Wednesday, July 30, 2014

It is a difficult time to be both Jewish and liberal. To try and see the current conflict from a middle ground, but feeling challenged in doing so - battered from each side with arguments and propaganda supporting a dogmatic position. I strive towards a pragmatic viewpoint, one that attempts to recognize the full picture.  But I am constantly left wanting when trying to do so. Knowing so deeply in my mind that this war is going to prove to be much less than Israel desires and to do so much more harm, to Israel and Gaza, and the West Bank, than any of us can truly fathom. That what we are witnessing as a new anti-Semitism is only the tip of the iceberg we are careening towards. We live in a time of abject hate and it is easy for that hate to foment. This war at this time? It strikes me as a challenge towards stemming that tide.

I cannot condone the casualties of war. Even when the goal is to be targeted and cautious. It is impossible to do so, moreso when you have Hamas, or some other political-religious fanatic group as your enemy. Because there is nothing but carnage that will come from such a conflict. And the onus is on the side trying to be cautious to find new options, new solutions. We've seen this again and again.  And the end is always much worse than the expectation.

I care deeply for Israel and the people I have come to love and honor who chose, by circumstance, birth, or opportunity to live there. I admit openly and without guilt that I am a Zionist. I have been committed to Israel since I was a child, learning in Hebrew school about the shared lands, the history of  three religious traditions that have laid claim to its cities and valleys. I have debated openly and internally about what it means to be a liberal Zionist. A Jew who believes in a land for the Jews, in a place where our history began. But I am not a Zionist at any cost, willing to pay any price for this opportunity, for this land. Because I do not believe in any way that this is just "our land." And I believe deeply in a two-state solution, to the challenges of different peoples seeking to identify with and occupy the same land. I do not see the Palestinian people as an "other," an enemy. I see the Palestinians as I do the Bedouins, the Druze, the "Israeli Arabs," and the Christians who all live in Israel - as fellow citizens of a shared setting, that can and should be divided, and in some places shared, to allow for co-existence.  There is truly no "other," just kin, co-residents, and friends.

But I am not so blind as to fail to recognize the politics. The narcissism of the Jewish right wing. The aggressions and ignorance of the settlers. The hatred taught because there has been a definition of self, by each side, as "the other," and of themselves as the "rightful owner." I still remember the horrible feeling I experienced when I watched two priests, of differing Christian traditions, fighting with each other, throwing words and fists, at the place where Jesus was supposedly born in Bethlehem. The anger and aggression that I witnessed between two Christians, who were fighting over their small plots of land in the shrine. And this is what I see when I look at the images coming from Gaza, at the conflict and its deaths, its destruction. I clearly recognize that Gaza is a place where a people have come to be locked inside an open air prison, by both Hamas and Israel. But in there, in this densely packed setting, are Palestinians who seek to find some means of movement, or an ear to hear their voices. And right now, those voices are not being heard. I am appalled daily at the failures of empathy and understanding that take place. The vitriol and hate that comes from the mouths of Israelis and Palestinians both - that I know is born of frustration and repeated missed opportunities, but which is nonetheless filled with the nonsense of fear and profound disrespect for one another.  It angers me and leaves me feeling torn and dismayed. And it is fomented, this hate, by men who have no capacity to see beyond their own small ambitions, their own jealousies and hatreds. Men who cannot imagine that they exist in a world with others who seek a similar opportunity to their own. Men who have no ability to see outside their narrow, nasty narcissistic viewpoints. One of those men is Netanyahu. And Lieberman and Bennett. And many of those men are Hamas. And sadly, I fear that one of those men is our own president - who too seems blinded to this battle and its costs.

I sit in a mix of shame, frustration, anger, and sadness. At what is happening and what is not really seeming possible anymore.  I desire a truce. A move towards peace. A recognition of what is shared. But I doubt that is truly going to happen. And I dread what that means in the long term.

Monday, July 28, 2014

What a funny day.  What a strange year.  Random thoughts that hit me, as I sit here, after realizing that it has been over a year since I last wrote, let alone posted, anything here.  Thinking about how my ideas, comments, and considerations all seem to end up in short soundbites, shared on Twitter or Facebook.  That my lengthier thoughts are kept relatively private of late.  Out of concern.  Out of respect.  Out of uncertainty.

I am torn apart about what is happening in Israel and Gaza.  Daily reading both sides of the press, to try and garner a sense of what is actually happening.  What is really being talked about.  Because my personal opinion is rather ripped to shreds at this point.  Heart aching.  Anger at the right wing in Israel who show incredible racism and hatred, at Hamas and its supporters for blindly forcing a public to live in the 19th century, and at the Israeli government, for keeping Gazans and the Palestinians living in the West Bank  in a prison, leaving them reeling daily in injustices and just the right situation for fomenting ongoing hate and a commitment to terrorism.  And knowing too that I have to wrestle with my own Zionism, my deeply held belief that a country for Jews is a right.  But not at any cost and not without reconciling with the injustices done to make this happen.  I ache and I hold my tongue.  Knowing that whatever I might try and say just will fail to convey the sorrow and anger and frustration I feel.  Wanting both peoples to just stop and look at one another.  And see.

I am angry at my own country.  This US that is is rapidly descending into utter failure on so many fronts.  At the failure of our political structure to rise above the worst of its, and our, inclinations.  To see how small voices are ignored, how we allow children to die, how we continue to perpetuate a country that is more feudal than at likely any time since the 18th century.  And I vacillate between trying to engage my best impulses for change, and just ignoring the situation and trying to live as so many others like me, privileged and white and educated.  And I grow irritated at myself, reminding myself daily that I was raised a Jewish gay man, who first and foremost learned to care about others and what I can do for them, to practice tikkun olam - to help make this a better world now.  And yet, I feel as if I am often alone at caring and trying.

Turning 50 has been much more challenging than I'd once thought it might be.  It has certainly been a year of loss and change.  Of pain, both psychological and physical.  A year of confronting my changing body - how the inside is not keeping pace with the outside.  And of reconnecting, because of all the change and pain, with a me I've lost touch with over time.  It has been a year of watching some very positive change, including gay marriage and the pointed end of DOMA, evoke horrific responses of hate and rage.  And of wondering how, all these years since I first witnessed such anger and disrespect, I could still be seeing such awfulness.  I am wondering what is next - knowing that it is really a matter of choice now.  To engage.  To continue to see.  To speak loudly.  And of pushing myself to do so.