I sat next to the guy with the Kaffiyeh
I doubt you will have seen them yet.
The publicity shots from Sheffield Council’s Holocaust Memorial Day.
There was a photographer, snapping.
I wondered why.
I attended on Monday with my daughter.
You can read last years’ experience here.
And, how was that night different?
We had the rotund rabbi crooning Shuttleworth style (sans Yamaha).
We had the too young council leader expressing his sorrow, appearing just out of school.
We even had the council leader mispronouncing Auschwitz and Birkenau.
Those I could reconcile.
Not the guy with the Kaffiyeh.
My daughter spotted him first.
Or, it might have been that she saw the badges that he and a few others were wearing; they were in the red, green, black and white, the colours of the Palestinian flag with the tagline – no more genocide today, or words to that effect – their exact message is not important. The colours and the keffiyeh said it all.
Not everyone is aware of the meaning of a keffiyeh – the cotton tasselled scarf worn by Bedouin and other desert Arabs, adopted sometime in the 60’s by Yasser Arafat.
The scarf, a little like the colours of a Samurai mon indicate your tribe or clan, with the black and white fishnet version associated with the Arabs in first, Mandatory Palestine then the PLO.
This is what they wore when they murdered the Israeli Athletes at the Munich Olympics, it was what they wore when they hijacked the plane to Entebbe or they threw the disabled Leon Klinghoffer off the Achille Lauro.
OK. I am not sure if they wore scarves at the time – that might have been a giveaway.
Certainly, every time Arafat made a statement, whether at the UN, Camp David or on world media you could be sure he was wearing the scarf.
Not many realise that within the scarf (Arafat’s) was a message to the Israelis.
It was worn in such a way as to trace the outline of Israel.
It was the progenitor of river to the sea.
Free of Jews.
Judenrein.
All apposite for HMD as they have taken to calling to it.
The abbreviation helps sanitise, makes the transition to not talking specifically about the Holocaust easier. It’s not all about the Jews you know. It is gentler, it removes the mixed loyalties.
I think of Elie Wiesel’s not all the victims were Jews, yet all the Jews were victims.
We arrived early and sat in the centre of the hall.
I said hello to a couple from the synagogue and returned to my place.
It was then that she saw him.
It was then, I imagine, with the emotions of the Holocaust, her experiences at school, the protests, marches and graffiti, the shift over the past 18 months from feeling ‘at home’ in The Guardian and Channel Four News to outcasts, that the guy with his scarf was too much.
We had to leave.
We stepped outside.
The Hi-Vis security guards wondering what we were doing.
My daughter, eyes swollen, on the brink of tears.
She brought back memories of my second visit to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem.
I had previously visited as part of a new immigrant scheme from our absorption centre – that tour, age 12 was with a multinational crowd who had recently moved to Israel.
My second visit was with Israeli classmates. Part of a pre-Bar mitzvah experience.
I remember one, crying, broken.
I was amazed at this show of emotion, not necessarily because of his tears, more, that this was his first exposure to the piles of shoes, glasses and suitcases; the teeth, the soap and on and on.
After a few minutes of deep breathing, reckoning we could leave and hand the guy a victory or return, we went back.
This time to a different seat at the back.
The scarf guy came and sat beside us.
What should I have done?
‘What are you doing here? Your scarf (and badge) is deeply offensive to me, please leave.’
I didn’t say anything.
I sensed the scarf was an act of provocation and the guy was seeking confrontation – no one acted as far as I saw.
The two police liaison officers carried-on oblivious.
Perhaps had someone arrived with a swastika they might have intervened. That also could have been interpreted as freedom of expression.
I was silent.
I could have enquired, ‘Tell me more about your scarf,’ this I didn’t do, for I knew the narrative.
Admittedly he didn’t stand up and shout ‘From the river to the sea’ he didn’t manipulate the day like the Irish president into an Israel-bashing.
And the evening passed.
We heard a speech from Professor Jane Ginsborg from our synagogue as well as Michael Lewis, a guest speaker who told his mum, Helen’s story of her survival and the death of all her family in the camps.
Ironically, she spent enough time after the war living in Northern Ireland for there to be a blue plaque at the site of her house.
Ireland, a funny place.
Was it worth it?
Next year my daughter will probably be at university.
If I go, I’ll be alone.
I doubt the scarf guy will stick around.
That is where I win.