A Protective Presence Shift: How to Purge Hatred

Striding down the stone pavement in Jerusalem, I see a happy child enjoying an ice-cream. I imagine smashing the ice-cream from his fingers and dashing it to the ground.

Destroying happiness. That is what the extremist settlers are doing. They are creating so much misery that people prefer to abandon the homes where they were born, rather than continue to bear it.

I am consumed with anger and I cannot control it, even though I recognise that it stems from Nehoriah’s betrayal. How could he hit a woman old enough to be his mother—a woman who has chatted to him numerous times in an attempt to form a positive bond? What cultish mindset justifies that?

A mind that has never been exposed to any other perspective. An unloved hilltop boy from a rough background, finally feeling that he belongs. Nope, trying for empathy doesn’t help. Still want to smash his face. To dash the ice-cream to the ground.

I hate everyone. The Palestinians, some of whom would certainly kill me if the shoe was on the other foot. Fatima, who asked me to help with her kids’ school fees the same day I was attacked. I am literally placing myself between her and her assailant and she wants *more* from me? I’m protecting her because my government isn’t. Because I’m ashamed. I certainly don’t want gratitude—it’s my people doing this to them—but I don’t want to be seen as some type of milk cow either.

I also hate the Israelis for being so stupid they vote again and again and AGAIN for a man who is systematically destroying everything Israel once stood for.

I hate the lefties in the West most of all, who compare what’s going on here to the Holocaust. I mean, Gaza is like, 6km wide. If we wanted to commit genocide, it would be pretty easy. It’s bad enough that our horrific government is doing ethnic cleansing; no need to compare it to the mother of all genocides.

There is a checkpoint at the entrance to Taybeh when Moshe and I arrive for my next shift. A massive line of cars snake back as far as you can see. The soldiers make everyone get out of each car, dump the car’s contents on the hot asphalt, frisk the men. How can it be for security, like they claim? If a terrorist wanted to sneak a bomb out, he’d see the checkpoint was open and turn around, wouldn’t he? It’s just to humiliate. Smash another ice-cream. Breed a little more hatred.

The soldiers stop us. Contemptuous young faces. “Do you know what happened on Oct 7?” they ask Moshe.

“Yes,” Moshe replies calmly. A grizzled kibbutznik radiating calm.

“Do you know someone who died on October 7?”

“Yes.”

“Did you serve in the army?”

“Yes.”

“Then how can you do this?”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.” Moshe is unruffled, but I have to bite my tongue. I can see a goat herd marching towards Fatima’s home and I don’t want to waste time wrangling with the soldiers. Besides, it’s pointless. Neither of us understand how the other can do what they’re doing. How can a human know they’re doing the right thing? Because there are universal red lines, preached in every religion, written into the laws of civilized countries. Don’t do harm. I am preventing harm, and they are causing it. Throughout history, all harm is justified by racism—the other is not like us. Every Arab is a potential terrorist.

When we finally get away, we see that the herds have bypassed Fatima’s place and continued to Ahmed. There are two herds and three settlers; one of them is Nehoriah. They are making tea over a little fire while their goats and camels eat the Bedouin’s olive trees and the Bedouin hide in their houses. Smash another ice-cream.

It’s 35 degrees and there’s no shade, and my gratitude for their immobility ends when they finish their tea and drive their herds towards the fence surrounding the house. We put our bodies between them and the fences, moving when they move, filming, filming, filming. It is difficult when they outnumber us. I do not speak to any of them. Five hours pass. We have phoned the police and the army many times, but of course they don’t come. I am exhausted. I am desperate for the sun to set so they take their herds back to their illegal outpost and I can sit down.

Then Nehoriah breaches the fence and marches towards Ahmed’s door. He bangs on it. Moshe and I charge after him—I will never be caught alone again.

And then…I start to scream. I shove my face into Nehoriah’s face: “Get away! Get away! This isn’t your house! You’re a bad person! Get away!”

Nehoriah looks flabbergasted by this 180 degree change in my behaviour, and you can hear in the video that I sound like a lunatic.

But the next time I see a child enjoying an ice-cream, I don’t visualize destroying their happiness.

Somehow, my anger has been purged.