A Letter to My Non-Jewish Friends

'Woman Writing a Letter' by Rupert Shephard. Arts Council Collection, Southbank Centre

It’s difficult being a Jew today. Of course, over the centuries, that’s often been true. Jews have been reviled, excluded, insulted, isolated, murdered. The Holocaust, in which six million Jews were murdered, was the apotheosis of Jew hatred, mercilessly eliminating much of European Jewry.

Then, in 1948, when I was very young, the State of Israel was declared. In my parents’ synagogue, I sang Hativah, Israel’s national anthem, my young eyes tearing up. A Jewish state, wow! Over time, Jews in America became more and more integrated into the social fabric, flourishing and influencing. Israel was a place of joy, something special.

In my parents’ synagogue, I sang Hativah, Israel’s national anthem, my young eyes tearing up. A Jewish state, wow!

Blinded by pride and relieved to have a Jewish home, from the beginning we refused to see that Israel was a nation-state, not a holy piece of land exempt from disastrous decisions every human-made political entity makes. As to the Palestinians: we didn’t see them; we didn’t acknowledge their existence. They were indistinguishable from all those who wished for our destruction, and we had every right to destroy them as sworn enemies. They were entitled to no human rights.

I can’t speak knowledgeably about Jews in the UK, as I’ve lived here only seven years. My sense is that whilst Jews are much a part of life here, flourishing in communities both orthodox and more secular, they are less of a force than in the US. I suspect this has to do with myriad factors, including Jews’ exclusion from English life over the centuries, living outside city centres both physically (in Oxford, there was a wall around the city which Jews could not cross) and in terms of how Englishness is defined and expressed.

There’s less room here for marginal voices, more pressure to blend in to an Anglicized way of being. At the recent coronation of the king, for example, Protestantism in the form of the Church of England was a continual presence in validating his kingship. White Christian Nationalism is a growing movement threatening US democracy, but there is not yet an official declaration of a marriage between church and state as expressed in the UK monarchy.

These are generalities; discard what feels off. I aim to set the context for where we are now, in summer, 2023. Israel is a nation-state moving further towards a destruction of its democratic institutions, such as the judiciary. Its leaders embrace a set of beliefs underpinned by religious orthodoxies; religion in Israel is intertwined with all major appointments and activities. Watching Israel becoming a de facto theocracy is angushing. I see no difference between the blending of religion and nationalism Israel is embarked upon and the blending of these elements in Hindu India or Islamist Iran. We Jews were often lauded for our cosmopolitanism, our ability to flourish in any culture, at any time, making that culture richer by our presence. In today’s Israel, the desire of those in power is to assert Jewish supremacy and to extinguish that worldliness which once defined us.

We Jews were often lauded for our cosmopolitanism, our ability to flourish in any culture, at any time, making that culture richer by our presence. In today’s Israel, the desire of those in power is to assert Jewish supremacy and to extinguish that worldliness which once defined us.

Along with the destruction of what was once Jewish large-mindedness, there is also the undeniable truth that Israel is sustaining an illegal Occupation, contravening international law in relation to disputed territory. Agents of the state routinely humiliate and torment Palestinians. For the Israeli power structure, there’s no dispute: the land from the Jordan to the Mediterranean belongs to Israel, to the Jews. Period. No argument. 700,000 settlers have moved onto land which does not officially belong to Israel, displacing and tormenting and often killing Palestinians who get in the way. Defending the rights of Palestinians to have a home of their own is to risk being labeled a self-hating Jew, a traitor. You’re a fool for not seeing that Palestinians are the enemy and can never be trusted, only subsumed or destroyed.

I’ll not go on to list those groups who are working for justice, both Jews and Palestinians; those individuals who never give up trying to change minds. Nor will I list those complications that make negotiations difficult -- like a split Palestinian government with a sclerotic 87 y.o. as head of the Palestine Authority (for the nineteenth year and counting) and a militant anti-Israel Hamas in Gaza. I’ll not delve into the alliances the Israeli Right makes with Christian Zionists who are a major source of ongoing US support. I’ll not argue for or against the notion of Israel as a settler-colonial project nor examine the nuances of the term Zionism. The language and slogans and shouting are unrelenting and polarized, and they make it nearly impossible to find common ground.

I will implore my friends not to be paralyzed when it comes to looking at Israeli policy and insist that it must right the wrongs it is doing to Palestinians. It must address this issue and stop hiding behind Jewish vulnerability as an excuse to continue the status quo.

Anti-semitism is on the rise, but that is not a reason to excuse Israeli actions towards Palestinians nor to forgive the inactions of many so-called liberal democracies who turn away.

Anti-semitism is on the rise, but that is not a reason to excuse Israeli actions towards Palestinians nor to forgive the inactions of many so-called liberal democracies who turn away. Anti-semitism has many forms, some more blatant than others. There are visual representations of Jews with hooked noses, huddled over bank notes. There are those who insist Jews run the world, controlling policies through their grasping, moneyed hands. Nazi swastikas are painted on buildings. Jews are called zionist racists as a form of derision. Jews are sometimes shot whilst in gathering places like synagogues. Sometimes the sneering is obvious; other times, it’s a more subtle form of undermining Jews.

Anti-semitism is spreading, not only in right-wing populist countries like Hungary, but even in the good old USA and the UK. It’s real and it’s growing.

Get it clearly: antisemitism exists and it’s scary and it hurts everyone. But that is not a reason to allow Israel to continue its Occupation and to torment Palestinians, denying their human rights. I know it’s difficult to critique Israel because for many, Israeli equals Jew and criticizing Israel can be construed as anti-semitism. Don’t buy into that reasoning; it’s wrong.

I am a Jew. But I am not an Israeli. In fact, twenty percent of Israel’s population is non-Jewish Arab. But Israel refuses to separate out nationality from religion, insisting it’s a Jewish state and its Jewish citizens are to be privileged above its not Jewish ones. No, no, no. This sense of Jewish superiority is used to underpin the belief that Israel is exceptional, free from accountability, unlike other nations held accountable for what they do to all their citizens and what they do in the name of their citizens.

It is difficult and confusing to take a stand on Palestine and Israel. One is whipsawed in many directions. The hatred between Left and Right is extreme. Part of that vitriol stems from the longstanding belief that Jews are different, in horrible ways as in the ancient canard that Jews are Christ-killers and in less egregious but still negative ways. On the other hand, there are those who valorize Jews, giving them extraordinary qualities unlike those of other ethnicities.

Within the Jewish community, the splits between those who support Israel at all costs and those who insist it is on the wrong path are deep and ugly. If you’re not Jewish and you care about this issue, there are verbal landmines everywhere. This is an attempt to bring a bit of light, and to urge you to look as clearly as you can at this nation’s Occupation. Find a way of speaking against it, ever mindful of the distinction between a country--Israel--and an ethnicity--Jew.

Oksana Ponaida Reads Ukrainian Poetry

Oksana Ponaida was born in Ukraine in 1971, when Ukraine was still part of the Soviet Union. Her father, a professional musician and choirmaster, encouraged her passion for music. She studied music throughout her schooling, attending a music academy in Lviv.

Oksana came to the UK with two of her three children. Her eldest son remains in Ukraine, serving as a fighting soldier. Her 18 y.o. daughter studies dance in Peterborough and her 13 y.o. daughter paints. Oksana has an active musical life in the UK, singing in a church choir, participating in charity concerts and making music with Ukrainian families in Peterborough.

The family came to the UK under the Homes for Ukraine scheme. They are settled in their own home now. Oksana writes, ‘I am happy that at least my two children are safe and can study in peace.’

Oksana reads three poems, from Words for War: New Poems from Ukraine.

'When You Clean Your Weapon' by Borys Humenyuk, in Ukranian and English.

'He Says Everything Will Be Fine' by Lyubov Yakymchuk, in English.

'Caterpillar' by Lyubov Yakymchuk, in Ukrainian and English.

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Oksana singing in church in the UK (left) and at an event (right):

Oksana teaching in class:

Olive Harvest in Palestine

Rania Tawfiq Abu Taima is the second author in our series featuring writings from the Gaza based group We Are Not Numbers. The essay below is published with permission from We Are Not Numbers.

The mission of We Are Not Numbers is to create a new generation of Palestinian writers and thinkers who together can bring about a profound change for Palestinians by getting their voices heard. WANN provides the world with direct access to the Palestinian narrative without restrictions and without foreign intermediaries speaking on behalf of Palestinians.

The season begins

November is not an ordinary month in Palestine.

Young and old hands come together as the olive harvest season begins. We have been eagerly awaiting this time all year.

My family owns two plots bearing olive trees. The one in the garden behind our home holds nearly twenty trees. The other holds three times as many and sits on the eastern border, about a ten-minute walk from our house.

We wait for the sign to start our work: the light “olive rain” that washes the dust off the fruit.

Once that happens, my father and uncle bring out the basic tools from our warehouse, each considered a hand that joins ours in the harvesting process: wooden ladders, plastic bags, sieves, buckets, and yellow boxes.

They place large transparent plastic bags under the trees to keep the olives clean when they fall.

As a child my favorite tool was the wooden ladder. I would hurry back from school, eager to join my family, and rush through my homework so I could start picking the olives. I waited with anticipation for my father to set up and straighten the ladder, so step by step I could become taller than the olive tree, breathe in the fresh air, and look up at the sky. At that moment I would think, “I am close to heaven,” before hearing a light scolding from below: “Hold on tight, Rania!” “Get down now!”

My laughter would rise as I continued to climb, no doubt that if I fell, the many tender hands that picked the olives would stop me from hitting the ground.

Olive trees with stairs in the garden of Rannia's home at the beginning of the season. Photo by Rania Rawfiq Abu Taima

Like many Palestinian families, mine gathers early in the morning during the harvest season to pick as many olives as we can before the sun becomes too hot.

At rest time, my mother and aunt bring us cheese sandwiches, tea with mint, a big pot of coffee, and orange cakes. They serve us pastries hot out of the oven on circular trays.

The olives fall like drops of water as we pluck them from the branches or shake them from the trees. Some of our friends use the sieves to separate them from their leaves and clusters, so the olives do not taste sour. Then we store some of each type, green and black, in tightly closed jars mixed with lemons, green pepper, water, and salt.

We take the rest of the green olives to the press.

Competing to see who can collect the most olives makes us work harder. But from time to time, we each sneak some olives from our pail without giving a thought to winning, then run to show my father that we helped him more than the others.

In these exceptional moments, I want to stop time right there on our land in Gaza. But time passes as if we were riding a horse, not feeling it at all.

In the final stage of harvesting, we send the yield to the olive press where workers empty them into a large metal basin, where blown air then separates them from the remaining leaves. They are then fed into the press, where they are cleaned, washed, and slowly kneaded. Finally the long-awaited moment arrives, when the gleaming liquid begins rolling from the long iron machine into designated faucets and, finally, into yellow containers. About twenty of the containers will be transferred to our home for daily use. The oil’s presence is as firm on the dining table as the pillar of a house. At breakfast, it’s dip on the companion of thyme grown in our land whose grains are ground till dinner, it’s drizzled on chickpeas and local beans.

Originally, baked goods such as bread and pastries were not made without oil. The olive is essential to our life and the land here in Palestine.

Left to their own devices, the olive trees are always blessed, steadfast, and loaded with a good harvest. But they haven’t always been left to their own devices.

The aggression against Gaza

When I was nine years old, we waited as usual for the start of November. But that year was different. Although the land and trees were waiting as usual, the occupier had another plan.

The calm changed, and in December 2008, at the height of harvest season, the occupation began its first aggression against the Gaza Strip. The Israeli drones, zanana, spread suddenly and densely, covering the sky of Gaza. The buzzing made it difficult to hear myself think. Heavy shelling began, from where I did not know, and trying to escape the intensity of the sound by covering my ears was useless.

All we could do was sit and wait anxiously for the current attack to stop, our hearts pounding. No one knew what the coming moments would bring. When the sun went down, we said to each other, “The night has come“ in a voice completely stripped of reassurance. We could get no rest, no sleep. As the night comes for us in Gaza at the time of aggression, it is another aggression. I struggled to sleep, knowing the house could collapse on me at any time, knowing I could vanish under the rubble.

All this is a huge burden on a child who is nine years old and who still has toys in her hand. But in Gaza, the child and the adult are equal in these moments, there is no difference; they both have to think about survival only and nothing else.

We all had to face life under occupation and aggression. When the sun rose, we knew we needed to find a safe place. At first, my thoughts turned to my red fabric toy box. I wanted to bring it with us.

But even as a child I quickly realized there was no time to linger on thoughts unrelated to our survival. I stuck to my mother’s every step, as I had at the beginning of the aggression, when, to avoid Israeli shelling, my mother and I ran for cover into the house of a stranger, who’d opened his big blue door for us, inviting us inside.

My family divided itself into three different houses. My father didn’t say it, but I knew the reason for our separation: if one of us goes, others will survive. We will not all die together.

We began sleeping apart and coming back together in the mornings to tell one another what we saw and how we survived the bombings.

Three weeks passed and we were still alive.

But the days of aggression are not counted by hours and minutes; days or weeks; we count them by fears, losses, the places that are bombed next to us, the souls that are lost, the bodies that remain without a soul, the remnants of hopes, the desperate eyes that anxiously watch loved ones.

My father looked at us anxiously when he said, “The land in the east was swept away with all the trees on it, along with our small house.” I imagine he was thinking about all his efforts over the years. Our land meant everything to him.

At that moment no one knew how to respond. What I wanted was not to hear anything about what had happened. I wanted to flee. But with the ongoing aggression, going outside meant risking death.

Did our destination change?

After the black cloud of aggression was gone, the impact remained.

No tree or stone had survived the bulldozers. The place where we played, walked, picked trees, and came back to bearing fruits no longer existed.

We saw only backfill, stones, and some intertwined tree roots still holding on.

Perhaps the occupiers believed that bulldozing our land would rid it of our steadfastness, along with an important witness to the entitlement of our ownership of this Palestinian land.

However, the owner of the land was still alive and had an entirely contradictory opinion. We came back determined to begin again. That summer, we planted new roots. And by November, the olive trees stood again, loaded and waiting for the real owner of the land to embrace it.

THE WRITER

Rania Tawfiq Abu Taima is a Palestinian translator residing in Gaza. Journalism is one of her passions. Writing is Rania's way of expressing what she stands for. "As Palestinians, we have significant stories that we can share with the world through our loyal pens to our powerful voices." Rania is grateful to be a Palestinian woman whose words leave a trace.

THE MENTOR

Tori Marlan’s freelance reporting has appeared in a variety of publications in the United States and Canada. She also has made audio documentaries for the podcast Vox Tablet and CBC Radio’s The Doc Project. She works as an investigative reporter for Capital Daily in Victoria, BC. Her stories for the digital-news outlet have been recognized with a National Newspaper Award, Canadian Online Publishing awards, and Canadian Association of Journalists awards.Previously, Tori was a staff writer for the Chicago Reader. In 2006, she received an Alicia Patterson Foundation fellowship to write about detained unaccompanied minors.She has lived in Pittsburgh, London, Chicago, Austin, Montreal, and Seattle. Learn more from her website.