An incoming text ringtone breaks the evening gloom, 15 minutes before the Shabbat meal. I pull the cutlery from the drawer. A thick sadness fills the room and outside the trees wave in the heat storm under the pressure of the skies of the end of the world
Last week, a human rights activist stopped her car on the roadside in the northern Palestinian Jordan Valley. With her cell phone camera, for many minutes she documented a criminal act that took place in plain strong sunlight. At the middle of the day, on a main highway crossing occupied territory, a group of colonists steal the cattle of Palestinian farmers.
Rabbi A. hurries down the trail to the flock of black goats gathering under the jujube tree. A warm wind blows, A. hurries on bent a bit forward, his walk shaped by endless energy and devotion. Apparently, he wishes to get to his destination before he will actually be there. He rushes and calls out to the colonist, “Please, go away”. His accent is foreign and the word “please” sounds strange in the brewing incident, but A. repeats the word and adds, “This is not your water, and not your land”.
We have close friends in Germany. They are both retired Lutheran priests. She officiated for many years as head of the church in a big city. He was a priest in small communities, and lectured on theology at a teachers’ seminary most of the time. They are both second-generation Nazism survivors. Their parents were not Nazi criminals, but unfortunately they lived as German citizens during the Nazi rule. His father was a soldier captured by the Russians, and spent five years in a Soviet POW camp from which he returned broken body and soul. Her father was a physician in German army camps, and was captured by the French. He was in POW camp in France, nothing nice about that either.
Look at this guy marching determinedly down a street in Jenin. In proud defiance he passes by the soldiers, they no longer exist for him. Now it’s only him and his son. It’s between them. The armed soldiers, wearing all the security gear that makes them resemble robots, try to stop him, block him, and he ignores them, continuing to march straight forward. The force that moves him is right there in his arms. His dead child. Anger makes him even more erect, beating along his march towards the place where the body would be placed until buried. The body of a small dead child, considering his age – 13. Ahmad Mohammad Samer was a sick child. His parents nurtured him. There is a photo of him in a suit, including a necktie, from one of the holidays. Thin and withheld, hiding a modest joy, facing the photographer.
They come in white or in startling army uniforms, but festive. With their tassels and their large Sabbath yarmulka. Yes, Sabbath. It’s their day of recreation. Not praying, not hanging out with the family, not feasting in food and drink. They devote their Jewish holy day to violent intimidation.
Let’s look at these acts from afar - say we were Swiss, peacefully observing the green meadows facing us, eating piles of chocolate and mounds of cheese
Fatma Salem passed away of cardiac arrest last night. Gone was the strength of this brave woman, who fought for her home in Sheikh Jarrah against bigger and stronger forces than hers.
This is the face of the end of humanity. The bearded face of the army-uniformed colonist who shouts “traitor!” at a man who devotes his life to save the State of Israel, and the face of the army-uniformed colonist who shoots and kills the Jewish-Israeli citizen who was protecting Israeli citizens at Jerusalem’s entrance.
Ilana Dayan: The ISA (Shin Bet) reported that the Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir instructed the police to ignore Jewish terrorism in the West Bank
Sometimes I wish I could be like those whose world is clear and unequivocal. Who can see only black and white. Who know what should be done now. I wish I could say as they do: Wipe out Gaza and bring the kidnapped back. Just like that, in one breath, without noticing the contradiction…
Two elderly Palestinian farmers live in my heart. I don’t know their names, but I do know what they feel. The first entered my heart last week after bulldozers of Smotrich’s “defense forces” took down and destroyed hundreds of olive and fig trees and vineyards in the Salfit district