America's Narcissism

"In Iraq and Afghanistan, for example, gaps between prior visions of future warfare and the nature of the eventual wars themselves complicated efforts to adapt strategy over time. Minimalist, linear plans – in place at the outset of both wars – were disconnected from the ambition of broader policy objectives and the complexity of the operating environment. Indeed, recent war plans have, at times, been essentially narcissistic, failing to account for interactions with determined enemies and other complicating variables."

-Lt. Gen. H.R. McMaster quoted in an interview with the Strategy Bridge 

I think it's wonderful that an Army General is finally admitting to such. Bush's maximalist plans for change in Iraq & Afghanistan didn't fit with the Army's minimalist planning day-after approach. Lessons finally learned? 

If I forget you, Jerusalem

"Jerusalem has grown on me like a second skin. There is something about the city that opens and closes me. I am not always consciously aware of it, but it is in the soles of my feet when I walk, in my mouth when I speak, and behind my eyes when I think. When something snags at this new layer to draw my attention to it once more, I find myself able to focus on little else. My heart is torn and mended each time I am there, and often when I am observing from afar. All the conflict and contradictions Jerusalem contains provide the epitome of an earlier musing I had about living in this land: that being here is like walking on broken glass in a cave of wonders."-- Natasha Roth 

Jerusalem- Against the Dying of the Light

March for Freedom

This past week, a group of 150 African refugees took a stand against Israel's unjust and immoral policies against asylum seekers. Absconding from an open detention center in the south, they marched to Jerusalem to protest in front of the Prime Minister's house, and Israeli parliament, the Knesset. This comes a week after the Knesset passed an amendment to the anti-infiltration bill, making it legal to imprison asylum seekers for up to a year in prison, without trail, and for indefinite periods of time in an "open" detention camp.  An amendment that closely resembles a previous anti-infiltration amendment that was recently struck down by the High Court of Justice, for it's unconstitutionality. 

Not only did their march get very little coverage in Israeli media, but the Israeli public seems non-plussed by their governments clearly racist and undemocratic policies. These are fierce accusations, I admit. I am also aware of the delicacy of the issue of immigration, however, let me present you with a couple important pieces of important information. 

1. The number of asylum seekers, or "infiltrators" entering Israel, has drastically reduced in the past year, as Israel has completed building the fence along it's southern border with Egypt. Amnesty International puts the number at around 40. 

2. The majority of asylum seekers presently in Israel hail from Eritrea and Sudan, two countries with which Israel has no diplomatic ties, which complicates forced expulsions, making it impossible for Israel to send these people back to their home countries. (Let me just state that these countries are unstable and dangerous, as of last year, a quarter million people have fled Eritrea, and half a million have fled Sudan).

So these actions which are aimed at deterring more African immigrants from making the difficult and dangerous trek to Israel, seem to be a gross mismanagement of time, funds, and energy. And since we cannot forcibly send most of them back, why not allow them access to asylum status. The money and time invested in building these detention centers, could be better placed in providing these asylum seekers with a modicum of normalcy. Perhaps a proper refugee status determination process-- which the Ministry of Interior has for the past ten years been blatantly dodging, as is apparent in the fact that .2% of Africans currently in Israel have received asylum status. 

Or how about investing the money in community development programs for the poor neighbors in which the refugees have settled? I know from firsthand experience the level of animosity that exists in south Tel-Aviv, as I was physically accosted last spring in an event in the Levinsky Park. Residents of areas like Schunat HaTikvah, have been complaining for years that the immigrants have been causing problems in their already impoverished community. 

This is just to say that since deportation is not an option for most of the asylum seekers, Israel needs a better long term strategy to deal with them. Open detention centers do not in any way deal with the issue. As of now, the refugees will spend the next 3 months in prison-- and then be returned to the open detention facilities. This is only a small act of civil disobedience, but it's significance cannot be overlooked. 

I am personally disappointed in Israeli societies capacity to overlook the pain of others, as if we had never been strangers in a foreign land? I've said it before and I'll say it again, if the moral test of a society is how it treats its weakest members, then Israel would surely fail. I sometimes feel like a stranger in my own country: does the fact that I am a Jew mean I should put the needs of Jews over the apparent and real suffering of others? 

“[w]hen a stranger lives with you in your land, do not ill-treat him. The stranger who lives with you shall be treated like the native born. Love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”-- Leviticus 19:33

Madiba's Lessons for the Middle East

Today we said goodbye to one of the greatest hero's of our time, leader, revolutionary, activist, and the list continues on... Nelson Mandela.

This past year, as I found myself catapulted into the world of peacemaking, Madiba's legacy has come to mean quite a lot to me. Maybe it's the fact that he was still alive, pushing through his illness, and seemingly immortal. Maybe it's that I realized if he was able to overcome all the adversity, hate, and difficulties life threw at him, then maybe we could conquer such obstacles in the Middle East.

I understand the worlds sudden fascination and obsession with everything he has ever said or done,or those who denigrate Mandela because he was best friends with Arafat, or chummy with Cuba. However, I believe it's irrelevant to try and scrutinize his every word or action. Imagine at your death, the world has a record of everything you have ever said, with this day in age-- the internet, text messages-- no one could possibly remain a saint. And we admire him because of his humanity, not for his perfection.

So I prefer to take his life's work, and use it as inspiration, by forcing people to remember what he was capable of. Not repeating the pattern of oppression, he knew that revenge and anger could only lead so far. He believed in good-- the unbending belief that in each person there is goodness-- no matter how much past hurt, or cultural fictions worked against him, he could find that goodness.

What saddens me the most, is the realization of what an anomaly he is in this world. How did he restrain himself from seeking revenge? How did he only serve one term in presidency? How did he supersede the paradigm of the oppressed and the oppressor, to serve side by side with his former enemy, FW de Klerk. (Yes, their relationship was marked by intense mutual resentment. Which excuse me, but no duh, is not surprising. Can you imagine Bibi and Marwan Barghouti, working together side by side, devoid of any acrimony?That's a dream even I know is impossible.)

I feel we are so embedded in our cultural narratives, we can't help ourselves but throw vitriolic condemnation at our neighbors, attribute all the blame to the other side. Society puts too much emphasis on fitting the mold, that we fall into the predetermined power structures, of right and wrong, good and bad.

I know his passing has lit a spark in me-- something has suddenly changed--I am worried that our future generations, more cynical than even we are today, will feel Nelson Mandela was merely a parable of some sort used to promote understanding and peace.

To keep his legacy alive, I will make a conscious effort. How much longer will we make enemies in our minds, berating people we have never tried to understand? How many times have we refused to offer kindness, to ourselves, to our neighbor, or to some part of society we prefer not to acknowledge. How many more excuses will we cultivate in order to justify the status quo? For how much longer will we allow our anger and resentment to block the way towards reconciliation and forgiveness?

With every day, comes a choice. The choice to perpetuate change, and make an effort, even when it's not easy, even when you feel the odds are against you. It's becoming sappy, and I am sorry to go there but I feel we need a little hope in our lives. We have all the power to change the world; the only thing that is standing in our way is our negative beliefs, and self doubt.

As we believe in the goodness inherently within each of us, we can recognize and evoke that goodness in the world around us.

A Jew in a Foreign Land

Having been raised as a religious Jew in the United States, my support for Israel is a given. Now after having lived in Israel for six years, my understanding of Israel’s position has undoubtedly undergone a transition, in part due to the basic process of maturation, as well as a few eye-opening experiences. I would like to share with you one of those experiences: a visit to the Palestinian refugee camp of Aida, located adjacent to the city of Bethlehem.  

It's the moment you realize that all is not as you had imagined. Before I delve into the details of my experience, I would like to say that it is not my job to place blame. I am not here to say who is right or wrong, or to justify one side's claims over the other—enough of that rhetoric already exists, and I surely need not add to it.

The gates of the camp are supported under a large metal key, the symbol of the Palestinian's fundamental precept of the right of return.  Many residents are proud to assert that they still possess the original keys to the houses from which they were evicted.  Depicted on an adjacent wall are the faces of residents of the camp currently serving a life sentence in Israeli jails. I am touring the camp with a boy of my age, 24 years, who has experience showing tourists the “hot spots” of the camp— a field with underground tunnels used to store weapons in the Second Intifada, an empty factory missing a big chunk of its side due to a helicopter attack, a blackened outpost on the wall, adjacent to a large mural depicting Israeli soldiers arresting two blindfolded men.

Walking through the streets, I am ashamed to admit that I was surprised by the relatively developed infrastructure. I wasn't really expecting the families who have lived here since 1950 to be living in tents; however Jenin, Daishesh, those towns ending with the word ‘camp’, evoked in my mind the images seen on TV of post-war interim African refugee camps.

Our guide tells us that as much as he thanks the international organizations who send volunteers to the camp, he believes they incite violence and anger in the local people. He thinks that they should teach the children to be defined by something other then their refugee status, something positive. The fact that he is able to say this, even while being unemployed two years after having completed a university degree, and with all the violence and strife he has seen over the years, keeps my hope alive as well.

Cigarette in hand, peering through a window on the ground level, a man waves at my friend and invites us inside. Cramped in a small living room, siblings, cousins, parents and friends sit over coffee; the pungent smell of urine hangs in the air.  Very generously they offer us coffee and we tell them in more than broken Arabic we're Americans, from Boston, Miami, Los Angeles. Their generosity to mere strangers is astonishing and heartwarming.

In another house we visit, we discuss my background. A Jewish American of Lebanese and Syrian parents. My parents were also forced to leave their homes, and have since been unable to return. Maybe this is why I am able to feel such empathy and understanding for the people I meet.

It's hard to understand what I am doing here. My American citizenship opens all doors; at the checkpoint upon entering we pass ahead of the line of waiting Palestinians; on the way out we wave our passports and pass without any problem. I can’t erase the nagging feeling that I don’t belong here, that this camp, a mere 2 kilometers away from Gilo, was not meant to be seen.

As an Israeli, I feel it is my duty to visit these places; without experiencing it firsthand, there is no way to understand what drives the other side, a crucial component in the resolution of any conflict. I don’t dare say I understand the complexities of what it means to be raised a refugee, but the trip instilled me with sympathy and camaraderie, as well as an urgent feeling of need to find a solution for these people, who at the end of the day, want the same basic things young Israelis want. I know it is illegal for Israelis to venture on their own around most of these places, however I wish more Jews who come and visit the Dead Sea, or the Jerusalem hills, would also take the time and spend a day on the other side. These are our neighbors, our brothers, and the burden of the future lies in our hands.

A Seder Night Different From the Others

A couple weeks ago, I participated in a different kind of seder, the Jewish ritual feast that marks the beginning of the Jewish holiday of Passover. Those participating were neither Israeli nor Jewish, but they were all too familiar with the narrative of the Passover holiday; having escaped harsh dictators, destitution and slavery. What was different about a night like this was the unusual role reversal—those illegal immigrants who usually picked up Israeli’s garbage, or cleaned their dishes, were the ones sitting, enjoying the music and warm Mediterranean breeze, while Israelis served them. The night was replete with guest speakers, music, dancing, and lots of matzos. The good vibes were palpable.

The first home for many refugees is Tel Aviv's Levinsky Park, where the event was held. Their visas permit them to stay in Israel, but they are not allowed to work, nor do they receive any state benefits, so making a living is often a difficult challenge. Standing at the entrance to the event, a middle-aged Israeli man walking by came up to me and asked what was going on. I responded that we were celebrating the Passover holiday with African refugees; a response that I suddenly regretted after seeing a look of anger and disbelief appear across his face. “Did you check each one to make sure that they are in fact refugees?” he snapped.  Emboldened by his animosity I decided to engage him in discussion. My attempts were to no avail; for him non-Jews, especially blacks, had no place in Israeli society, and he cited many oft quoted statistics about the increase in crime and filth the Africans had brought with them. Seeing his anger mount at my every response, I decided to end the discussion. My rebuke angered him and he proceeded to shove his hand very forcefully into the face of my friend standing next to me. He then ran from the scene.

Shocked, angered, disappointed and saddened, I knew he had no right to act as he did, but that a growing percentage of Israeli society shares his racist and xenophobic sentiments.  In the past decade, Israel has absorbed up to 60,000 African immigrants. These refugees are fleeing genocide, harsh dictatorships, and civil war-- mostly Sudanese and Eritrean nationals, they entered Israel through the porous border with Egypt, where they were often enslaved by Bedouins, or shot at by Egyptian border guards.  

It was a night to forget the differences in race and religion; to remember that each refugee has a story, a story that resonates very closely with the Jewish narrative of displacement and persecution; a truth that the Israeli population often forgets.  I vowed not to let this man and his negative feelings ruin my night, and his anger made me realize the importance of the work I was doing, and I could not give up. The questions we pose ourselves at the Seder night are universal and very relevant to the state of modern world. How do we relate to freedom, slavery, and exodus?  With over 16 million refugees and asylum seekers worldwide, originating from all corners of the world these questions take on a global importance. So to this man who chose aggression in the face of animosity, and to the rest of the Israeli public who believe these asylum seekers have no place in our society, here is my reply:

 Is this the fate of our country? Are we allowing ourselves to repeat the crimes and injustices inflicted upon us by the myriads of discriminatory governments throughout our history? How easily we forget, that less than a century ago, we ourselves were refugees, kicked out of our countries of residence, with no place to call home. Sixty-two years later, after establishing a state, is it not our moral duty to ensure that these refugees, who face a clear and present danger to their safety, be granted asylum? Is it not our moral responsibility to afford them basic rights, such as health care and jobs, to assist them in rebuilding their lives, and live in safety?

If the aphorism that the moral test of any society is how it treats its weakest members were true, Israel would fail. We, the Jewish people, should know better than anyone else what being “the other” in a strange land is. It is not only the government, but Israeli citizens themselves, who are apathetic to the refugees’ plight. This is antithetical to the core Jewish belief in the importance of social responsibility and helping others. In the meantime, however, I will continue to love the strangers in our land, to help them and be kind to them, and to draw strength from the moral compass that is a vital part of our Israeli identity.