Originally published in Tikkun Daily
I don’t cry.
It didn’t used to be this way – I was a somewhat sensitive kid growing up, and often wore my emotions openly, crying naturally when the world demanded tears. I’m now 40, and haven’t cried in 12 years. Maybe more. I admit that, during the past month, I’ve written the words “I weep” for the loss of life in Gaza and the loss of life in Israel. But such words have just been a metaphor for what, in reality, can no longer be conjured.
Why am I starting out by telling you this? Because in writing this letter, I can feel the faint hint of tears, can feel the sensation of what it feels like to cry. It’s a familiar feeling, but one which will spill out into words. Words of sadness. Words of love. And possibly, words of hope.
Many of you know me as an active member of the community. You are my friends and my colleagues. You are Jewish community leaders and community activists. You are Americans and Israelis. You are people I care about, and during this difficult time, some of our relationships are being strained. Which is why I’m writing and sharing some thoughts, hoping that in doing so, the distance created between myself and some of you might be bridged during this difficult time.
Like all of you, I wake each morning afraid to see names of Israeli soldiers who have died, and like some of you, that fear is amplified by knowing some of those currently serving whose lives are at risk.
Like all of you, I feel pain for mothers and fathers who must explain to their young children why they are playing cards in bomb shelters, and like some of you, I’m in touch with friends living in Israel who must do so daily.
Like all of you, I love the promise of Israel, wanting it to thrive as a democratic country, despite the inherent challenges, and like some of you, I still desire a two-state solution, however elusive or impossible such a reality has become.
Like all of you, I’m deeply invested in Israel.
However, for some during this time of conflict, to be ‘pro-Israel’ means to be binary. One either stands unequivocally by Israel’s actions, or stands in opposition to Israel. There is no in-between. And it is in that liminal space is where I and many others stand, a space that stands separated from the community.
And that saddens me.
Like the thousands of Israelis who crowded Rabin Square in Tel Aviv on Saturday evening, and like many of you, I mourn not just the over 50 Israelis who have been killed, but the over 1,000 Palestinians who have died. And like those Israelis who gathered after Shabbat to light candles for this conflict’s victims, I support a U.S.-led embracing of Palestinian unity efforts and a political end to the violence. I support those efforts out of a fear that this war, as history has shown, will not achieve Israel’s goal of permanent quiet along the border.
And like those Israelis who gathered, my investment in the country compels me to critique its geopolitical policies – the occupation and settlements – which are harming Israel’s long-term viability and the realization of its democratic promise, policies which have harmed Palestinians and denied them basic rights for too long.
These views are informed by a melding of my progressive politics and Jewish values extracted from years of textual learning. There is a foundational text that has always stayed with me from Chapter Four, Mishna Five in מסכת סנהדרין (Tractate Sanhedrin):
Too many souls have been destroyed, too many worlds never to be seen again, both Jewish and Muslim. Too many parents are bereaved, too many families ripped apart by grief. When I stand in opposition to this military action, it is not to stand against Israel. It is to stand against more lives being lost due to military actions which I believe will not bring peace.
ללמד שכל המאבד נפש אחת, מעלים עליו כאילו איבד עולם מלא
Anyone who destroys a soul, it’s as though he’s destroyed an entire world.
Some of you in my community are upset with me for these positions, intimating that at this current moment – during a conflict – having such views is anti-Israel. This couldn’t be further from the truth.
I responded to this idea in an article I wrote on Friday, “Empathizing with Gaza does NOT make me anti-Semitic, nor pro-Hamas or anti-Israel. It makes me human.” The article has resonated widely, and since its publication, I have been overwhelmed by the responses which have flooded my inbox, most coming from committed, young Jews who crave communal spaces where they feel free to both support Israel and ask difficult questions. They don’t want to see things in binary terms. They don’t want play a zero-sum game where loving Israel precludes heartfelt critiques and vice versa.
As I wrote in that article, there is a ‘third way.’ A way to be invested in and care about Israel while viewing the conflict as one in which both sides can win.
My hope is that, in the end, it will be the former. And I sense that most of you feel the same.
David Harris-Gershon is author of the memoir What Do You Buy the Children of the Terrorist Who Tried to Kill Your Wife?, recently published by Oneworld Publications.
An earlier version of this briefly appeared on the Rec. List yesterday before I pulled it to revise and expand a text I wasn't completely happy with.