And I Cry…

I’ve been on the verge of tears all day. They flowed this morning, a bit more a few hours later. Now again at dinner with my husband. There’s a lump in my throat, just won’t go away. Its hard to swallow. I have to put thoughts to paper, so here goes:

He was stabbed yesterday, a knife thrust in his back, piercing organs, severing blood vessels. How does that feel? Ok, tears rolling again. How does it feel to have a knife cut through muscle and bone… Does it hurt much?

Because as he was stabbed he instinctly whirled around, pulled out his pistol, started chasing the stabber, jumped a ledge, barreled into a glass door as he stumbled from the pain, then fired his gun. He hit his assailant, injuring him and dropping him to the ground. Its all on the video. I’ve seen it several times. There are cameras everywhere here. We need them exactly because of this. So we know what happened.

I cry. Ari Fuld was only 45 years old. He died of massive bleeding at the hospital. He had a wife. He had four children that look so sweet in the photos in the newspapers. Four little ones that no longer have their Abba. The lump in my throat is for them. For his family. For him. He won’t see them grow up.

I cry for his murderer. Only 17 years old. Seventeen, for fuck’s sake. I have a seventeen year old child at home! What makes a seventeen old throw his life away like that? Oh, its the occupation. Yeah, the occupation.

I hate the occupation. But you know what? Its OUR LAND! I cry because the Jewish people have been living on this land for over 3,000 years and how DARE they say we don’t have roots and connection and the right to be here.

I cry because Ari Fuld loved this land as much as I love it. God, do I love this land. I cry because he refused to compromise and share… and I cry because I AM willing to compromise and share. But our LOVE is equal. Was the same love. I still love. He loved. He’s no longer is able to.

I cry for the murderer’s father, who insisted his son was not interested in politics, only in school. Did he watch the Hamas facebook page propaganda encouraging stabbers to kill Israelis?  Was he moved by Islamic Jihad videos calling for the murder of Jews? What pushes a seventeen year old to sneak a knife to a mall and stab a total stranger in the back. Oh, its the occupation.

I cry because Hamas and Islamic Jihad both praised the murder and called for more killings of my people.

I hate the occupation. How DARE we say they don’t have a right to this land? Muslims have been in these parts for over 1,300 years, empire after empire, in control, in charge, the bosses. Seriously, that’s a damn long time to completely disregard.

I cry for the murderer’s mother, who it appears approached some soldiers to report that her son was planning a terror attack. I cry for her. Had she come to them a bit sooner, maybe her son would not be laying on a hospital bed, headed to life in prison. He would have his life back. Alas. And if what she did is true, what courage she had to try to avert this attack. I cry for her.

I cry because those that claim the right to the land for over 3,000 years are COMPLETELY RIGHT! And those that claim the right to the land for over 1,300 years are COMPLETELY RIGHT! And what does one do? How can one side be right and and the other side be right as well?? At the same time?!? That’s crazy.

I cry because a month ago Ari Fuld made a video trying to raise money for 10,000 neck coolers to donate to IDF soldiers who stand guard over our intersections and our bus stops and our checkpoints and our streets and it was so HOT they were melting out there. And he was doing his usual good deeds for our soldiers and it was a great thing. One of the many great things he did.

I cry because I love our soldiers so much. My dad was a soldier, I was a soldier many years ago, my older daughter was a soldier and my seventeen year old will be joining the IDF soon. Very soon. Will she need neck coolers in the hot summer days? Who will give her one? Ari is gone.

I cry because I SO MUCH DISAGREED with Ari’s politics! But that does not give anyone the right to murder him. Never! I cry because even though I did not personally know him, I have friends who knew him and I have facebook friends who knew him. My people are hurting right now and that makes me sad. Because as a people we have been hardened just a bit more. We’ve suffered another trauma, deepening our national Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We don’t get breaks between PTSD episodes. They’re constant.

I cry because the murderer’s family’s home will be destroyed soon. That’s the law. Their lives will be destroyed. They will suffer another trauma, deepening their national Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They don’t get breaks between PTSD episodes. They’re constant.

I cry because in one of the classes I’m taking for my Masters degree, we read the book Cataclysms by Dan Diner and are to write a paper about something that struck us in the book, and I chose to write about Diner’s explanation of the causes of the Armenian Genocide. You know, its not easy to research material about genocide. It wrings your heart, breaks it to pieces, over and over again. Mass killings and massacres previous to the 1915 Armenian Genocide: massacre of 500,000 Turkish speaking, Central Asian Khazak nomads by the Russians, deportations of Galician Jews, ethnic Germans, Baltic Jews, Greeks who lived too far in the interior, 1894 and 1896 massacres of thousands of Armenians, Greeks killing Muslim Turks, Turks killing Greeks, violent forced conversions of Muslim Bulgarians (Pomaks), Druze and Maronite massacres of each other in 1860, massacres of Cretans in 1866, Greek expulsions of hundreds of thousands of Muslims, revenge killings of Greeks… 1st Balkan War, 2nd Balkan War, Italo Turkish War, Russo Turkish War, Crimean War, Greko Turkish War. Oh my God. I can’t even count them anymore. How can I write this paper?

And you know what? I cried at dinner tonight because I know that if it were not for the amazingly strong Israeli Defense Forces, we the Jews in Israel would be a statistic just like those peoples I’m researching. Like what happened to us before there was an IDF. Before there was an Israel for us as a safehaven. There is NO DOUBT in my mind, that were it not for our strength and ability to defend ourselves, we would be another statistic, another genocide among many. We would be at the whim of those countries around us that would slash our throats or hit us with chemical weapons without blinking an eye. HAVE YOU HEARD WHAT HAPPENED TWO HOURS FROM MY HOME ACROSS THE SYRIAN BORDER??  Over 500,000 Syrians killed by Syrians. Thank God for the Israeli Defense Forces. And Ari loved our soldiers so. And I understand where he was coming from, because I love them too. And my seventeen year old will be a soldier soon. Tears flowing again…

And I cry because I hate the occupation. Because they have a right to a place of their own. Just like us. And we can live side by side in peace and security and work together to raise our children and prosper. But we don’t. We senselessly lose our loved ones. Both sides lose. Both sides hurt. Both sides are HARDENED every time there is violence, every time someone gets shot, someone gets killed, someone stabs, someone humiliates, someone loses their life.

And losing one life is equal to losing the whole world.

 

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The Day I Turned Five

It was 50 years ago today in 1967,  and we were living in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.  Now, I don’t know if what I am about to tell you is exactly the way it happened, or if it is the mish-mash of stories I heard and photos and family films I have seen,  or if it is my inner child’s skewed memory of an event that shaped my life on the day I turned five.

We were part of a small community of Israeli families in this lovely East African nation that had just achieved its independence in 1963. My father had been sent there by the Israeli government as an Officer of the Israel Defense Forces and a fluent English speaking Electronics Engineer, and was put in charge of helping the nascent Tanzanian Police force design and manufacture their first transistor radios. He taught the Tanzanian police students engineering and electronics, and together they built these first locally made radios.

zvi with tanzanian police

My father,  Zvi Harrel (first row, second from the right )  with his class of graduates of the Tanzanian Police Academy

There were other Israeli families in Dar es Salaam at the time, each sent there to help the new African country with building infrastructure such as roads and construction projects, improving agricultural technology, business development, arms sales and my dad with his radios. Israel was desperately trying to make friends among newly independent nations and many Israeli specialists and advisers spent the 1960’s in Africa. Like us.

On the morning of my birthday, I eagerly waited for my friends to arrive at our home, excited about the presents I would receive and the fun time we would have playing in our sandbox and up in my tree house

As my friends started to arrive, the moms directed the kids towards the front yard and all the dads went inside. I clearly remember the inside that day, as my father had prepared it ‘for the party.’ From the Dar es Salaam police headquarters, he brought home what to me appeared to be humongous, gray machines with lots of black buttons and lights. I remember them being taller than me.

IMG_5391

My five year old self, riding my bike in front of our house in Dar es Salaam

These huge radio transmitters were placed in the living room and as the fathers came in, they put on head phones and huddled quietly around them, listening intently to radio transmissions, waiting for the familiar two-word codes that meant you were needed in a national emergency. Israel was at war and Arab countries were already broadcasting that Egyptian forces had reached Tel Aviv. Israeli radio broadcasts were somber and eerily silent about events on the ground.  I seem to remember the dads were smoking, which doesn’t surprise me because Israelis awaiting orders of whether to hop on a plane and join their military units to fight for the survival of their small country,  always smoke. Its a thing, one of those unwritten rules. You fight for survival, you smoke.

Little did I know, but in the  weeks before my birthday, there had been rising tension and increasing threats by Egypt, Syria and Jordan against little Israel. They had been amassing their armies on the borders, making death threats on the airwaves and the print media, and Egypt blocked the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping,  itself an act of war. Israelis were worried. Very worried. War was looming and the only questions were when would it start and how would we survive.

Israelis had been preparing for an inevitable war with their Arab neighbors.  Israelis living abroad, especially the men, had already packed a small suitcase and were anxiously awaiting the moment they would get the word from their reserve units to return and help defend the homeland. Everyone was on edge. So was my dad. And so were all the Israeli dads in Africa.

I learned later, that my parents decided to go on with preparations for my birthday party despite the tension and uncertainty and invited the whole Israeli community so we could all be together. A great excuse for moms and kids to play and the dads to huddle around the great big radio receivers and listen to the latest news from Israel.

As chance would have it, the war began at dawn on the very day of my fifth birthday, June 5th, 1967. My birthday party became the gathering place, the headquarters for all Israelis in Dar es Salaam as we eagerly awaited news from home.

It turned out that Israel, our little David of a country, defeated Goliath that week and in only six days destroyed the armies of Egypt, Syria and Jordan, soundly defeating them against all odds. Our fathers were not called up to join their units and after a week of fighting, Israelis breathed a sigh of relief.

However, the most amazing, exhilarating and important result of the Six Day War happened on June 7th, 1967, two days after my birthday. Israeli forces pushed the Jordanian army back,  re-entered the Old City of Jerusalem, re-took the Jewish Quarter and once again, the Jewish people were able to touch and to pray at the Western Wall of the Temple Mount.  Our eternal capital was again in our hands.

Today, May 24th, 2017, is a day of great joy in Israel, as we celebrate the 50th anniversary (according to the Hebrew calendar) of the re-unification of our capital. Thousands of Israeli Jews are celebrating in Jerusalem at this very moment and my heart is with them. I will leave it at that, as this is very complicated. But wow, it has been 50 years.

I felt the need to put pen to paper since I am emotionally very attached to the events of the Six Day War, as if I had played a part in that history. And I guess I did. After all, we share the same birthday.

Harrel photo 1967

The Harrel family in 1967, Zvi, Pola, Anat and baby Micah.