I know that when I read a good book, I experience internal clarification: my sense of uniqueness as a person grows lucid. The measured, precise voice that reaches me from the outside animates voices within me, some of which may have been mute until this other voice, or this particular book, came and woke them. And even if thousands of people are reading the very same book I am reading at the very same moment, each of us faces it alone. For each of us, the book is a completely different kind of litmus test.
A good book—and there are not many, because literature too, of course, is subject to the seductions and obstacles of mass media—individualizes and extracts the single reader out of the masses. It gives him an opportunity to feel how spiritual contents, memories, and existential possibilities can float up and rise from within him, from unfamiliar places, and they are his alone. The fruits of his personality alone. The result of his most intimate refinements. And in the mass culture of daily life, in the overall pollution of our consciousness, it is so difficult for these soulful contents to emerge from the inner depths and be animated.
At its best, literature can bring us together with the fate of those who are distant and foreign. It can create within us, at times, a sense of wonder at having managed, by the skin of our teeth, to escape those strangers’ fates, or make us feel sad for not being truly close to them. For not being able to reach out and touch them. I am not saying that this feeling immediately motivates us to any form of action, but certainly without it no act of empathy or commitment or responsibility can be possible.
At its best, literature can be kind to us: it can slightly allay our sense of insult at the dehumanization that results from living in large, anonymous global societies. The insult of describing ourselves in coarse language, in clichés, in generalizations and stereotypes. The insult of our becoming—as Herbert Marcuse said—“one-dimensional man.”
Literature also gives us the feeling that there is a way to fight the cruel arbitrariness that decrees our fate: even if at the end of The Trial the authorities shoot Joseph K. “like a dog”; even if Antigone is executed; even if Hans Castorp eventually dies in The Magic Mountain—still we, who have seen them through their struggles, have discovered the power of the individual to be human even in the harshest circumstances. Reading—literature—restores our dignity and our primal faces, our human faces, the ones that existed before they were blurred and erased among the masses. Before we were expropriated, nationalized, and sold wholesale to the lowest bidder.
When I finished writing See Under: Love, I realized that I had written it to say that he who destroys a man, any man, is ultimately destroying a creation that is unique and boundless, that can never again be reconstructed, and there will never be another like it.
For the last four years I have been writing a novel that wishes to say the same thing, but from a different place, and in the context of a different reality. The protagonist of my book, an Israeli woman of about fifty, is the mother of a young soldier who goes to war. She fears for his life, she senses catastrophe lurking, and she tries with all her strength to fight the destiny that awaits him. This woman makes a long and arduous journey by foot, over half the land of Israel, and talks about her son. This is her way of protecting him. This is the only thing she can do now, to make his existence more alive and solid: to tell the story of his life.
In the little notebook she takes on her journey, she writes, Thousands of moments and hours and days, millions of deeds, endless acts and attempts and mistakes and words and thoughts, all to make one person in the world.
Then she adds another line: One person, who is so easy to destroy.
This evening, at the opening of the International Literature Festival Berlin, we are allowed to remind ourselves, even with a modicum of pride, that the secret allure and the greatness of literature, which we will dwell upon during these days, the secret that sends us to it over and over again, with enthusiasm and a longing to find refuge and meaning—the secret is that literature can repeatedly redeem for us the tragedy of the one from the statistics of the millions. The one about whom the story is written, and the one who reads the story.
International Literature Festival Berlin, September 4, 2007
Contemplations on Peace
Peace between Israel and the Palestinians, and between Israel and the entire Arab world, is unfortunately still a matter for hopes, speculations, and conjectures. In recent years it seems only to be growing more distant. But even now—and perhaps now all the more vigorously—we must constantly think about the image of this remote peace, and regularly “massage” the way we envision it.
Since the collapse of the Oslo peace process, roughly a decade ago, only a few have had the emotional strength to extract themselves from the hell of daily life, on the streets of Israel and Palestine, and to remember that there is even a possibility for a different life, a life of peace between these rigid enemies. If we do not remind ourselves of the possible faces of peace, if we do not continuously endeavor to imagine it as a realistic option, as an alternative to the existing condition, we will remain with nothing but the desperation caused by war and occupation and terror—the desperation that causes war and occupation and terror.
This evening I would like to discuss one aspect of the possible ramifications of peace between Israel and its neighbors: the question of how such peace may help Israel heal from the wounds and the distortions that currently ail it and hinder its normal development as a state and as a society. Since my time is limited, I will not dwell on certain equally weighty questions, such as the effect of possible peace on the entire Middle East, on the Arab states, and on the Palestinians. Nor will I be able to touch upon a topic that I hold dear to my heart: the future of the relationship between the Jewish majority and the Arab minority within the State of Israel. I will try to focus on issues seldom addressed in the attempts to describe and imagine a future peace.
First, I feel that the very ability and willingness to imagine a state of peace means, primarily, believing that we, the Israelis, have a future. I am not even speaking of a good future or a bad future at this point, but of the mere possibility of there being a future. Of a solid faith in the idea that Israel will exist for many years to come, a prospect that is by no means certain in the minds of many Israelis.
Perhaps the root of the almost unconscious affinity between “peace” and “future” in the Hebrew language lies in the fact that the short history of the State of Israel, and the much longer history of the Jewish people, comprises almost no prolonged periods of absolute peace, of being in a state of unthreatened tranquillity and security. And so, in Jewish and Israeli consciousness, the word “peace” is always deeply connected with a wish, a hope, not necessarily an existing, concrete state. The Hebrew word for “peace” (shalom) seems to be unique: it is a noun, but hiding within it, like a stowaway, is a verb that is always conjugated in the future tense.
The hope for peace is also a primary element in Jewish prayer and in the biblical prophecies of consolation. Only in the future, and in fact only at the end of days, “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more,” as prophesied by Isaiah. And only at the end of days, David promises Jerusalem, will “peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces.”
“And I will rejoice in Jerusalem,” continues Isaiah, “and the voice of weeping shall be no more heard in her, nor the voice of crying. There shall be no more thence an infant of days, nor an old man, that hath not filled his days; for the youngest shall die a hundred years old.” (You can surely imagine how these words echo in the current Israeli reality, in which so many parents bury their children, “the youngest.”) There is hope and beauty in this affinity between “peace” and “the end of days,” yet because the end of days is usually perceived in Jewish-Israeli consciousness as an abstract, utopian, even unattainable point in time, peace too is seen as abstract, utopian, and unattainable: a horizon that grows ever more distant as one approaches it.
It is interesting to note that although the Jewish people is so ancient, with such continuity of historical consciousness and identity, it seems that a significant element in its self-definition is the sense of impending annihilation, of the calamity hovering over its head. This is the feeling to which every Jew gives voice at Passover, when he reads in the Haggadah: “That in every generation they rise up to destroy us.” This feeling did not, of course, arise out of paranoid delusions, but due to verified historical reasons. But the question that interests us today is whether life in a continued state of peace and existential security might ever alter this feeling, this bitter worldview so deeply ingrained in the Jewish soul, this self-perception that essentially dictates a conditional, fragile existence, a rare state of being among other nations.
Another question follows the previous one, grasping at its heels: What is it like to live without an enemy?
I imagine that to some, particularly those born after the Second World War, this may seem a peculiar query. But like any Israeli, I myself have never known a life without an enemy. I do not know what it means to live my life without the constant presence of an existential threat. Without the urge to fortify ourselves, to protect ourselves, and to act aggressively against those who threaten our homes and sometimes our lives.
I imagine that even if a peace agreement were reached soon, it would be—at least during the first years—fragile and extremely weak, and paved with acts of terror and violence on both sides. We will therefore not have to face the “problem” of living without an enemy anytime soon. But I hope that future generations will have to contend with it.
It will be a huge challenge: to learn to live a life that is not defined by hostility, anxiety, and violence. To foresee a continuum of existence and a constant future. To educate children based on views and beliefs that are not shaped inevitably by the fear of death. To raise our children not based on the daily fear that they may be taken from us at any moment. Perhaps then we may slowly discover that together with the forgoing of anxieties, we can begin to forgo certain elements of the Israeli ethos, a large part of which was forged through military conflict. We may forgo the perception of power as a value in and of itself, and the excessive admiration of power and its agents—the army and the military commanders—an admiration that results in the recurrent election of glorified militarists to lead the country, thereby sentencing it to act according to a narrow military frame of mind, and essentially within a never-ending war.
(In other words: It is highly rational for a nation always in a state of war to elect combatants as its leaders. But could it be possible that the fact that these combatants are the nation’s leaders decrees that the nation be in a constant state of war?)
Perhaps, if we know a life of peace, we may also let go of the obsessive need, shared by so many of us, for some artificial “unity,” which is viewed as sacred and is supposedly meant to strengthen our standing against anything that may undermine our stability as a society and as a people. Except that in a state of existential anxiety like the one we live in, even a new challenge, a new chance, a new hope, is often perceived as a threat to stability, even if that stability is a fairly dismal one; consider, for example, the panicked refusal with which Israel reacts to the repeated signals of peace coming recently from Syria.
The sense of besiegement and the fear of what is being plotted against us beyond the borders inevitably create an eagerness for internal consensus at any cost—a consensus that sometimes seems like the frightened convergence instinct of a threatened herd of cattle. But if the day comes when we do not have to define ourselves in terms of war and besiegement, if we allow ourselves to gradually let go of rigid, narrow-minded, and one-dimensional definitions of those who are “with us” and those who are “against us,” of those who are one of “us” and those who are foreigners (and as such, suspected as enemies), perhaps we will slowly learn to be more tolerant of diverse opinions and different voices in politics, art, gender roles, relations between men and women, and, not least, the tense and volatile relationship between Arabs and Jews within the State of Israel.
If we ever achieve a state in which we have no enemies, perhaps we will be able to break free from the all-too-familiar Israeli tendency to approach reality with the mind-set of a sworn survivor, who is practically programmed—condemned—to define the situations he encounters primarily in terms of threat, danger, and entrapment, or a daring rescue from all these. The survivor ignores anything that may complicate his worldview or delay his reactions, and so he tends to ignore the gray areas, the nuances, without truly facing the complex and contradictory nature of reality, with all the chances and promises it offers. He thereby all but dooms himself to exist forever within this partial, distorted, suspicious, and frightened picture of reality, and is therefore tragically fated to make his anxieties and nightmares come true time and time again.
Will we finally be able to break free from the paralyzing existential paradox of the Jewish people, a people that throughout its entire history has survived in order to live, and now finds itself, at least in Israel, living in order to survive and not much more? These aggressive, survivor-like tendencies are working their ill effect within Israeli society. It seems that after more than a century of ceaseless military and political struggles, of wars and combat operations, of self-defense and endless cycles of revenge and retaliation, the suspicion and hostility with which Israelis have become accustomed to viewing the Other, the enemy, have become almost habitual ways of thinking and acting toward any other, even if he is “one of the family,” even if he is a brother.
How little understanding and sympathy we Israelis have toward other Israelis who do not belong to our “group” or “tribe.” With what fury or belittlement we treat the real, authentic pain felt by Israelis who are not “us.” As if our continual and automatic refusal to recognize, even ever so slightly, the suffering of the Palestinians, lest this detract from our justness in some way, has now completely disrupted our common sense and our natural familial instinct. Thus, gradually, the sense of affinity and solidarity felt by many Israelis with other groups in our society has waned. Thus a deep hostility is developing between secular and religious; between new immigrants, older immigrants, and native Israelis; between rich and poor; between Jewish Israelis and Arab Israelis. Thus the social and civic cohesion and the personal identification with the state and its goals are wavering. Thus the very fundamental Jewish value of mutual responsibility is eroding. Thus Israelis are gradually losing one of the most important assets of a people—the sense of national identity itself.
I shall say a few words about security. I am not an expert, and security professionals may dismiss my thoughts as the speculations of an amateur. Still, I will try to talk about the things that even a layman like myself can understand.
Security means more than just having a strong military force. In its broader sense, security also means a strong and stable economy; fewer social gaps and greater domestic unity; good education; a strong rule of law; the identification of disparate social groups with the state and its objectives; the c
ommitment of elites to remaining in Israel and contributing their skills for its benefit; and more.
Today, Israel has a commanding army, which is a good thing. The Middle East is still a violent and volatile neighborhood. Even if it achieves peace, Israel will always have to be on guard and be prepared for surprises. Israel’s army is becoming increasingly fatigued, partly in the moral sense, since a significant proportion of its operations are carried out against civilians, including women and children, in the occupied Palestinian territories. But the army is still able to perform its role of defending the country. Most of the state’s other security components, however, are lacking: four years after the outbreak of the intifada, the Israeli economy is in a recession unlike any since the 1950s. The cost incurred by Israel in these four years is estimated at roughly ninety billion shekels. Poverty, hunger, unemployment, and crime are growing at an alarming rate, attesting to the depletion of the welfare and aid systems and the damaged status of the rule of law. The income disparity between the upper and the lower percentiles in Israel is one of the highest in the world. The worse the security situation gets, the larger the weight of security expenditures becomes, and the government’s power to reduce social gaps decreases. For the first time in Israel, there have been public warnings against a widespread violent social uprising.
But the cracks in the sense of security are deeper and more fundamental: in recent years, the years of the second intifada, Israelis have been living in a world in which people are, quite literally, being ripped apart. Entire families are killed in the blink of an eye, human limbs severed in cafés, shopping malls, and buses. These are the materials of Israeli reality and the nightmares of every Israeli, and the two are inseparably mingled. Much of daily life in Israel now occurs in the pre-cultural, primitive, animalistic regions of terror. Fierce violence is employed against the Israelis, and they respond with equal ruthlessness against the Palestinians. To be an Israeli today means to live with the perception that we have lost our path and that we are living in a dismantled state, in every sense—the dismantling of the private, human body, whose fragility is exposed over and over again, and the dismantling of the public, general body. Deep fault lines have emerged in recent years in the various branches of government, in the authority of law and of the courts, in the credibility of the army and the police, and in the trust that the public affords its leaders and its faith in their integrity.
Writing in the Dark Page 7
