Daybreak in Gaza – Lights Out in Jerusalem

On Sunday evening 3 February I sat next to Mahmoud Muna in a West Jerusalem living room. Mahmoud, as much of the world knows by now, is the proprietor of East Jerusalem’s cultural icon, the Educational Bookshop. We had convened a group of some fifteen English speaking Israelis, plus members of the international diplomatic community, to introduce Daybreak in Gaza, the new book edited by Mahmoud and British journalist Matthew Teller.

I was surprised and deeply moved by reading this book. Surprised, because it is not a relentless rant of rage. Moved, because each entry bespeaks profound love and attachment to Gaza, to the very land and air, the sea, the sun, the trees and stones, and to the generations of families that made their lives there, going back to the days before the State of Israel, before the rise of Islam, before the politics of Palestine. Before. That is so much of what this beautiful book is about: a before that will never be recaptured.

Mahmoud wanted to give voice to the people of Gaza. He and Matthew reached out by phone, text and word of mouth, and dozens of people responded, eager to tell their stories. Some of them are no longer alive, some are unreachable. Some responded by text or email, some by telephone. All of them felt they had a mission to speak to the world, to speak up before they were silenced.

One man, Mahmoud relates, could not speak during daylight hours. There was no phone connectivity where he was staying and it was too dangerous to go outside. Over a number of days this man left his house at midnight and went to a spot where he had phone service to call Mahmoud and rush through a series of hurried conversations. From these and other contacts, Mahmoud and Matthew pieced together dozens of personal narratives of life in Gaza. Life from previous generations, life before the war, life during the war, and the dream – or fear – of what life might be like after the war. Some of these dreams will not come true, as those who dreamed them have since been killed. Some dreams will not come true because they rely on the good will of humanity. Some people simply refuse to dream. But all of them were energized by Mahmoud’s simple question: What would you like the world to know?

The evening was a success. Books were bought and contact information was exchanged. Snacks were enjoyed, together with coffee and glasses of wine, and participants said they planned to organize future events to bring the book to a wider audience. In response to my opening question, Mahmoud described what he sees as the fragmentation of Palestinian identity, disparate groups with no solid leadership, each with different core needs, and each failing to gain the attention of the world community in any meaningful way. Palestinian Israelis, says Mahmoud, want equality under the law; West Bankers want an end to the occupation; Jerusalemites want safety and municipal services; the Palestinian diaspora want the right to return, and Gazans want freedom of movement. Mahmoud read some passages from the book and there was open conversation, including some tense exchanges which, all things considered, were handled respectfully.

Most of those present had not read the book, and so the question arose early, “What do the people of Gaza think about Hamas?” Despite the title, this is not a political book. There are political statements in it, and there is anger directed at Israel – and at Hamas too. But for the most part, this book is a moving and profoundly sad love letter to a beloved who yesterday was radiant and alive, and who now lies dead and buried, crushed under an avalanche of rubble, of hatred, and of the world’s disregard.

Mahmoud and I embraced and we parted.

One week later messages started coming in over WhatsApp: Israeli plainclothes police have raided the bookshop. They have arrested Mahmoud and Ahmed. Waiting for more detail. Then the news reports came and I sat over my coffee staring at the photo of Mahmoud and his nephew Ahmad sitting handcuffed in the Jerusalem Magistrates Court.

What Israelis seem not to grasp – and what I have repeatedly spoken about, for example in advocating against the forced removal of Palestinian families from their homes in the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Sheikh Jarrah – is that what the Jewish state does to its non-Jewish inhabitants, it will do to its Jewish citizens. From Tel Aviv to Gush Katif, Jewish communities have been uprooted and scattered with many Jewish Israelis receiving neither alternatives nor compensation. Violence by fringe groups in the West Bank has targeted not only local Arab populations, but Jewish visitors and activists, including men and women in their seventies and eighties. The crushing of freedom of expression extends to Jewish artists, writers, filmmakers and broadcasters, Israel’s “own” creative voices. It is worth remembering Ben Gurion’s warning that Jewish terror against non-Jews would ultimately lead to Jewish terror against other Jews. Here we are.

Make no mistake, the forces that came for the Educational Bookshop will soon come for each of us. For me, the most telling detail is the report that the police who rifled the bookshelves used Google Translate to determine which books posed a threat to public order. The thought that men who are ignorant of the Arabic language and the vocabulary of Palestinian dialogue are dispatched to identify subversive literature is a surreal image worthy of Orwell or Nabokov at their most outlandish.

We do not have to agree with Mahmoud’s opinions. We do not have to agree with, or even read, any of the books in the bookshop. But woe to the society that stands by while debate is suppressed. The fact that elements within the police felt secure in launching this action, and the seeming easy acquiescence of the courts, sends a clear signal that our society has already lost the battle for freedom of thought.

Most of my children do not live here. We speak often. These days in particular, they ask why my wife and I have chosen to live in Israel. When we visited them in California during the early days of the war, our daughters pressed us, asking why we planned on staying in Jerusalem. There have been moments in the seven years since making Aliyah where I found it difficult to come up with an answer that was convincing to them. Now I am finding it difficult to find an answer that is convincing to myself.