Tag Archives: HAMAS

Bibas

By Posted in Childhood, death, Faith, Family, Life, Opinion Tagged , , , , , , , , 6 Comments

That name haunts me. Images of that family haunt me. Weeks have passed since we learned the news that wasn’t news, that they were dead, em al habanim, mother upon children, as the psalmist phrases it. Weeks have passed since we learned not just dead, but in the case of the four-year old and the one-year old, murdered with bare hands by their captors. Weeks have passed since scenes were shown of triumphant crowds jeering at little coffins, parents bringing their own live children to mock the dead. 

Although the mind was haunted, the pen was stilled, the tongue silenced. These were known facts but the mind needed to unknow them. The mind rebelled. As if to give them voice, to write the words would bring the inadmissible into admission, the unthinkable into thought.

The mind reverts to nightmare: to kill with bare hands? A babe requires no great force of hand, only the extinction of love (of self-love actually, for the human impulse to nurture the littlest is instinctiveand mighty); but the four-year old – what might, what main? – what grunt, what strain? To pen the imagined is to write filth. I might delete the words, but not the thoughts, the horrific wondering. The things that are known do not belong in the realm of the human. If these be facts, if these acts be the work of human hands and human minds, what might my hands, my mind devise?

No, no! The mind rebels.

But we do know it. What now to do with that knowing? Beyond wailing, beyond raging, what light can the human flame show? In two separate but concurrent polls conducted in Israel, Israelis gave answer. A majority was ready to countenance the Trump proposal to clear Gaza of Gazans. At the same time a majority still favoured a two-state solution. The flame of revenge burned bright, butstill the flame of hope flickered.

Retrogressive

By Posted in Life, Opinion Tagged , , , , , , , , , 5 Comments

“Progressive” has become a label. People who identify with an underdog claim that title, people who care and work for a fairer world. That would be me.

Progressive people are derided by conservative people by the term, Woke. That would be me. The term Woke is meant to hurt and it hurts me.

Back in the times before it became a label, I used to be progressive. Of course the word progressive is an adjective, like big, or old or green. In the past I wouldn’t have called myself a Progressive, any more than I’d have called myself a Big (which I am not), or an Old (which I am), or a Green. Very many people identify as Greens. I’m green: I’m concerned for the environment and live accordingly. However in Australia, the Greens as a political party are an organised mass movement hostile to Jewish people. (The Greens will deny, hand on heart that they are anti-semitic. But I am a Jew who judges them by the harm they do, not by their ever-so-pure, who-me? intent.)

We Jews hear a Greens voice that allows our people no homeland. The Greens voice that Australians hear is not heard on Hamas terror. It’s a voice that cannot pronounce the word rape when committed by Hamas.

The Greens of course, would claim to be progressive.

So I’m not a Progressive, that proper noun that’s a self-label. In the days when I knew myself as progressive, rape was rape, and rape was always hideous, always condemned, always wrong. In the days when I was progressive, we who embraced the underdog were capable of civil agreement to disagree. In those times those who embraced Palestinian people as underdogs did not vilify those who supported Israel. They did not deny our humanity. That inhuman individual would be me, Zionist, former progressive. 

Progressive people knew once the dignity of difference. We might be Zionist or non-Zionist or anti-Zionist, and we could hear each other. We could see the human face of one with whom we disagreed. 

We had not learned to cancel.

Progressives have made progress. They’ve progressed to shouting where previously they’d debate; to shaming where they’d show respect; to cancelling and to doxing. Once upon a time Progressives used to be democrats. The Progressives have progressed far out of sight, so far they cannot be recognised. They have followed the logic of their self-contradiction to their present morass of moral confusion. Many Progressives – in my speculation most of them – mean well. Many are young and are uninformed and susceptible. Some become useful idiots manipulated by older persons, agitators for one cause or another or every cause de jour.

So I am one whose constituency has moved on. I am one left behind, marooned in a once-was world, a world of outmoded values like decency, like openness to the other, like mutual respect. I am stuck in a past where we could agree to disagree.

I guess I have to accept I am not progressive. I need a new noun. Call me a Retrogressive.

A Yacht Race

By Posted in death, Life Tagged , , , , , , 1 Comment


The race had been in progress for the best part of three days. Two yachts crept down the Derwent River towards the finish line. Left behind were the brutal winds of the Start. Here there was scarcely a zephyr. The national broadcaster broke into the scheduled breakfast banalities to cover the final minutes of the race. In a race of 628 nautical miles, the giant yachts were separated by less than one-tenth of a nautical mile.

The Breakfast crew at the TV station were agog. The vision showed two yachts with their so tallmasts, black triangular sails reminiscent of wizard’s cloaks, creeping, overlapping each other, changing tack suddenly, stealing each other’s air, vying for minute advantage. You could not tell from the vision which yacht was leading. The young woman on the TV declared: I can’t tell who’s ahead! Neither could I.

It was clear to me, a mere dinghy sailor, the TV lady was all at sea. She would not know what a nautical mile was, nor the names of the sails, nor her port side from her starboard. She didn’t need to. She was engaged, she was excited and she conveyed the tension of the moment as well as her partiality. This was entertainment. She favoured the boat that had finished in second place twice. In short she cheered for the underdog precisely and solely because it was the underdog.

To cheer for the underdog is familiar to most Australians. An instinct for justice overtakes us. It’s an impulse both noble and immature. It loves the simple story. It has no time for nuance. Insteadthere is romance, a whiff of virtue.

It is this instinct for the underdog that animates the national broadcaster. This is evident in reporting many contests, both domestic and international.

At the moment there are contested narratives in the middle east. The broadcaster can’t quite resist the adolescent lure of the simple story. It sees David, it sees Goliath. It sees moral purity on one side and the opposite on the other side. And it what is clearly to be seen it chooses not to see.

In the course of the war in Gaza and Israel the broadcaster and its like-minded newspapers report the aweful suffering of Palestinian people, as they should. We see and we read and we feel. Our feelings include grief and shock and anger. What the reports seldom remind us is the fact of war both in Gaza and in Israel. Hamas and Islamic Jihad continue to rocket non-military targets in Israel.

We see much reporting of the suffering in Gaza, some of the suffering in the West Bank, much, much less of the situation in Israel.

In the weeks since mid-October, I have not come across reportage such the following. Its author is a New Yorker named ShaulRobinson:

Israel, December 2023. Not a defeated country. Certainly not a country short on resolve or determination. Or even a country concerned that it might not get through this. But, for all that, this is a stunned country. A grieving country. A country in indescribable pain.

The daily losses of soldiers. The people you meet everywhere – ’ I have a son in Gaza’. The hundreds of thousands of people evacuated from their homes. The bereaved, the shattered communities, the shattered sense of security, of safety. The wounded (there are already thousands of profoundly wounded soldiers), the scarred. The families coping with husbands, fathers, children, in the Army for months….

We learned a long time ago to stop saying the words ‘unprecedented’ or ‘unbelievable’. The precedents in Jewish history for people doing this kind of monstrous violence, born of irrational, demonic hatred, are too many to count. And as for ‘unbelievable’ – well we should have believed it could happen, but nobody wanted to. 

… the most profound moments are with the individual encounters. We met the parents of three heroes – Rabbi Shmuel Slotki whose two sons Noam and Yishai Slotki died on the first day, rushing to defend Kibbutz Alumim, and Robert and Lisa Zenilman whose son Ari, who was born in to the LSS community, died in Gaza two weeks ago. 

We met parents and family members of hostages. We met people who had survived the attacks of October 7th, and relatives of people who did not survive. We met wounded soldiers, and soldiers on their way to battle. We met parents who do not sleep at night (in fact I do not think we met anyone who does sleep at night).  We met bereaved family members sitting by their loved ones’ graves in Har Herzl military cemetery.

…we found ourselves viewing the dozens of fresh graves of heroes of the IDF at Har Hertzl, and with one of the heads of Psychiatry, and one of the head Neurosurgeons at Icholov Hospital who have a caseload of trauma both physical and emotional that is beyond belief. And finally found ourselves an almost unbearable memorial to the Nova Music Festival, with burned out cars, piles of abandoned personal belongings, the bar, the stage, tents and camping chairs staged as a reconstruction of what had been.

That last visit, to the Nova memorial, filled me for the first time with Anger. Rage, at the injustice, the evil brutality of what those monsters did to those beautiful innocent young people, who came to dance. 

I reflected on the stories of Har Hertzl. Not just stories of tragic loss, but of Heroism. Of friends who saved the lives of friends, and strangers, and gave up their lives doing so. Stories that obligate us all to fight back with all our might. I reflected on the words of the Neurosurgeon who unhesitatingly stated ‘I am proud of what we are able to do here, the lives we are able to save through our work.’ 

And I reflected on the Nova Festival. We had met one of the organizers of the October 7th Festival, who recounted what happened on the day, and what has happened afterwards – a mass effort to counsel, hold, heal, protect the survivors, remember the murdered and dream of the future.’

Everywhere in the incredibly moving memorial you see the same four words. “We Will Dance Again’.

And on that note, we sang HaTikvah. Israel is the Land of Hope. And we are the People of Hope.

WE will dance again.

We WILL dance again.

We will DANCE again.

We will dance AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN AND AGAIN.