Reactivated

If you knew me 25 (okay, a little more) years ago, you might remember me a little differently to how you know me now. Most of the people I have met since 1998, when I left Israel after 7 years of living here, likely think of me as a passive, somewhat liberal person. Certainly no one would think of me as a political activist. No one who has known me only post 1998 could imagine me, standing  on a hill opposite the Knesset, or standing in the street near the Prime Minister’s house in Jerusalem, surrounded by like minded people, demonstrating against something we believed would ruin us.

When I arrived in Israel at the tender age of 17, I had minimal knowledge of modern Israeli history beyond the basics. Ottoman Empire. British Mandate. 1948. 1967. 1973. Lebanon War. Gulf War. I came here eager to learn Hebrew, not history,  but history classes were mandated as part of the Mechina (preparatory) programme for overseas students at Hebrew University, so I chose classes I thought would be easy. Within a few months I had learned so much more about this  country we Jews call home.

Towards the very end of my first year there were elections. I remember staying up until the early hours of the morning as the results came in, watching in disbelief with a small group of friends, as it became apparent that a coalition would be formed headed by Yitzhak Rabin and his Labour party. This government brought us the Oslo Accords.

In the weeks leading up to the signing of these accords I spent my every spare moment demonstrating against them. Every night we stood in large groups, for hours, protesting that there would be no peace. How can there be peace with people who don’t recognize our right to exist? How  can there be peace with people who chant “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free”?

Our voices weren’t heard. The accords were signed. The Prime Minister of our Jewish country shook hands with the leader of a terrorist organization, a man with so much Jewish and Israeli blood on his hands, that no amount of bleach could clean them. What has Oslo brought us? Only more  violence, more hatred, more senseless murders, suicide bombings on our buses, in our malls, hotels. More recently, since the complete Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza strip in 2005, rockets hitting deep into Israeli territory, tunnels allowing terrorists to infiltrate into Israel, and since earlier this year, Molotov cocktails attached to kites and balloons.

Somewhere along the way, between September 1993 and October 1998 I stopped fighting. I gave up. I became passive. What’s the point in constantly arguing when no one is listening? Why waste my time, my breath when all around me there is terror. So I just stopped. I moved away. It took me 16 long years to find my way back. I remember watching from far away the protests before the disengagement from Gaza. I cried while watching Jewish soldiers forcibly evict Jewish people from their homes. And I wondered “why are they bothering to resist? Their voice will never be heard. It’s not worth it. Give up”

I barely knew Ari Fuld z”l. I  met him a couple of times when he came to speak in Boca when we still lived there. I ran into him a few times since we moved back to Israel. We chatted on Facebook at length, about 5 years ago when he was considering a trip to the UK to fundraise for Standing Together, and I was trying to get him some connections in London. I would see Ari post on Facebook and wonder “does he never sleep?!” because on the same day he would post photos of the sunrise in Efrat, and then videos from the Kotel in Jerusalem in the middle of the night. His video messages were so passionate and full of energy, you couldn’t help but smile, and I just wished for a little bit of that energy. I can’t quite put into words the shock I felt Sunday when I first heard that it was Ari who was stabbed in the Gush. I got a message on whatsApp from a friend, but it wasn’t until I actually heard his name on the news an hour later that I began to process.

Like so many others, I have spent this week grieving, praying on Yom Kippur perhaps with more fervor, but also with more questioning (why? why do You always take the best ones?). At the end of Yom  Kippur, when we sang “Next Year in a rebuilt Jerusalem” I meant it more than ever before. I’ve also spent this week thinking about what I can do. I can share Ari’s messages, I can post on social media, I can donate to the fund set up in his memory. But I want to do more.

Something inside me has been reactivated. The me from 25 years ago is fighting her way out from deep within. I no longer want to be regarded as passive. I don’t know how to start, but I’m going to find a way. Last night I went to the Kotel. It was late, it was easy to get up to the old wall and touch the stones as I davened, and from the angle I looked up, it was like there was nothing on top, just an empty space waiting for the Beit haMikdash to be rebuilt. May it be Your will, God, that the Temple is rebuilt soon, and that Mashiach comes to redeem us all.

Empty space on Har HaBayit just waiting for the 3rd Temple to be built