A discussion of general politics is always tiring. You have to hear and respect the endless opinions of everyone involved, all the while trying to formulate your own opinions and recall facts to contribute to the conversation. And if any of these aspects aren’t in their sharpest forms, you’re automatically a “dumbass.” Well, when it comes to Israeli politics, every element is heightened. And when discussing such politics for over 2 hours, let’s just say it takes the “fun” out of “fundamentalism.”
I know in my last post I said I wouldn't be concentrating too heavily on Israeli/Middle Eastern politics, so let me do my best to tell you this story without getting too Jerusalem Post-y...
About 80 kids from around the world arrive on the Israel-Lebanese border. We’re sitting atop one of the tallest Israeli hills in the Golan, looking across the border at all the Lebanese residential houses below. They stretch nearly endlessly. They look nice and well constructed. However, then an old Israeli man with a beard up to his eyeballs comes forth and tells us to look closer at the houses.
“What’s missing?” he asked us.Nobody answered.
“Windows,” he said. “None of these houses have windows because they are Hezbollah bunkers.” He told us that as far as our eyes could see, every single “nice” looking house was merely a façade. People live in them, yes, but they are members and supporters of the Hezbollah. These houses hold ammunition, guns, and hatred toward Jews. And it’s only a matter of time until these houses, once again, become war zones.
“Well how come we’re not in danger atop this hill?” someone asked.
It’s because of their discipline, the Israeli man sort of yelled at us. Nobody is going to fire at us unless the Hezbollah has organized an attack. If someone freely fires from their home, the Hezbollah will kill them. It’s ironic that their obedience to Islamic fundamentalism makes it OK to kill Jews in large quantities, but not on an individual basis.
Anyway, we then got into this long conversation about how we were currently on a military base as well as a kibbutz, and discussed when the next time Lebanon might fire at this hill. He said he was fired at in 2006, just narrowly being blown to bits by a Lebanese tank. But I couldn’t focus on the content of the politics in which we were talking. I was too distracted by this old man. For every question he was asked, he yelled the answer. I don’t know why, but he did. And it wasn’t just his way of talking. He was so passionate about Israel that any question we asked him was turned into an ignorant one. How dumb are you that you don’t know the answer to that?? Aren’t you a Jew??? People were afraid to ask him questions for fear of being humiliated. And with good reason; as people asked more and more political questions, his answers became more and more obnoxious.
The questions were interrupted by a bell and Arabic chants from the other side of the border. It was prayer time for the Islamic Lebanese, and while it was a pretty sound, it was ugly because it was rooted in fundamentalism. I thought of a question to ask at this moment. People were asking complex political questions which we angering him, so I thought I would ask an innocent question to see what reaction I would get. He kept talking about how much he loved this hill, but never said why. So, naturally I asked him, “What makes you love this hill so much?”
He stopped pacing, and looked me dead in the eyes. I saw his face turn read through his thick Israeli beard.
“How long have you been here?!”
“About a month.”
“Well look at this hill! How do you not see its beauty?!”
“Well,” I replied, “I don’t like your neighbors.”
Some chuckled, but he didn’t. He got angrier and started yelling. Yelling more than he did for any other answer, or answer to come.
“You know what, I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you! But one day when the Christians kick you out of the United States, you’ll have a home here! And you’ll have a home because of people like me! I love this land because it’s MINE! And if I don’t love it here, then someone else will be atop this hill! And if not me, then maybe my Arab neighbors! For all I’m concerned, Hitler was the last man who’s going to exterminate the Jews! Next question!!”
Whoa. A simple “The cherries are delicious here” would have sufficed. But then again, I knew I wasn’t going to get that answer.
He answered my question with his passion and pride, not with a tangible: A very Israeli approach to taking questions. And I liked his answer, but only because I agreed with him. Had I not believed in the state of Israel or the power of the Jewish people, then I would have thought he was crazy. Or perhaps, a radical. Hell, I thought that anyway. Which, unfortunately, made me understand the passion of the terrorists across the border. While what they do can never be understood by a sane global citizen, I can see how they’re brainwashed into becoming killing machines. They have leaders more than double intense as this old Israeli man telling young Arab kids that Israel and Jerusalem is theirs and that the Jew is standing in the way. I was only with this old man for a couple of hours, and even though I didn’t like how he yelled at everyone and belittled our Judaism, by the end of it I felt proud and passionate to be here and to be helping the land of Israel. These Arab kids are born into such radicalism and brainwashed into only asking questions like “How do we best kill the Jew?!” as opposed to “Why must the Jews die exactly??” They don't even realize that they're the waves of a vicious cycle.
We were a group of 80 kids, afraid to ask an old Israeli man any question we desired for fear of a mere harsh reaction. And we are the ones who have the choice, education and ability to question our world. Hezbollah kids don't. Their questions become much more narrow when death is on the line. And as long as radicals and fundamentalists exist in the world, forbidding people to freely ask and act upon the questions they so desire, peace will never be a tangible ideal.
Oy. This shit is exhausting me... Nap time.
No comments:
Post a Comment