors. Those were not mentioned on the tour. There's no need to lie, half-truths work just fine.

The IDF spokesman's unit piled obstacles before Y the Spy and her paper. Only barely did she recieve a permit to visit Hebron with the soldiers and speak to them (and even then, only to a chosen few). I assume that the Germans were equally smart, "not wanting" for journalists to visit Terezin and finally giving in.

Mr. Bnayahu should be very careful about where he gets his inspiration. As for us, we should be careful about where we get our information. Israeli journalists are dependent on the IDF's spokesperson unit. Brig. Gen. Benayahu is known to have put pressure on papers not to publish material he considered problematic. That material, such as exlposive evidence about the Gaza war that was minutes away from appearing in prime time, vanishes. When it boiled down to it, the reporters could not afford to lose Bnayahu's cooperation and be denied access to information. All media sources, including the paper for which I write, are faced with this threat.

In this case the newspaper cooperated by sending to Hebron a reporter with no knowledge of the city. It's a smart move as far as its relationship with Brig. Gen. Benayahu, the article will not be harsh, but we all end up with less information in our heads and a strange taste of pizza in our mouths.

P.S. one day later:

I'm naturally getting a fair bit of criticism for "comparing to the Holocaust". This is not a comparison. I am drawing an analogy, and the difference is great. If my little sister draws an angel and I say it reminds me of an angel painted by Michelangelo, that does not imply that I consider her as great an artist as Michelangelo was, nor that I think we're living in the Italian Renaissance. However, if she does have the potential to become a new Michelangelo, we'd better be aware of that and nourish her talent.

Dark by Night, Dark by Day

This week kicked off with two very interesting trips. The first was to Yad Haroutzim, one of Tel-Aviv's roughest nightlife districts. On Thursdays and Fridays the streets of the compound are the site of many a stabbing. Real life metal detectors are placed outside the clubs, and the music is as aggressive as the atmosphere. For some reason working class suburban kids love these vibes and descend on these streets by the thousands.

We came on a Saturday, as chaperons for our friend Goni, who had to take photos for a magazine article. The compound turned out to be dead. The dangerous energies gave way to the blues. It was thick blues, the sort of which I haven't felt in this city before. Yad Haroutzim felt like a container into which Israel's augmenting violence, waning education and diminishing values are dumped. We were there just as that trashcan was emptied, walking though the gloomy void that was left.






The following day we traveled 70 kilometers away, to Hebron. I used to come here often, mostly assisting the organization "Breaking the Silence", which gives tours of the city from a human rights perspective. For nearly a year I stayed away. As I expected, not much has changed. In fact, the only visible difference was that soldiers are no longer wearing full combat gear in the city. the destructive status quo, whereby Hebronites are perpetually held hostage, has rooted. No one threatens it.

Palestinians are still not allowed to walk on the main streets. The center of the city is a ghost town, in which 300 Jewish settlers are free to terrorize the Palestinian populatio with support of the army. Hebron feels like a container into which Israel's augmenting violence, waning education and diminishing values are dumped. Its streets at noon are as silent as Yad Haroutzim's streets on a Saturday night. Again that feeling of walking through an empty, dirty trashcan. Here it is, as photographed by Itka.






It's not too difficult to stay away from both Hebron and Yad Haroutzim. Israel looks great from the cafe in which I write this. Everyone is well dressed, educated and polite. We all enjoy liberties and rights similar to those of our brethren in Europe and North Amorica. Outside the window, good looking cars are climbing lazily up the tree-lined Ben-Zion Boulevard, passing the newly renovated national Theatre as they reach the top.

In reality, ours is a society in a state of crisis. The dark side of Israeli existance is getting darker. Many Israelis are struggling to cast more light: teachers, activists, volunteers et al. The government isn't helping much. It's more concerned about buying fake glasses and eyebrows and sending hit men for murder vacations in fancy Dubai hotels. Oh well, at least someone around here is having an authentic good time.

Bowmore

It's a whisky and Mozart afternoon.
My work is all done, only Ben calls periodically from Hebron,
asking for directions.

I came back from the Prince, met there with a PR guy,
The flies in the yard bugged us just a bit.
I suggested he promotes my book as a fresh look at Israel,
one that embraces its grit.
Phone's vibrating in my pocket - it's Ben.

They began arresting the human rights groups
as soon as they arrive into Hebron.
Only settlers will show the city from now on.
I direct Ben to the rooftop from which they'd throw feces on the market crowds.
Sip on my whisky, listen to Mozart.

Mozart wrote so well for the harp. He really respected it.
Always in conjoinment with some wind instrument. In this case:
the oboe.
The back of the record sleeve reads:
Adagio und Rondo c-moll Für "Glasharmonika"
Flöte, oboe, viola und violoncello, KV 617 (11'00)
Nicanor Zabaleta, Harfe
Mitglieder des
Kammerorchestre Paul Kuents.

I still prefer the flute and harp concerto.
Ben calls from Hebron. I answer with a stomach full of baguette.
This morning I compared baguettes for an item in Haaretz (bastille day is at hand).

No bastille day in Kiryat Arba.
Man, that would be a blood bath.
The best baguette was from "Le Moulin" on Bugrashov. Ben calls.
Damn this record is scratched.

But the whisky is very good.
"Bowmore".

Letter from Lotta

If you don't believe me that Åland exists, I've got proof.

and If you don't believe that it's one hell of a beautiful place, I've got proof.


These pictures were taken over a year ago, while I researched for an article about islands in the Baltic. Then last night I got the loveliest reminder of their existance and of the existance of the island's themselves, for that matter.

It was an email from Lotta, an Ålander I met very briefly on the street in Hebron about as long ago. Lotta left all the calm of the islands to come protect Palestinian schoolgirls who are being beat up regularly by the settlers on their way to school, under the soldiers' indifferent (or at least uninterfering) eyes. She was also involved in other humanitarian and educational work in that cursed city. She could hardly believe I've just come back from her tiny cluster of islands and raved about its smoked salmon. Our unlikely conversation was made difficult by settlers who were using a megaphone to intimidate her, calling her and her friends Nazis and antisemites.

Antisemite? Don't get me started. Over a year following our meeting, Lotta ran into my email address and sent me a warm word from the chilly baltic, signing it with a wish for peace "be'esrat hashem". It's not so difficult to simply exchange kindness, care and goodness across continents and lives. It's just a matter of choice, or of course we may choose otherwise.

Liberty

In the Passover Haggadah it is written: "In each generation people must regard themselves as though they escaped from Egypt personally." I hold this to be very signifeicant. The story of the exodus is not idle, the lessons must be relearned. The symbols are ever-significant. Passover is the Jewish celebration of liberty, as long as there's someone waiting to be liberated, it is a political holiday.

Currently the entire population of the Gaza strip is still under siege with no chance of anyone parting the waters and allowing them out. This unique blog is written by two friends, one a Gaza Palestinian (identifying himself as "Peace Man") one an Israeli from the often bombarded town of Sderot (Hope Man). Over this holiday, Sderot is expecting a shower of rockets from the Gaza strip. Hope Man did what any sensible person would do, while not literally abandoning vessel, he took his family on a two-week-long trip abroad. While he's away, Gaza is being bombarded every night (I saw jet planes with their lights turned off, returning from mission last night). However, only people in dire medical conditions are allowed out of the strip. Peace Man can't even give his family a short break across the border in Egypt.

And how ironic that Egypt would play the part of a promised land.

Others are deprived of their liberty too on this holiday eve. Forty years ago a group of radical right-wing Israelis conducted a passover seder at a hotel in the newly conquered city of Hebron. They then refused to leave the hotel, an act that led little by little to the creation of the current Jewish community of Hebron. Now make no mistake, I respect the ancient Jewish community of Hebron, I know about the massacre of 1929. I'm certainly in favor of Jewish people living in Hebron. Nevertheless, the dynamics of the occupation turned the old city of Hebron into a bubble of sadism where only intense zealots choose to live. There they are allowed to wreak havoc on their Palestinian neighbors, throw feces into their yards, ravage their homes (holidays such as passover are prime time for joyous mass acts of mass violence in Hebron), beat their children up regularly, all while being supported and protected by Israeli soldiers.

The liberty of Jews in Hebron's H2 sector is absolute. They live in a state of anarchy, in which any crime is pardonable as long as it is commited against Palestinians. The liberty of the Palestinians is zero. They are not allowed to drive through the heart of town. Throgh many streets they are not even allowed to walk. Several Palestinian families live along streets where they are forbidden to tread. They must leave their homes through the rooftops. No one protects their rights, their safety or their dignity.

This has been going on for forty years, the same amount of time the Biblical Israelites wandered the desert. It's time we put an end to this continuous tenth plague and break out of our slavery to bad politics. Happy holiday to everybody.

Hugging Hebron

When he's not praying with me in Bnei Brak (see this post from a week ago), Michael is a full time peace and human rights activist. Much of his job is done around Hebron, where 600 hateful zealots are holding tens of thousands of Palestinians hostage with the aid of a well armed military presence, thus encouraging zealotry and hatred on the other end. Michael is fighting to allow Palestinians the right to walk on the streets on which they live (many of them are only allowed to leave their houses via the rooftops), to prevent settlers from taking over their stores and houses, and to keep people aware of the violence and abuse that take place in that city daily.

He called me today to apologize for not returning my phone call from yesterday. "I took a day off with Yaelle and we went to the old city of Jerusalem," he explained, then told a bit of their fine adventures.

"I was actually in your turf." I told him. "I went to Hebron to give free hugs."

A short pause of bafflement ensued.

"Yeah, you see, I met this German girl at a party in Jaffa, I talked about volunteering with you in Hebron, she talked about the free hugs phenomenon, you know what it is."

"Yeah, sure I do. Keep going."

"So we decided to combine the two and give the free hugs where they are most needed. A friend of hers came along to document it. we created posters in Hebrew, English and Arabic and hit town. Now, of course if you walk with a sign in Arabic down Shuhada street, that's considered a leftist provocation. so the police gave us plenty of trouble, but that was only after we got to do quite a bit of hugging. We hugged settlers, soldiers, Palestinians, everybody."

"I can't believe you went. There are lots of people there now for the holiday."

"All the more free hugs."

Michael was overjoyed, which meant a lot to me. Hebron needs serious activism and I wasn't sure hugging there fell into that category. it was more of an experiment and an act of goodwill. If somebody who cares so much for the Hebronites likes our idea, it was probably appropriate. "Can I tell the guys about this?" he asked, meaning members of his organization "Children of Abraham"

"Of course, and tell them that I learned a lot. I was surprised that the settlers were not hostile towards us, but that the police was. It demonstrated to me once again that the problem is not necessarily the settlers, that they are just a symptom. The problem is official Israeli policy. I mean, the cops were civil with us, since we are not Arab, and I understand they're extra nervous around the holiday, but it was sad all the same. They kept asking us if we are related to any peace organization, saying 'peace' like someone might say 'terrorism'. I said that we weren't but that I guess hugging was a sharing of peace, whereupon they let us know that if we hug once more they will arrest us."

A note on the images: The first shows a rare instance of man-woman hug. In general all societies living in Hebron are quite traditional, Pamela could only hug women and I could only hug men. The Israeli soldiers come from a bit of a different universe.

The second image was taken on a street where only Jews and non-Arab visitors are allowed to walk. This is the very heart of Hebron's bubble of hatred. I was pleased and surprised to see the settler lady hugging Pamela while she was holding the sign in Arabic.

In the third image we are being interrogated by plainclothesmen. At the same time, one of the policemen says a benediction on the "four species", a collection of plants that is revered during this holiday. The source and meaning of this custom is lost. It's interesting that someone who engages in it would consider our behaviour strange.

Guests from Nablus

Sometimes it takes people from around the world to let you know what's happening 60 kilometers away from your home. Tonight they are on my balcony. The candle flames are struggling against the wind from the fan, schnitzels are brought in from the kitchen and a song by Johnny Cash is being played on the guitar. There's someone from South Africa, someone from France, someone from Sweden, someone from California and even someone from the exotic Aland islands.

In a way, though, they are all from Nablus.

I've visited Nablus during the happy-go-lucky peace-process Nineties. It is a pretty city nestled dramatically between two steep mountains, renowned for its sweets, its serpentine market and its unique community of Samaritans.

Since the start of the second Intifada Israelis are not allowed to visit Nablus or any other Major Palestinian city legally. The exception is the heart of Hebron, which was completely overtaken by 600 Israeli settlers and is therefore treated by the government as a de-facto Israeli neighborhood. It is in Hebron that I met the South African member of the party, one of the kindest and most inspiring people I've ever met, as well as other volunteers working with the Jerusalem based International Solidarity Movement. A friendship was formed, a beautiful, normal friendship.

At the same time, it is also an important friendship. The media doesn't tell me what's happening in Nablus, and I need to know because being Israeli, I carry responsibility for the situation there. My guests tell of nightly incursions by the army. There's firing every night, they say. They tell of entire families taken hostage by the I.D.F. as buildings are occupied to make sniper positions. They tell of teenagers held blindfolded in cages at checkpoints, of houses demolished without a warrant, of a bomb that exploded 150 meters from their residence.

I paid for that bomb with my tax money. I pay for the occupation of Nablus, so I need to know these things, and Palestinians can't come and tell me about it. They can't travel to Israel nor even move freely between their towns. The volunteers came to Tal-Aviv to relax, visit my home and color up their diets, but also to share. They came following 5 weeks in hell without a trace of hatred towards me as an Israeli or the Hebrew-speaking city I live in. I'm grateful to them for seeing the complexities and staying sincere, gentle and attentive also when confronted with criticism, doubt and the common Israeli point of view by me and my friends.

I've another thing to be grateful for: They introduced me to the gorgeousness of Imogen Heap's music.

The lyrics are very secondary in this unique live feat of overdubbing, but listen to them and you'll find that they can be nearly as moving as the music, especially on a night like this. "leave all our hopelessnesses aside," she sings, "Just for a little while / Tears stop right here / I know we all had a bumpy ride / I'm secretly on your side."