Dancing to the judicial coup

Credit Ruth Mason

I recently began folk dancing regularly again (it’s great for osteoporosis prevention) and the lyrics to the Hebrew songs we dance to still do it to me. As I’m crossing left foot over right or turning to the count of three, I still feel a welling in my heart and sometimes even chills to the sounds of the heartfelt melodies and lyrics from my childhood – and some new ones.

But the last time I went folk dancing, ambivalence crept in. I moved here 30 years ago because I have roots here and because – despite its many problems – I love this country. But will I be able to love an undemocratic Israel? Is there a place in my heart for an Israel whose leaders are working to turn us into an illiberal democracy like Hungary or Poland where the majority runs rampant without checks or balances?  For that is where we are headed if this government – Israel’s most extreme ever – has its way.

Israel is a land of song. Even in this nightmarish time, with the hostages and the war heavy on our hearts, we sing. We sing on school trips, around the campfire, in kindergartens, youth movements, on army marches. Public singalongs abound.

My love for Israel was nurtured during my childhood in Los Angeles by the lyrics I heard on the two Hebrew albums we owned (my mother, raised partly in pre-state Israel, loved the iconic Israeli singers, Shoshana Damari and Yaffa Yarkoni;) in singing sessions on a teen trip to Israel and at Camp Ramah and while folk dancing at LA’s Café Danssa.

The “songs of the land of Israel,” as they are called, were etched into our identity as young, Israel-identifying American Jews. As our bodies swayed and twirled (and held the hand of our current crush if we were lucky) and our feet executed the grapevine and Yemenite steps at folk dance sessions, the words imprinted themselves on us: “The orchards give their scent, and the almond trees bloom, the sun always shines here, and there are tears and there are joys.” (“Beautiful Land of Israel,” lyrics by Dudu Barak, melody by Shaike Paikov, 1937.)

The lyrics are in first person plural: We are an us. “The land we were born in, the land we live in, and dwell in no matter what.” They enumerate the joys and describe the beauty of living in the land: “Land, land, land/sea facing the coast/flowers and children without end.” (Land, lyrics and melody by Shaike Paikov; 1976.)

In the haunting hit, “A Tribe of Brothers and Sisters” (lyrics by Doron Medalie, melody by Idan Raichel; 2019) those children – of our forefathers, our roots – are dubbed the flowers, the melodies. It references our collective history: “Together, we gather wanderers in a knapsack of longing.” It recalls the scent of citrus groves and our sense of belonging: “I’m from here, I belong. And every friend is like a brother…”

I still remember my high school civics teacher at Los Angeles’s Alexander Hamilton High School drumming into us the importance of checks and balances. In the US, three institutions check the possibility of unlimited power: the executive, legislative and judicial branches of government. In Israel, where the prime minister is the leader of the ruling party, the only check left is the judiciary. And the extreme right wingers now in power want to eviscerate that. Passing posters of Itamar Ben Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich on the way to my local polling station during one of the many elections before the last one, I thought, these clowns will never be in power. And indeed, in that election, they didn’t pass the required threshold. But, unbelievably, here they are, actual ministers in the government, destroying my beloved country. Would Bibi be going along with this disaster if not for his trial?

What will my family and I do if they succeed in their efforts? Will we stay in a country that is not a democracy? Will our children want to raise their children in a dictatorship? Am I going to wake up and discover this was all a nightmare?

In an informal poll, I found despair – and hope.

One heartbroken American-Israeli told me, “I no longer feel Israel is the best place for my children to live their lives.”

Another friend said: “The occupation didn’t destroy my love. There are many good people opposed to it who work daily to end it and I’m a born optimist and just know that one day the occupation will be history. But this feels different…”

One feels her love strengthened: “It makes me love Israel more and want to protect it. It feels like a beloved child is being kidnapped and abused when what is actually needed is some correction.”

Everyone I know is worried but there are optimists: Says one, “This State is a manifestation of so many small wonders – beginning with the revival of the Hebrew language and creation of collective communities, all the inventions and hi-tech, the music and art – even the survival of the tiny state bordered by enemies. Maybe we will find our way out of this as well.”

I hope so. In the meantime, I’m waiting to hear calls for civil disobedience and I will obey them.

But will I continue to love my country while I dance and sing and live life if it is no longer recognizable?