The Blogs: If We Could Only Be a Little More of What They Say We Are

My brother-in-law was murdered in the heart of Jerusalem. He was murdered because he was a Jew. Simple as that. Nehemia Lavi was 41 years old. A husband. A father of seven beautiful children. His oldest was only 14 at the time. He was a gentle man. The kind of person who couldn’t hurt a fly. A scholar. A teacher. A man of books, of tzedakah, of good deeds.

On October 3, 2015, a 19-year-old Palestinian law student named Mohannad Halabi traveled to Jerusalem with a knife and a plan to kill. This was not a spontaneous outburst. The knife had been purchased for the attack, and shortly beforehand Halabi had declared on Facebook that the “third intifada” had begun and called on his people to rise up. He came to Jerusalem looking for victims. Halabi came across a young Hasidic family walking through the narrow streets of the Old City. Aharon (21) and Adele Banita (22) were walking with their young children. A husband and wife. A young family going about their lives, unaware that within seconds their world would be shattered forever.

Halabi attacked. He repeatedly stabbed Aharon. Then he chased Adele and stabbed her as she desperately tried to escape and save her children. And then Nehemia heard the screams. His home was just above the narrow alley. He could have stayed inside. He didn’t. He ran downstairs. Nehemia did not know who was screaming. He did not know exactly what was happening. He heard another human being in danger. And he ran toward her. Nehemia rushed to help. The security-camera footage captured Nehemia’s final act. You can see him put his arm around the wounded mother, trying to help her. At that moment, Halabi came up from behind and stabbed Nehemia repeatedly in the neck. Nehemia tried to fight back, but his wounds were too severe. Within moments, he collapsed.

My brother-in-law died trying to save a mother and her children whom he had never met. Aharon was murdered too. Adele and her children survived. Since Nehemia’s murder, our family has tried to answer the hatred that killed him in the only way that truly honors who he was: By adding goodness to the world. Near the place where he was murdered, the family established a small coffee corner offering free coffee and snacks to security personnel. A Sefer Torah was donated to the school where he taught. A book Nehemia had written about the history of Jewish pioneers who came from Europe centuries ago was published after his death. And then there is Neta. Nehemia’s incredible wife was suddenly left to raise seven children without their father. And she did. Today, those seven children have grown into wonderful young people. Somehow, while carrying a pain most of us cannot begin to understand, Neta decided to use that pain to strengthen others. She travels throughout Israel, telling Nehemia’s story and helping other widows find strength when everything around them seems dark. That is what our family chose to do with Nehemia’s murder. We chose life. We chose kindness.

And then I look at what happened on the other side. Nehemia’s murderer was celebrated as a hero. Hamas and the Palestinian Authority praised the attack. A street was named after Mohannad Halabi. He was posthumously honored. His name became something to celebrate rather than a warning against hatred. And the glorification wasn’t only symbolic. Years after Halabi murdered Nehemia Lavi and Aharon Banita, the Palestinian Authority gave his family 30,000 Jordanian dinars, more than $40,000, to help pay for a new home after their original house had been demolished. The money came at the direction of Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas.

Think about that contrast. Neta was left to raise seven children without their father. Adele Banita was left without her husband. And the family of the man who murdered their husbands received tens of thousands of dollars from the Palestinian leadership. And then came an even more extraordinary transformation. In large parts of the international conversation, the terrorist somehow became the victim. The Israelis became the villains. “A young Palestinian had been shot dead by Israeli security forces”. “Another Palestinian killed by Israel. Another victim. Another example of Israeli brutality”.

It is amazing how easy it is to reverse morality when you start the story at the right moment. Start the story when the Palestinian is shot, and you have a dead Palestinian and an armed Israeli. Start it a few minutes earlier, and you have something very different. You have a young man armed with a knife. You have Aharon bleeding in the streets of Jerusalem. You have Adele fighting for her life. You have terrified children. You have my brother-in-law running downstairs because he heard a woman screaming. And you have a father of seven dying because he tried to save her. The order matters. The context matters. The truth matters.

Without hatred of Jews and hatred of the world’s only Jewish state, there is no way to understand how anyone can look at a murderer and his victims, and choose to stand with the murderer.

There is another part of this story that has haunted me ever since. On his journey from the Ramallah area toward Jerusalem, Halabi passed through Israeli security. He was allowed to continue. Why? Because Israel does not assume that every young Palestinian is a terrorist. Despite everything said about us, Israeli soldiers and police officers are not standing at checkpoints looking for Palestinians to hurt. They are trying to distinguish. Between the innocent and the dangerous. Between the person going about his life and the person going to take a life. That distinction is essential to who we are. But sometimes we get it wrong. On that day, we got it catastrophically wrong. A young Palestinian was allowed to continue because the people responsible for security did not know what was inside his heart. Hours later, two innocent Jews were dead.

And this brings me to a thought that I know will make some people uncomfortable. Sometimes, I wish we could be just a little more of what they say we are. For years, I have heard Israel described as cruel. Heartless. Racist. A society that supposedly sees every Palestinian as an enemy. If only we could be a little more of what they say we are. Not cruel enough to stop caring about innocent Palestinians. Never that. Not cruel enough to stop distinguishing between terrorists and civilians. Never that. Not cruel enough to lose our humanity. God forbid. Just cruel enough to believe people when they tell us they want to kill us. Just cruel enough to understand that not everyone standing opposite us shares our assumptions about life.

We assume people want to live. We assume a 19-year-old law student wants to finish his degree, work, fall in love, start a family, laugh, travel, and grow old. Because that is what we want. And many Palestinians want those things too. But some don’t. Some have been taught that murdering a Jew can make you a hero. Some have been taught that dying while killing Jews can make you a martyr. And when streets are named after people who murder Jews, when their attacks are celebrated and when their families are financially supported, we should at least have the courage to listen to what that is telling us. That isn’t hatred. It isn’t racism. It is survival.

Maybe if we had been just a little more suspicious that day, Halabi would never have reached the Old City. There is a difference between compassion and blindness. And there is a difference between wanting peace and refusing to see hatred when it is staring you in the face. If only we could be a little more of what they say we are. Not enough to stop loving life. Not enough to stop seeing humanity on the other side. Not enough to become like those who celebrate the murder of innocent people. Just enough to recognize those who want to kill us before they get the chance. Just enough. Maybe Nehemia would still be here.