War Zones: Jews and African-Americans

When I landed in Israel, I finally felt at peace for the first time this summer. After the horrific events of the past months, I was in a place where people shared my emotions. We could take for granted that together we’d suffered the pain of the triple murder of children, watched with agony as war broke out, prayed for our soldiers’ safety and compassionate humanity, and were now waiting on tenterhooks for resolution. The one thing we didn’t have in common was Israelis’ insulation; they had no idea what was happening outside of their war zone beyond a bewildered sense that the world was condemning them for self-defense.

I was not eager to enlighten them. The anti-Semitism that is rocketing around the world, from synagogues firebombed in France to rabbis assaulted in Morocco and mobs shrieking “gas the Jews” in Germany, is so appalling that it is outside of my ability to understand. In fact, my reaction is more surprised confusion than outrage. In this century? I snuggled into the psyche of Israel, comfortable to be in a country where I know I do not have to defend the fact that we defend ourselves.

On my way out of the country, deep guilt engulfed me. How can I leave Israel at this time? The image of Max Steinberg’s grave and the fresh, as yet-uncovered graves beside his stung my eyes. What does it mean to run away from one’s country when others have laid down their lives for it? How can I possibly understand those who hate others simply because they are other? And how can I connect with students so untouchably distant from my own situation?

I hit America with a brain and a soul foggily left in Israel. Slowly, the headlines assaulted me until I began to make sense of them: an 18 year-old has been gunned down by a cop, riots and looting have broken out in Ferguson, and the police are using force to subdue peaceful rallies while shouting that news cameras should be turned off. Once again, the African-American community is facing the death of an innocent child for being African-American.

As all around me, my friends react to Michael Brown’s murder, I feel a surreal ache. Whatever I thought I’d left behind in Israel is right here beside me. The same hatred against a group, the sense that their deaths don’t truly count, that perhaps Jews and African-Americans are so used to being under attack that they’re now making it up as an excuse for attention… I never imagined, none of us did, that we’d reach 2014, half a century on from the Holocaust and the Civil Rights movement, and find ourselves right back where we started. Are some hatreds so entrenched that every advance is merely a mask? Is there any resolution to which we can look forward in our lifetimes?

I don’t know. But I feel a powerful connection to my students right now. Our stories are not so different. And they lay a fierce responsibility upon us.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” MLK