Despite its miraculous progress over six decades, the country is still threatened by its neighbours
By Gil Troy
Montreal Gazette, May 07, 2008
At sundown tonight, Israel marks its 60th anniversary, celebrating impressive national achievements. In 1948, the fragile, embattled country was a harsh place to live, as imperiled as a blade of grass planted in a desert surrounded by menacing predators. Six decades later, the country is a stable, thriving democracy with seven million citizens.
No longer a flimsy seedling, Israel is like a microchip, small, sophisticated - and complicated - generating great power, attracting much attention.
Yet, despite this country's miraculous progress in six decades, the 10th anniversary of Israel 's 50th anniversary is sobering. Looking at 2008 from 1998, not 1948, highlights the devastating impact of the Oslo peace process's failure.
Today, it is easy to forget David Ben-Gurion's daring in urging Israel 's independence. The British planned to relinquish control of Palestine on May 14, 1948. In November, 1947, the United Nations had voted to partition Palestine into a Jewish state and an Arab territory - both groups called themselves "Palestinians." Ben-Gurion, the gruff, charismatic leader of the Yishuv, the Jewish state's preliminary government, endorsed the compromise. That too, took courage because the plan offered hard-to-defend boundaries and internationalized Jerusalem .
Arab leaders rejected the UN decision. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem called for jihad. From November 1947 through May 1948, local Arabs slaughtered 1,256 Jewish men, women and children with truck bombs and ambushes, shootings and stabbings.
With Jerusalem besieged, and five surrounding Arab armies ready to pounce, many proposed postponing independence. Harry Truman's secretary of defence, the legendary George Marshall, warned Ben-Gurion's emissary "as a military man," that the situation was "grave."
Ben-Gurion, however, felt the Jews had waited long enough. They had lost sovereignty 1,900 years earlier, when the Romans razed Jerusalem , and exiled many - although some Jewish communities remained in their homeland. They had just endured the mass murder of 6 million. And the Zionist movement in Palestine had been building toward this moment, settlement by settlement, institution by institution, since the 1880s.
At 4 p.m. on May 14, 1948, David Ben-Gurion read Israel 's Declaration of Independence. This remarkable document, mixing civic and ethnic nationalism, rooted in history stretching back to the Bible, envisioned peace with all the country's neighbours.
Six thousand Jews died in Israel 's War for Independence , approximately one per cent of the population. After fierce fighting, the borders became more defensible. Jews controlled Jewish Western Jerusalem.
Alas, crack Jordanian troops captured and destroyed the old city's Jewish Quarter, the Jewish people's emotional epicentre.
Ben-Gurion's gamble paid off - although what he "won" was not much of a bargain. The new country, Israel , was small, arid, with minimal economic infrastructure, major enemies and massive waves of immigrants coming to resettle, both the survivors of the Holocaust and, over the next 10 years, nearly one million Jewish refugees expelled from Arab lands. These were days of food rationing, rough clothes, hard work, tempered by the exhilaration of returning to history, controlling their destiny and fulfilling a national mission.
Sixty years later, those who survived walk around Israel amazed. The goodies of modern Western prosperity and freedom abound, for better and worse: cars and traffic, factories and pollution, a flood of consumer goods and waves of individualistic self-indulgence. Headlines emphasize the high-tech inventions, the medical advances, the cutting-edge research. Less appreciated are record-level per-capita rates of book publishing and reading, charitable giving and volunteering, spiritual seeking and study.
Perhaps most surprising to outsiders - and most impressive given the country's tragic history - is an ingrained peace ethos. So many defining Israeli songs yearn for peace - Shir LaShalom, a song of peace, Nolatedi LeShalom, I was born for peace, Salaam Aleikum, peace be upon you - Arabic title, Hebrew lyrics, universal hope. Cynics might scoff, but the world has seen the difference between civilizations craving peace, and cultures celebrating vilification and violence.
And that explains the trauma of the 10th anniversary of the 50th. In 1998, the Oslo Accords fed Israelis' hope for peace with their Palestinian neighbours. As it did with the Sinai in 1979, Israel had made the historically unprecedented step of offering to leave contested territory seized legitimately in a border dispute. Israel imported Yasser Arafat from Tunis , offering his forces weapons and training. Alas, rather than being another Nelson Mandela, Arafat remained a terrorist. The renewed Palestinian terror campaign beginning in 2000 shattered Israelis' hope for normalcy.
That Israel's self-defence earned such worldwide opprobrium, despite the Oslo concessions, demoralized Israelis.
Israel has a strong democratic culture of self-criticism that does not exist in the Arab world. Most Israelis, from across the political spectrum, hold two contradictory positions. They lambaste their own leaders for various missteps. Still, most believe Israel 's mistakes pale amid this great betrayal when Palestinians turned from negotiations toward terror - and attracted world support rather than being urged back to negotiate.
As a result, clouds shadow tonight's celebrations. Independence Day festivities immediately follow the Day of Mourning for Fallen Soldiers and Terror Victims. This year particularly, as Israelis swing abruptly from lamentation to exhilaration, they will delight in the miracles they have created since 1948. They will mourn their lost loved ones and dashed hopes. But they will sing their collective songs of peace, knowing that they - and their neighbours - were born for peace, that peace must come upon them, in Arabic and Hebrew, with both sides willing to be self-critical, make critical compromises, and seek a solution that will make the 10th anniversary of the 60th anniversary a moment of absolute joy.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Center Field: Why I am a Zionist
By Gil Troy
Jerusalem Post, JPost.com, May 7, 2008
Today, too many friends and foes define Israel, and Zionism, by the Arab world's hostility. Doing so misses Israel's everyday miracles, the millions who live and learn, laugh and play, in the Middle East's only functional democracy. Doing so ignores the achievements of Zionism, a gutsy, visionary movement which rescued a shattered people by reuniting a scattered people. Doing so neglects the transformative potential of Zionism, which could inspire new generations of Israeli and Diaspora Jews to find personal redemption by redeeming their old-new communal homeland.
Tragically, Zionism is embattled. Arabs have demonized Zionism as the modern bogeyman, and many have clumped Zionists, along with Americans and most Westerners, as the Great Satans. In Israel, trendy post-Zionists denigrate the state which showers them with privilege, while in the Diaspora a few Jewish anti-Zionists loudly curry favor with the Jewish state's enemies. Jews should reaffirm their faith in Zionism; the world should appreciate its many accomplishments. Zionists must not allow their enemies to define and slander the movement.
No nationalism is pure, no movement is perfect, no state ideal. But today Zionism remains legitimate, inspiring, and relevant, to me and most Jews. Zionism offers an identity anchor in a world of dizzying choices - and a road map toward national renewal. A century ago, Zionism revived pride in the label "Jew"; today, Jews must revive pride in the label "Zionist."
I AM a Zionist because I am a Jew - and without recognizing Judaism's national component, I cannot explain its unique character. Judaism is a world religion bound to one homeland, shaping a people whose holy days revolve around the Israeli agricultural calendar, ritualize theological concepts, and relive historic events. Only in Israel can a Jew fully live in Jewish space and by Jewish time.
I am a Zionist because I share the past, present, and future of my people, the Jewish people. Our nerve endings are uniquely intertwined. When one of us suffers, we share the pain; when many of us advance communal ideals together, we - and the world - benefit.
I am a Zionist because I know my history - and after being exiled from their homeland more than 1900 years ago, the defenseless, wandering Jews endured repeated persecutions from both Christians and Muslims - centuries before this anti-Semitism culminated in the Holocaust.
I am a Zionist because Jews never forgot their ties to their homeland, their love for Jerusalem. Even when they established autonomous self-governing structures in Babylonia, in Europe, in North Africa, these governments in exile yearned to return home.
I am a Zionist because those ideological ties nourished and were nurtured by the plucky minority of Jews who remained in the land of Israel, sustaining continued Jewish settlement throughout the exile.
I am a Zionist because in modern times the promise of Emancipation and Enlightenment was a double-edged sword, often only offering acceptance for Jews in Europe after they assimilated, yet never fully respecting them if they did assimilate.
I am a Zionist because in establishing the sovereign state of Israel in 1948, the Jews reconstituted in modern Western terms a relationship with a land they had been attached to for millennia, since Biblical times - just as Japan or India established modern states from ancient civilizations.
I am a Zionist because in building that state, the Jews returned to history and embraced normalcy, a condition which gave them power, with all its benefits, responsibilities, and dilemmas.
I am a Zionist because I celebrate Israel's existence. Like any thoughtful patriot, though I might criticize particular government policies I dislike - I do not delegitimize the state itself. I am a Zionist because I live in the real world of nation-states. I see that Zionism is no more or less "racist" than any other nationalism, be it American, Armenian, Canadian, or Czech. All express the eternal human need for some internal cohesion, some tribalism, some solidarity among some historic grouping of individuals, and not others.
I am a Zionist because we have learned from North American multiculturalism that pride in one's heritage as a Jew, an Italian, a Greek, can provide essential, time-tested anchors in our me-me-me, my-my-my, more-more-more, now-now-now world.
I am a Zionist because in Israel we have learned that a country without a vision is like a person without a soul; a big-tent Zionism can inculcate values, fight corruption, reaffirm national unity, and restore a sense of mission.
I AM a Zionist because in our world of post-modern multi-dimensional identities, we don't have to be "either-ors", we can be "ands and buts" - a Zionist AND an American patriot; a secular Jew BUT also a Zionist. Just as some people living in Israel reject Zionism, meaning Jewish nationalism, Jews in the Diaspora can embrace it. To those who ask "How can you be a Zionist if you don't make aliya," I reply, "How will anyone make aliya without first being a Zionist?"
I am a Zionist because I am a democrat. The marriage of democracy and nationalism has produced great liberal democracies, including Israel, despite its democracy being tested under severe conditions.
I am a Zionist because I am an idealist. Just as a century ago, the notion of a viable, independent, sovereign Jewish state was an impossible dream - yet worth fighting for - so, too, today, the notion of a thriving, independent, sovereign Jewish state living in true peace with its neighbors appears to be an impossible dream - yet worth seeking.
I am a Zionist because I am a romantic. The story of the Jews rebuilding their homeland, reclaiming the desert, renewing themselves, was one of the 20th century's greatest epics, just as the narrative of the Jews maintaining their homeland, reconciling with the Arab world, renewing themselves, and serving as a light to others, a model nation state, could be one of this century's marvels. Yes, it sometimes sounds far-fetched. But, as Theodor Herzl, the father of modern Zionism, said in an idle boast that has become a cliche: "If you will it, it is no dream."
Gil Troy is Professor of History at McGill University . He is the author of "Why I Am A Zionist: Israel, Jewish Identity and the Challenges of Today. This is an updated version of an essay he first wrote for Yom Ha'atzmaut 2001.
Jerusalem Post, JPost.com, May 7, 2008
Today, too many friends and foes define Israel, and Zionism, by the Arab world's hostility. Doing so misses Israel's everyday miracles, the millions who live and learn, laugh and play, in the Middle East's only functional democracy. Doing so ignores the achievements of Zionism, a gutsy, visionary movement which rescued a shattered people by reuniting a scattered people. Doing so neglects the transformative potential of Zionism, which could inspire new generations of Israeli and Diaspora Jews to find personal redemption by redeeming their old-new communal homeland.
Tragically, Zionism is embattled. Arabs have demonized Zionism as the modern bogeyman, and many have clumped Zionists, along with Americans and most Westerners, as the Great Satans. In Israel, trendy post-Zionists denigrate the state which showers them with privilege, while in the Diaspora a few Jewish anti-Zionists loudly curry favor with the Jewish state's enemies. Jews should reaffirm their faith in Zionism; the world should appreciate its many accomplishments. Zionists must not allow their enemies to define and slander the movement.
No nationalism is pure, no movement is perfect, no state ideal. But today Zionism remains legitimate, inspiring, and relevant, to me and most Jews. Zionism offers an identity anchor in a world of dizzying choices - and a road map toward national renewal. A century ago, Zionism revived pride in the label "Jew"; today, Jews must revive pride in the label "Zionist."
I AM a Zionist because I am a Jew - and without recognizing Judaism's national component, I cannot explain its unique character. Judaism is a world religion bound to one homeland, shaping a people whose holy days revolve around the Israeli agricultural calendar, ritualize theological concepts, and relive historic events. Only in Israel can a Jew fully live in Jewish space and by Jewish time.
I am a Zionist because I share the past, present, and future of my people, the Jewish people. Our nerve endings are uniquely intertwined. When one of us suffers, we share the pain; when many of us advance communal ideals together, we - and the world - benefit.
I am a Zionist because I know my history - and after being exiled from their homeland more than 1900 years ago, the defenseless, wandering Jews endured repeated persecutions from both Christians and Muslims - centuries before this anti-Semitism culminated in the Holocaust.
I am a Zionist because Jews never forgot their ties to their homeland, their love for Jerusalem. Even when they established autonomous self-governing structures in Babylonia, in Europe, in North Africa, these governments in exile yearned to return home.
I am a Zionist because those ideological ties nourished and were nurtured by the plucky minority of Jews who remained in the land of Israel, sustaining continued Jewish settlement throughout the exile.
I am a Zionist because in modern times the promise of Emancipation and Enlightenment was a double-edged sword, often only offering acceptance for Jews in Europe after they assimilated, yet never fully respecting them if they did assimilate.
I am a Zionist because in establishing the sovereign state of Israel in 1948, the Jews reconstituted in modern Western terms a relationship with a land they had been attached to for millennia, since Biblical times - just as Japan or India established modern states from ancient civilizations.
I am a Zionist because in building that state, the Jews returned to history and embraced normalcy, a condition which gave them power, with all its benefits, responsibilities, and dilemmas.
I am a Zionist because I celebrate Israel's existence. Like any thoughtful patriot, though I might criticize particular government policies I dislike - I do not delegitimize the state itself. I am a Zionist because I live in the real world of nation-states. I see that Zionism is no more or less "racist" than any other nationalism, be it American, Armenian, Canadian, or Czech. All express the eternal human need for some internal cohesion, some tribalism, some solidarity among some historic grouping of individuals, and not others.
I am a Zionist because we have learned from North American multiculturalism that pride in one's heritage as a Jew, an Italian, a Greek, can provide essential, time-tested anchors in our me-me-me, my-my-my, more-more-more, now-now-now world.
I am a Zionist because in Israel we have learned that a country without a vision is like a person without a soul; a big-tent Zionism can inculcate values, fight corruption, reaffirm national unity, and restore a sense of mission.
I AM a Zionist because in our world of post-modern multi-dimensional identities, we don't have to be "either-ors", we can be "ands and buts" - a Zionist AND an American patriot; a secular Jew BUT also a Zionist. Just as some people living in Israel reject Zionism, meaning Jewish nationalism, Jews in the Diaspora can embrace it. To those who ask "How can you be a Zionist if you don't make aliya," I reply, "How will anyone make aliya without first being a Zionist?"
I am a Zionist because I am a democrat. The marriage of democracy and nationalism has produced great liberal democracies, including Israel, despite its democracy being tested under severe conditions.
I am a Zionist because I am an idealist. Just as a century ago, the notion of a viable, independent, sovereign Jewish state was an impossible dream - yet worth fighting for - so, too, today, the notion of a thriving, independent, sovereign Jewish state living in true peace with its neighbors appears to be an impossible dream - yet worth seeking.
I am a Zionist because I am a romantic. The story of the Jews rebuilding their homeland, reclaiming the desert, renewing themselves, was one of the 20th century's greatest epics, just as the narrative of the Jews maintaining their homeland, reconciling with the Arab world, renewing themselves, and serving as a light to others, a model nation state, could be one of this century's marvels. Yes, it sometimes sounds far-fetched. But, as Theodor Herzl, the father of modern Zionism, said in an idle boast that has become a cliche: "If you will it, it is no dream."
Gil Troy is Professor of History at McGill University . He is the author of "Why I Am A Zionist: Israel, Jewish Identity and the Challenges of Today. This is an updated version of an essay he first wrote for Yom Ha'atzmaut 2001.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Center Field: Remember the terror victims at the Seder
Posted by Gil Troy, Jerusalem Post, Wednesday Apr 16, 2008
Once again, we will celebrate our joyous holiday of liberation this seder with heavy hearts. Even as we revel in our freedom as Jews today, even as we marvel at Israel's steadiness amid the terrorist onslaught, even as we begin celebrating Israel's 60th anniversary, too many Israeli families are in pain. This year, as we think of three Israeli hostages in a Mitzraim, in dire straits, and think of an entire region, the western Negev, including the city of Sderot, held hostage, we must reclaim our symbols, remember our losses, reaffirm our commitment to Israel, to the Jewish people, and to a true peace.
In the bloody, unnecessary war the Palestinians began by turning away from negotiations toward violence, too many died, too many have been injured, on both sides. And too many seders now have empty chairs - missing husbands, fathers, brothers, sons; missing wives, mothers, sisters, daughters.
The seder's power and popularity comes from ritualizing memory. It is primal, sensual, literal. The seder plate - representing the mortar used in building, the charoset, and the tears shed by the slaves, the salt water - helps us visualize the trauma of slavery.
The physical acts of reclining, of eating special foods, of standing to greet Elijah the prophet, help us feel the joy of Yetziat Mitzrayim, leaving Egypt. And, affirming the importance of peoplehood, we mark this moment not as individuals but as a community.
In that spirit, we cannot proceed with business as usual. We must improvise a new ritual marking our present pain, illustrating the Jewish people's profound unity. We should intrude on our own celebrations at seder by leaving one setting untouched, by having one empty chair at our tables.
Let us take a moment to reflect on our losses from these terrible seven-and-a-half years, for even as stability has returned, terror attempts continue, freshly dug graves pockmark the Holy Land, the mourning for those lost persists. And as we reflect, let us not just remember the dead as nameless and faceless people, let us personalize them. Let us take the time to uncover one victim’s name, one Jew who cannot celebrate this year's holiday, one family in mourning.
Let us call out the names of Oleg Lipson and Lev Cherniak, civilians killed days ago by terrorists attacking the Nahal Oz fuel depot, which supplies Gaza with power.
Let us call out the names of Gilad Shalit, a 19-year-old with a shy smile, kidnapped by Hamas on the Gaza border in July, 2006; and that of Ehud Goldwasser, a 31-year-old engineer, and Eldad Regev, a 26-year-old pre-law student, kidnapped by Hizbullah just south of Lebanon. The joy we take in our freedom must remain incomplete knowing that the Shalit, Goldwasser, and Regev families are missing their loved ones - even lacking information about their status.
Still reeling from the carnage amid the holy texts in the Mercaz HaRav library, let us call out the names of Yohai Lifshitz, 18, Neri Cohen, 15, Yonatan Yitzhak Eldar, 16, Yonadav Haim Hirschfeld, 19, Segev Peniel Avihail, 15, Avraham David Moses, 16, Roee Roth, 18 and Doron Mahareta, 26.
Remembering the Second Lebanon War sacrifices, let us call out the name of Yaniv Bar-On, the 20-year-old son of a South African father and a Canadian mother, ambushed while trying to save Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev from Hizbullah's clutches, and of Roi Klein, 31, a father of two, who jumped on a grenade crying "Shma Yisrael," Hear O' Israel, sacrificing his life to save his troops from certain death.
Remembering previous victims, let us call out the name of Benny Avraham, age 20, one of three young Israelis murdered by Hizbullah in a failed kidnapping in October 2000, whose body was kept frozen as the sadistic terrorists toyed with the emotions of the three grieving families.
Let us call out the name of Koby Mandell, age 13, a young American immigrant brutally killed in May, 2001, whose father, Rabbi Seth Mandell, talks about the empty seat at his Shabbat table and shares the pain of watching other boys grow up, watching their voices deepen, their shoulders broaden, their gaits quicken, even as his son lies dead.
Let us call out the names of Ernest and Eva Weiss, aged 80 and 75, residents of Petach Tikvah who survived Nazi concentration camps only to be slaughtered while sitting down for the seder at the Park Hotel exactly six years ago, Pesach, 2002.
And as we condemn modern-day Pharoahs in Iran and elsewhere, as we recoil from the worldwide scourge of anti-Semitism this terrorism also unleashed, let us call out the names of Ilan Halimi, the 23-year-old French Jew cellphone salesman kidnapped, tortured and murdered in a Parisian suburb by anti-Semitic thugs, and of Daniel Pearl, the 38-year-old Wall Street Journal reporter kidnapped, then murdered, in Pakistan almost exactly four years earlier.
As we call out these names, let us vow to do what we can to bring the three hostages home. As we call out these names, let us commit to some action to embrace the families of the victims - the thousand who died and the nearly ten thousand who were injured. As we call out these names, let those of us in the Diaspora commit to building a friendship with Israel which is not just about politics, and not solely about mourning and memory; let those of us in Israel commit to building a nation which can bring pride to the memories of those who sacrificed so much.
And as we call out these names, unlike too many of our enemies, let us not call for vengeance; let us not call for more bloodshed. Instead, as we mourn, let us hope. As we remember the many lives lost during this crazy and pointless war, let us pray ever more intensely for a just and lasting peace.
Gil Troy is Professor of History at McGill University and the author of Why I Am A Zionist: Israel, Jewish Identity and the Challenges of Today.
Once again, we will celebrate our joyous holiday of liberation this seder with heavy hearts. Even as we revel in our freedom as Jews today, even as we marvel at Israel's steadiness amid the terrorist onslaught, even as we begin celebrating Israel's 60th anniversary, too many Israeli families are in pain. This year, as we think of three Israeli hostages in a Mitzraim, in dire straits, and think of an entire region, the western Negev, including the city of Sderot, held hostage, we must reclaim our symbols, remember our losses, reaffirm our commitment to Israel, to the Jewish people, and to a true peace.
In the bloody, unnecessary war the Palestinians began by turning away from negotiations toward violence, too many died, too many have been injured, on both sides. And too many seders now have empty chairs - missing husbands, fathers, brothers, sons; missing wives, mothers, sisters, daughters.
The seder's power and popularity comes from ritualizing memory. It is primal, sensual, literal. The seder plate - representing the mortar used in building, the charoset, and the tears shed by the slaves, the salt water - helps us visualize the trauma of slavery.
The physical acts of reclining, of eating special foods, of standing to greet Elijah the prophet, help us feel the joy of Yetziat Mitzrayim, leaving Egypt. And, affirming the importance of peoplehood, we mark this moment not as individuals but as a community.
In that spirit, we cannot proceed with business as usual. We must improvise a new ritual marking our present pain, illustrating the Jewish people's profound unity. We should intrude on our own celebrations at seder by leaving one setting untouched, by having one empty chair at our tables.
Let us take a moment to reflect on our losses from these terrible seven-and-a-half years, for even as stability has returned, terror attempts continue, freshly dug graves pockmark the Holy Land, the mourning for those lost persists. And as we reflect, let us not just remember the dead as nameless and faceless people, let us personalize them. Let us take the time to uncover one victim’s name, one Jew who cannot celebrate this year's holiday, one family in mourning.
Let us call out the names of Oleg Lipson and Lev Cherniak, civilians killed days ago by terrorists attacking the Nahal Oz fuel depot, which supplies Gaza with power.
Let us call out the names of Gilad Shalit, a 19-year-old with a shy smile, kidnapped by Hamas on the Gaza border in July, 2006; and that of Ehud Goldwasser, a 31-year-old engineer, and Eldad Regev, a 26-year-old pre-law student, kidnapped by Hizbullah just south of Lebanon. The joy we take in our freedom must remain incomplete knowing that the Shalit, Goldwasser, and Regev families are missing their loved ones - even lacking information about their status.
Still reeling from the carnage amid the holy texts in the Mercaz HaRav library, let us call out the names of Yohai Lifshitz, 18, Neri Cohen, 15, Yonatan Yitzhak Eldar, 16, Yonadav Haim Hirschfeld, 19, Segev Peniel Avihail, 15, Avraham David Moses, 16, Roee Roth, 18 and Doron Mahareta, 26.
Remembering the Second Lebanon War sacrifices, let us call out the name of Yaniv Bar-On, the 20-year-old son of a South African father and a Canadian mother, ambushed while trying to save Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev from Hizbullah's clutches, and of Roi Klein, 31, a father of two, who jumped on a grenade crying "Shma Yisrael," Hear O' Israel, sacrificing his life to save his troops from certain death.
Remembering previous victims, let us call out the name of Benny Avraham, age 20, one of three young Israelis murdered by Hizbullah in a failed kidnapping in October 2000, whose body was kept frozen as the sadistic terrorists toyed with the emotions of the three grieving families.
Let us call out the name of Koby Mandell, age 13, a young American immigrant brutally killed in May, 2001, whose father, Rabbi Seth Mandell, talks about the empty seat at his Shabbat table and shares the pain of watching other boys grow up, watching their voices deepen, their shoulders broaden, their gaits quicken, even as his son lies dead.
Let us call out the names of Ernest and Eva Weiss, aged 80 and 75, residents of Petach Tikvah who survived Nazi concentration camps only to be slaughtered while sitting down for the seder at the Park Hotel exactly six years ago, Pesach, 2002.
And as we condemn modern-day Pharoahs in Iran and elsewhere, as we recoil from the worldwide scourge of anti-Semitism this terrorism also unleashed, let us call out the names of Ilan Halimi, the 23-year-old French Jew cellphone salesman kidnapped, tortured and murdered in a Parisian suburb by anti-Semitic thugs, and of Daniel Pearl, the 38-year-old Wall Street Journal reporter kidnapped, then murdered, in Pakistan almost exactly four years earlier.
As we call out these names, let us vow to do what we can to bring the three hostages home. As we call out these names, let us commit to some action to embrace the families of the victims - the thousand who died and the nearly ten thousand who were injured. As we call out these names, let those of us in the Diaspora commit to building a friendship with Israel which is not just about politics, and not solely about mourning and memory; let those of us in Israel commit to building a nation which can bring pride to the memories of those who sacrificed so much.
And as we call out these names, unlike too many of our enemies, let us not call for vengeance; let us not call for more bloodshed. Instead, as we mourn, let us hope. As we remember the many lives lost during this crazy and pointless war, let us pray ever more intensely for a just and lasting peace.
Gil Troy is Professor of History at McGill University and the author of Why I Am A Zionist: Israel, Jewish Identity and the Challenges of Today.
A Zionist Seder
By Gil Troy, www.israelatsixty.org.il, April 5, 2008
This year’s seder should launch the big buildup to Israel’s 60th anniversary celebration. Just as in my youth we had a “matzah of hope” to carve out time from the historic ritual to remember the contemporary challenges of Soviet Jewry, we need to use this most popular Jewish ritual to delight in the miracle of Israel’s surviving – and thriving.
The power of the seder - which remains one of the most popular of Jewish ceremonies in Israel and abroad - comes from its ritualization of memory, and its dramatization of history. It is a most primal, most sensual, most literal, of services. The seder plate - with its representations of the mortar used in building, the charoset, and of the tears shed by the slaves, the salt water - helps us visualize the trauma of slavery. The joy of Dayenu – and the building toward the festive meal – helps us feel the redemption of freedom.
There are many entry points within the Seder ritual for discussion and commemoration of Israel. We could start by setting one empty seat at the table, to remember the three kidnapped Israeli soldiers – and the other soldiers and victims of terror who cannot join this festive night because they were murdered by modern-day enemies. We could continue by only serving Israeli wine, and celebrating the emergence of a sophisticated wine culture that both fills traditional kashrut requirements and is beginning to make a splash on the international wine scene. We could give our children an Israel related toy – or simply make a charitable donation to Israel in their names – in exchange for the Afikomen. We could add contemporary readings and modern Israeli songs at the point of Dayenu – the song detailing the many miracles of redemption. And we could culminate with a discussion over dinner about just how do we celebrate the modern miracle of Israel, wherever we might stand on the political spectrum, because Zionism is an idea that should transcend the left-right gravitational physics of everyday politics.
Let us start this countdown toward Israel's birthday with an ambitious goal. Every Jew who attends a seder this month should end up celebrating Israel in some way next month. If we really could fulfill that goal, we would trigger such a torrent of ideas and waves of participation that we would accelerate the needed renewal of the bond linking Diaspora Jews with Israel, and the bond linking Israeli Jews with their brothers and sisters in the Diaspora.
This year’s seder should launch the big buildup to Israel’s 60th anniversary celebration. Just as in my youth we had a “matzah of hope” to carve out time from the historic ritual to remember the contemporary challenges of Soviet Jewry, we need to use this most popular Jewish ritual to delight in the miracle of Israel’s surviving – and thriving.
The power of the seder - which remains one of the most popular of Jewish ceremonies in Israel and abroad - comes from its ritualization of memory, and its dramatization of history. It is a most primal, most sensual, most literal, of services. The seder plate - with its representations of the mortar used in building, the charoset, and of the tears shed by the slaves, the salt water - helps us visualize the trauma of slavery. The joy of Dayenu – and the building toward the festive meal – helps us feel the redemption of freedom.
There are many entry points within the Seder ritual for discussion and commemoration of Israel. We could start by setting one empty seat at the table, to remember the three kidnapped Israeli soldiers – and the other soldiers and victims of terror who cannot join this festive night because they were murdered by modern-day enemies. We could continue by only serving Israeli wine, and celebrating the emergence of a sophisticated wine culture that both fills traditional kashrut requirements and is beginning to make a splash on the international wine scene. We could give our children an Israel related toy – or simply make a charitable donation to Israel in their names – in exchange for the Afikomen. We could add contemporary readings and modern Israeli songs at the point of Dayenu – the song detailing the many miracles of redemption. And we could culminate with a discussion over dinner about just how do we celebrate the modern miracle of Israel, wherever we might stand on the political spectrum, because Zionism is an idea that should transcend the left-right gravitational physics of everyday politics.
Let us start this countdown toward Israel's birthday with an ambitious goal. Every Jew who attends a seder this month should end up celebrating Israel in some way next month. If we really could fulfill that goal, we would trigger such a torrent of ideas and waves of participation that we would accelerate the needed renewal of the bond linking Diaspora Jews with Israel, and the bond linking Israeli Jews with their brothers and sisters in the Diaspora.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Center Field: This family's answer to the menace of terrorism
By GIL TROY, Jerusalem Post, Mar 11, 2008 21:27
Last week was what I am starting to think about as a typically strange week in Israel. Even before the horrific attack on Mercaz Harav here in Jerusalem we were living what I think of as the great Israeli disconnect.
On the one hand, our major focus was on sticking to the shigra, a new word I learned this year - the routine. My wife and I spent much of the week juggling. On Thursday for example, we worked on helping our 10-year-old son with his shishim shana Israel-at-60 school project, getting our seven-year-old son to the stress test he had to take to play in his baseball little league, dropping our five-year-old daughter off at her swimming lesson, and preparing our 12-year-old daughter for her youth movement tiyul - trip.
On the streets of Jerusalem the big headline was that the winter had lifted, spring was in the air. The meteorologists actually warned of sharav, a hot and dry spell, as our friends in Montreal struggled with another storm - this time 18 centimeters of snow mixed with 5 centimeters of ice pellets.
In Jerusalem , the weather shift was so swift it felt as if someone had just flicked a switch. All of a sudden, the air was lighter, more fragrant, the sun brighter, more welcoming. Looking at the delightful explosion of red, blue, pink, purple, and white flowers suddenly blooming in our yard, I learned what a kalanit - an anemone - actually looks like, rather than simply thinking about it as some lyric in romantic Hebrew songs. I spent part of Thursday afternoon uncovering and cleaning garden furniture.
I AM NOT smart enough or deep enough for this age of terrorism. I don't know how to square all that routine beauty with the pain of Sderot, the trauma of Ashkelon, the horrible choices Israeli soldiers and their commanders had to be making in split-seconds in Gaza, again and again as we enjoyed our Jerusalem spring.
I cannot reconcile our borderline-boring but oh so safe and soothing familiar family routine with the tragedy of Roni Yihye the 47-year-old father of four with whom I identify (for some strange reason) killed last week at Sapir College, the heartbreaking stories of Palestinian children tragically or cynically caught recently in the crossfire, or the despairing families of the three soldiers killed this week - one of whom was a 27-year-old Beduin volunteer with eight children, including a baby born just last month, another of whom was an essential hearing and speaking link for his two deaf parents.
It seems that headlines roll over everyone here in Israel at such an astounding pace that you get inured to it, until the horror actually happens to you.
And then the trauma of Thursday night hits. At approximately the same time as the terrorist was shooting up the seminary, a holy place of learning, I was showing two young guests from San Diego our neighborhood, Jerusalem 's German Colony. We reached Yemin Moshe, standing at one of Jerusalem 's many stunning overlooks, soaking in the entrancing beauty of the illuminated Old City walls. We then blithely strolled along the shops and cafes of Emek Refaim with no idea that at least eight young men, who probably had done the same thing many times, were having their lives cruelly taken from them at that same moment, on the other side of town.
SO WHICH is the reality and which the illusion? I don't really know.
And yes, the first human tendency is to hide, to run, to sweep up your children, hug them tightly, and keep them far away from the violence. But when you think about the cold-blooded killer, spraying hundreds of bullets at defenseless students, or the barbarians in Gaza and the West Bank who celebrated this bloodbath in a house of learning with victory shots in the air and candy thrown in the street, it becomes clear that we cannot hide, we cannot run - because they will never stop, they will never be satisfied. It sounds demagogic, paranoid, unenlightened, and most unscholarly but alas true: it really is yesterday Sderot, today Jerusalem , and tomorrow the West.
And we all have to do what we can. Some, like one of the older students at the yeshiva, Yitzhak Dadon, age 40, will hear the shots, scramble up to a roof, look through the window, and eventually help stop the tragedy with two shots to the terrorist's head, followed by a 29-year-old Paratroopers Capt. David Shapira, who ran from bathing his children across the street, ignored police warnings that it was dangerous to enter, and actually killed the terrorist.
Some, like friends in Montreal and all over the civilized world, will stand in silent prayer or loudly voice their outrage at rallies. And some, like my family and I are privileged to be doing right now, will stick to our routines, clean our garden furniture, go to baseball and swimming, make that presentation at school and enjoy the outing. And in doing that we will show that we, who love democracy and yearn for peace, will not be moved. We will not be discouraged. And we will enjoy this high quality of life, appreciating life, because that is what it means - to be a free people in our homeland, as we send warm regards, proudly, safely, calmly, happily, to our concerned friends and loved ones from Jerusalem .
Last week was what I am starting to think about as a typically strange week in Israel. Even before the horrific attack on Mercaz Harav here in Jerusalem we were living what I think of as the great Israeli disconnect.
On the one hand, our major focus was on sticking to the shigra, a new word I learned this year - the routine. My wife and I spent much of the week juggling. On Thursday for example, we worked on helping our 10-year-old son with his shishim shana Israel-at-60 school project, getting our seven-year-old son to the stress test he had to take to play in his baseball little league, dropping our five-year-old daughter off at her swimming lesson, and preparing our 12-year-old daughter for her youth movement tiyul - trip.
On the streets of Jerusalem the big headline was that the winter had lifted, spring was in the air. The meteorologists actually warned of sharav, a hot and dry spell, as our friends in Montreal struggled with another storm - this time 18 centimeters of snow mixed with 5 centimeters of ice pellets.
In Jerusalem , the weather shift was so swift it felt as if someone had just flicked a switch. All of a sudden, the air was lighter, more fragrant, the sun brighter, more welcoming. Looking at the delightful explosion of red, blue, pink, purple, and white flowers suddenly blooming in our yard, I learned what a kalanit - an anemone - actually looks like, rather than simply thinking about it as some lyric in romantic Hebrew songs. I spent part of Thursday afternoon uncovering and cleaning garden furniture.
I AM NOT smart enough or deep enough for this age of terrorism. I don't know how to square all that routine beauty with the pain of Sderot, the trauma of Ashkelon, the horrible choices Israeli soldiers and their commanders had to be making in split-seconds in Gaza, again and again as we enjoyed our Jerusalem spring.
I cannot reconcile our borderline-boring but oh so safe and soothing familiar family routine with the tragedy of Roni Yihye the 47-year-old father of four with whom I identify (for some strange reason) killed last week at Sapir College, the heartbreaking stories of Palestinian children tragically or cynically caught recently in the crossfire, or the despairing families of the three soldiers killed this week - one of whom was a 27-year-old Beduin volunteer with eight children, including a baby born just last month, another of whom was an essential hearing and speaking link for his two deaf parents.
It seems that headlines roll over everyone here in Israel at such an astounding pace that you get inured to it, until the horror actually happens to you.
And then the trauma of Thursday night hits. At approximately the same time as the terrorist was shooting up the seminary, a holy place of learning, I was showing two young guests from San Diego our neighborhood, Jerusalem 's German Colony. We reached Yemin Moshe, standing at one of Jerusalem 's many stunning overlooks, soaking in the entrancing beauty of the illuminated Old City walls. We then blithely strolled along the shops and cafes of Emek Refaim with no idea that at least eight young men, who probably had done the same thing many times, were having their lives cruelly taken from them at that same moment, on the other side of town.
SO WHICH is the reality and which the illusion? I don't really know.
And yes, the first human tendency is to hide, to run, to sweep up your children, hug them tightly, and keep them far away from the violence. But when you think about the cold-blooded killer, spraying hundreds of bullets at defenseless students, or the barbarians in Gaza and the West Bank who celebrated this bloodbath in a house of learning with victory shots in the air and candy thrown in the street, it becomes clear that we cannot hide, we cannot run - because they will never stop, they will never be satisfied. It sounds demagogic, paranoid, unenlightened, and most unscholarly but alas true: it really is yesterday Sderot, today Jerusalem , and tomorrow the West.
And we all have to do what we can. Some, like one of the older students at the yeshiva, Yitzhak Dadon, age 40, will hear the shots, scramble up to a roof, look through the window, and eventually help stop the tragedy with two shots to the terrorist's head, followed by a 29-year-old Paratroopers Capt. David Shapira, who ran from bathing his children across the street, ignored police warnings that it was dangerous to enter, and actually killed the terrorist.
Some, like friends in Montreal and all over the civilized world, will stand in silent prayer or loudly voice their outrage at rallies. And some, like my family and I are privileged to be doing right now, will stick to our routines, clean our garden furniture, go to baseball and swimming, make that presentation at school and enjoy the outing. And in doing that we will show that we, who love democracy and yearn for peace, will not be moved. We will not be discouraged. And we will enjoy this high quality of life, appreciating life, because that is what it means - to be a free people in our homeland, as we send warm regards, proudly, safely, calmly, happily, to our concerned friends and loved ones from Jerusalem .
Barak visits Mercaz Harav
JTA, 03-11-2008
Israel's defense minister visited the Mercaz Harav yeshiva to learn firsthand how last week's massacre unfolded.
Ehud Barak made an unannounced trip late Monday to the Jerusalem yeshiva, where witnesses to the attack by a Palestinian terrorist explained to him where and how each of his eight victims died.
The gunman's spree March 6 was cut short when an off-duty Israeli army officer and an armed student both shot him dead.
Barak was quoted as consoling the yeshiva on its losses but saying there was no guarantee such an attack would not recur. There is no choice but to continue fighting Palestinian terror, the defense minister said.
Barak's polite reception at Mercaz Harav was in marked contrast to the heckling of Israeli Education Minister Yuli Tamir, a noted left-wing activist, when she tried to visit the yeshiva. Tamir left after being called "murderer."
Mercaz Harav's staff has also been quoted as saying that Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert is persona non grata due to his pursuit of peace talks with Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas.
Israel's defense minister visited the Mercaz Harav yeshiva to learn firsthand how last week's massacre unfolded.
Ehud Barak made an unannounced trip late Monday to the Jerusalem yeshiva, where witnesses to the attack by a Palestinian terrorist explained to him where and how each of his eight victims died.
The gunman's spree March 6 was cut short when an off-duty Israeli army officer and an armed student both shot him dead.
Barak was quoted as consoling the yeshiva on its losses but saying there was no guarantee such an attack would not recur. There is no choice but to continue fighting Palestinian terror, the defense minister said.
Barak's polite reception at Mercaz Harav was in marked contrast to the heckling of Israeli Education Minister Yuli Tamir, a noted left-wing activist, when she tried to visit the yeshiva. Tamir left after being called "murderer."
Mercaz Harav's staff has also been quoted as saying that Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert is persona non grata due to his pursuit of peace talks with Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas.
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