A Protective Presence Shift: What Is The Balance Between Morality and Happiness?

Most people think of themselves as good. They want others to perceive them as good. Our individual definition of “good” is influenced by factors like our culture and upbringing. Canadians often preen themselves on their civility, but really it’s just a result of living in a country where civility is the norm. Civility is not the norm in Israel. People lean on their horns in the streets and bellow in anger on the sidewalks. But civility is just skin-deep—Israelis will always help if you are in distress. They only bellow if you’re pissing them off.

Helping someone in distress is probably a universal definition of goodness, but the number of people who voluntarily step out of their comfortable lives to put themselves in danger for others is very small. I don’t have to feel ashamed that other Protective Presence volunteers are doing this more than me, for longer. Can’t I feel proud that I’ve done it at all?

I am obsessed over what it means to live a moral life. I’m not a bad person. I devoted myself to my kids; I calculate the carbon footprint of every decision. But I haven’t done more than Fatima and Husni and Abu Waseem. How come I get to live in a safe, rich country? Doesn’t the grotesque injustice of our disparate lives require me to do more?

But…I loathe Protective Presence. Before I arrived, I thought I’d do it 5 days a week, like a job. When I realized how horrible and physically challenging it was, I cut it down to 48 consecutive hours a week. I’d come back to Jerusalem wrecked and spend two days in bed recovering. Then I’d spend the next two days dreading going back. The weekly cycle of Misery/Exhaustion/Dread was unbearable, so I cut shifts back to 24 hours, which at least gave me one day of relief.

But when I go back to the UK, then what? I just forget that people are living in hell while I watch a West End musical? What is the balance between being a good person and living a reasonable life? Because I can’t STAND this life. But my Bedouin friends don’t have a choice. I’m really confused.

But like the jitters of an actor disappear on-stage, I mask my misery when I’m in Taybeh. I’m playing a role. I support and protect the Bedouin (I’m hardly going to bitch about my travails with them). I support and emphasize with the other activists. Most of them seem to like working with me.

This shift my partner is a terrified 18-year old called Michal. There are three settlers trying to break through the fence surrounding Fatima’s house. Nehoriah is not there, but a blonde fellow whose reputation for violence has led to the nickname “Satan” leads the attack on the fence. We phone the police and the army but they won’t come for ages—if they come at all—so we phone for back-up. Torat Tzedek has no additional volunteers, so they send out a call to other organizations.

Meanwhile, we can’t stop the settlers from breaking down the fence, but we stay close, filming as they corral their goats smack-dab against the houses.

“I need to pee,” says Michal, eyeing Satan nervously.

“Wait for a bit.”

“We’re not supposed to put ourselves in danger. I want to go in the house.”

“So long as we’re filming we’re not in danger.”

But then Satan strides towards us.

“I want to go inside!” Michal speaks in English so Satan won’t understand.

I throw one arm around her. “I’ll protect you. Just keep filming.” I’m playing a role. An actress playing a villain truly feels wicked. I truly feel brave. Besides, she’s younger than my children.

Like a mother bird distracting the predator, I go forward to meet Satan. He comes so close his phone almost touches my face, repeating like an automaton, “Don’t come near me. Don’t come near me.” A weird smile on his face. Perhaps he’s playing a role, too.

“You’re trespassing. Take your herds and go.”

“Trespassing? This is our land.” He kicks me in the shin. I try to move back, but he sticks to me like a limpet. I try to film his feet, and he smacks me in the head.

“Your land? Because you say so?” I say, backing away steadily. “The government registry system says it belongs to the family living here.” I can hear Michal on the phone to the police again.

“The word of God is higher than any human leader. He says it’s our land.”

Satan is so close that it’s impossible to record his whole body, even though I’m zipping my phone up and down like a demented bobblehead. I film his face and he kicks me. I film his feet and he hits my head.

“Stop phoning and film us,” I scream at Michal in English. She comes closer, but not too close. “I have your whole body on film,” she informs Satan.

He glances at her with his weird sneer and backs away, just as my peripheral vision catches a boy racing to the gate to let someone in. Relief washes over me; if it were a Palestinian they would have turned away when they saw the settlers. It must be back-up.

Sure enough, four people from UCPiP arrive. The settlers immediately start to drive the goats towards the broken fence. Within minutes, they have mounted their donkeys and disappeared.

Husni rushes out and enthusiastically invites everyone for dinner. This annoys me; feeding six people is a lot of food and UCPiP haven’t done anything. “They’re very poor,” I whisper to Shlomo, the senior UCPiP activist.

He confers briefly with his team and turns back to me. “We’re hungry.”

Fatima produces a huge tray of assorted dishes and we all dig in. You can’t label any group, and the activists range between feisty Israelis fighting for the soul of their country and nutty lefties who don’t think Israel should exist. Up until now, I’ve only met foreigners in the latter group, and avoid them like the plague. But Shlomo is Israeli.

“Zionism is a failed experiment. There’s never gonna be peace here until we’re gone.”

“What does that even mean? We’re not going anywhere. And neither are the Palestinians.”

“You want to live in a genocidal state? Everyone good has already left. That’s why these monstrosities can happen.”

I’m so sick of biased people. “Rubbish. I don’t know a single person who condones what the extremist settlers are doing.”

“You’re ignorant. They’re talking about the Final Solution in Tel Aviv.”

It’s too much. I’ve listened to bullshit from the settlers all day and I don’t want to listen to bullshit from the opposite camp while I’m eating. I take my plate and move to the other side of Michal.

When Fatima comes to clear away, I praise her cooking. “That’s a new dish,” I say, pointing. “What was that?”

“Chicken hearts,” she says.

Wow, I’ve never been given meat. How come they rolled out the red carpet for these fuckers?

Shlomo has turned white; he is grasping his throat. “I thought those were mushrooms…I’m a vegetarian.” He retches. “And to eat the hearts! The heart of an animal…I think I’m going to vomit…”

Shlomo rushes out. I beam around the table, suddenly full of love for humankind again.