Identity to be focus at local Book of Life signing

Published in Volume 63, Issue 24 of the Arizona Jewish Post, December 21, 2007.

"The current generation, in terms of its sense of itself and its relationship to the broader Jewish world, differs significantly from the generations prior," says Jewish educator Arna Poupko Fisher. Fisher will be the keynote speaker at the Jewish Community Foundation's Endowment Book of Life community signing, which will be held Tuesday, Jan. 22 at 5 p.m. at the Tucson Jewish Community Center. Her talk, "The Jewish Journey: Faith, Spirit, and Promise," will explore Jewish identity and how one takes one's place in the continuum of history that links the generations.

Unlike previous generations, Fisher says that younger Jews, including "millennials"--those born between the late 1970s and mid-1990s--do not tend to view their connection to the larger Jewish community as a given. "Young people are not drawn to Jewish commitment unless it brings value to their personal lives, to their professional lives, and to their families," she continues. "It's very personal." The change has become a preoccupation for Jewish organizations seeking to further involvement among young people, giving rise to projects such as birthright israel, which organizes free Israel trips for teens and young adults.

Despite the challenge the organized Jewish community faces in engaging young people, Fisher sees positive trends emerging, including a decreased tendency to place historical persecution at the center of Jewish identity. "We don't want to be defined by our sufferings," she says. "We want to be defined by our triumphs."

Fisher grew up in Canada, in what she describes as "a normative Jewish home where commitment to community and Israel were a given, but religious commitment and observance was done with moderation." During her early teens, she discovered a more intensive form of Judaism and decided to live a more religiously committed life. "I've never looked back," she says of her personal transformation.

Fisher now lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, where she serves as a faculty member at the Wexner Heritage Foundation and the Department of Jewish Studies at the University of Cincinnati. She has lectured in over 120 communities across North America and has made numerous appearances on national radio and television.

The Endowment Book of Life began in 1990 as a way for donors to share their personal stories and to affirm their intent to make a contribution to the Jewish community. Dozens of Jewish communities have since undertaken similar endeavors. In Tucson, the personal statements are kept in an archive at the Jewish Community Foundation, and are also available for viewing on the organization's website and at the JCC. Nancy Ben-Asher Ozeri, director of communications for the Jewish Community Foundation, says that in adding their names to the Endowment Book of Life, signatories "make a promise for the future of the Jewish community, linking all the generations." They are then given the opportunity to work with the foundation in making a "legacy plan," serving as a blueprint for planned giving toward organizations or causes within the Jewish community and beyond.

The free event will include a light buffet dinner, a performance by the Tucson Jewish Youth Choir, and kids' activities and childcare.

Lone Riders No More

Published Dec. 15 in January 2008 issue of Tucson Green Magazine

Every Tuesday evening, bikes begin to appear around the flag pole near Old Main on the University of Arizona. With the bikes come Tucson residents of all stripes, mingling, chatting, and creating a festive atmosphere drawing the friendly curiosity of passersby. They've come for the weekly community bike ride, and they continue to stream in until 300 bikes crowd the campus.

Among the cycling enthusiasts is Sandra Pope, manager of a local hair salon, who says she heard about the event through a friend and has been involved since late summer.

"I got into bike riding because it's the best workout a person can have," Pope says. "It's a huge stress reliever, too."

The fitness aspect of cycling is only one part of this event's appeal. While many participants in the bike ride express an interest in fitness and a desire to live an environmentally-friendly lifestyle, they are also seizing upon another aspect of the hobby: community building. In a time when many people isolate themselves inside their cars during commutes or inside their homes watching television, this Tuesday event offers a breath of fresh air, a social atmosphere, and the opportunity to meet like-minded people.

Like Pope, Seth Lamantia has been involved for several weeks, after finding a flyer for the event wedged between the spokes of his bike. "It's a cool thing to do on a Tuesday night," he says. "And you get to meet a lot of friendly people."

The bicycles assembling at Old Main are as diverse as the people who ride them. There are beach cruisers, dirt bikes, road bikes, mountain bikes--even a unicycle. A carnival atmosphere pervades, augmented by the organizers' decision to declare a different theme each week. In accordance with this week's theme, "dresses and crazy helmets," the crowd is peppered with women and men playfully donning dresses and creatively decorated helmets. One person wears a horned Viking helmet; another proudly sports a colander on his head. Previous themes have included "shorts and tank tops" and "crazy mustaches."

Every week, the group of friendly bicyclers follows a new route, exploring different parts of the city. This week, the crowd circles the UofA campus, the adjoining Sam Hughes neighborhood, and then pedals through downtown Tucson, inspiring sociable honks and cheers from numerous motorists. Along the way, organizers help ensure the safety of the riders by warning those farther back about obstacles or slowdowns up ahead. Once the bikers reach downtown, they pause and some members play bicycle games. Especially popular is "Foot Down," which draws cheers and suspense from the onlookers as players test their balance by riding slowly inside an increasingly smaller circle while trying to avoid putting their foot on the ground to stop their bike.

The idea of holding a community bike ride formed spontaneously among a group of 22 friends who decided, in June 2007, to get together and ride around the city. Some are involved with BICAS, a local nonprofit that promotes cycling and do-it-yourself bicycle maintenance. Nick Jett, one of the founders, is a Tucson native and political science senior at the University. Jett, a vegan and environmental activist, has been an avid bike rider all his life. "This is an effort to create something inclusive," he notes, "with the broad goal of uniting the cycling community, promoting awareness, and encouraging bicycle safety."

What began as a small, informal gathering has since expanded rapidly, mostly through word of mouth. The group's camaraderie is contagious, as the members congregate on campus and pedal along the city streets. Newcomers on bikes spontaneously join in along the way. Wherever they pass, the riders generate curiosity, and onlookers shout questions to the group and on how they can get involved. The more perplexed bystanders ask the riders, "What's your cause?" and "What are you riding for?"

The group's buoyant reply: "For fun!"

The community bike ride meets every Tuesday at 8 P.M. in front of Old Main at the University of Arizona. For more information, contact Karl Goranowski, one of the main organizers, at gm@kamp.arizona.edu.

NW Transdenominational Congregation Forms

Published in the Arizona Jewish Post August 17, 2007.

Makom Simcha (Place of Joy), a new alternative congregation in Northwest Tucson, focuses upon Chasidic storytelling and music to "bring people closer to G-d, each other and creation through an open, creative and joyous expression of Judaism," says Rabbi Menashe Bovit. He describes the fledgling congregation as "transdenominationa," welcoming Jews of all backgrounds to participate in services. "In my view," he explains, "each one of the established Jewish movements is a piece of a puzzle, a piece of the truth. A transdenominational perspective feels that it's okay to sample from the different movements and also to be creative and generate a new perspective that amplifies the tradition in a positive way."

The Chicago-born rabbi developed a fondness for Tucson as a psychology student at the University of Arizona in his early twenties. The son of a Holocaust survivor, Bovit was raised in an observant home, but despite a strong sense of pride in his Jewish heritage, he found it difficult to connect with Judaism in his youth. Of his early Jewish education, he says, "We learned how to read Hebrew, but there was no attempt at making Judaism a relevant experience. There was no fun in it. It was basically an obligatory experience." At the UA, his alienation from Judaism was turned around when his girlfriend brought him to a concert of "Singing Rabbi" Shlomo Carlebach. He went on to become a student of Carlebach, who ordained him as a rabbi in 1991. During his years studying with the Chasidic rabbi, says Bovit, he was inspired by Carlebach's kindness.

Bovit has served as a congregational rabbi in various communities throughout the United States, including Reno, Nev., and Ft. Collins, Colo. He returned to Tucson several months ago and has since worked toward establishing Makom Simcha. The congregation held its first informal chavurah on Aug. 8, with almost 40 people in attendance. Another chavurah will be held Wed., Aug. 22 at 7:30 p.m. at the Northwest YMCA located at 7770 N. Shannon Rd.

The congregation also plans to hold alternative Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur services at the YMCA. The Rosh Hashana gathering is scheduled for Wednesday, Sept. 12 at 7:30 p.m. A Kol Nidre "Service of Forgiveness and Healing" will be held on Friday, Sept. 21 at 6 p.m. For more information, call 866-528-9253.

Remembering Rachel Corrie the Activist, Not the Myth

Published in Left Hook. An earlier version appeared in The Peace Chronicle Vol. 2 No. 3 (Fall/Winter 2003).

Recently, the prestigious Royal Court Theatre premiered a play entitled “My Name is Rachel Corrie,” sparking an outpouring of stirring tributes and hateful diatribes about the drama’s protagonist. For the activist community, Rachel has become a vivid symbol of resistance and solidarity with the world’s oppressed, as the many songs, poems, films, and art pieces devoted to her confirm. But to those of us whose lives have crossed paths with hers, as mine did during my years at the Evergreen State College, the international response to Rachel’s death can take on unique and difficult dimensions.

Having once known the subject of this sudden outpouring of adulation, it has been with painfully mixed emotions that I have watched her transformation from a young woman who was bright, idealistic, articulate, and irrepressibly alive, to one who is renowned, enshrined, canonized, and gone. Certainly, that immortalized image of little tiny Rachel unbudgingly staring down the giant metal monster that loomed before her, mouth open to swallow her up, has been a powerful source of inspiration to many in search of some model of conviction to fuel their own struggles and give them the courage and strength to persist. And to what would have likely been Rachel’s satisfaction, the International Solidarity Movement has received unprecedented media recognition in the wake of the tragedy, and recruitment for the organization has soared, with scores of young people hoping to follow in the footsteps of this striking figure. Yet I recall the emergency meeting of local activists held the day afterward, which was filled with refrains of “this is a great opportunity” and “we could really use this as leverage,” and I find myself strangely paralyzed, left with the wrenching question: is it possible for a movement to succeed without martyrs?

I would like to believe that it is possible. When behind a movement lies a vision based on the precept that every life is infinitely sacred and worthy of protection, it seems an imperative that this principle extend to the adherents themselves, negating the celebration of human sacrifice. Still, the ghosts of past movements seem to line up in hopes of proving me wrong: Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Malcolm X, and Jesus, all of them ready to die, and die again on a symbolic yearly basis, for the sins of the rest of us so that we may go on committing them forever and ever. In that intoxicating glow that sets in on crowds who identify with a martyred figure, all that is left of her memory is rendered hollow, reduced to a dehumanized cardboard cutout that is less a person (one who, perhaps, wrote silly poetry and had a stack of dishes in the sink the size of the Eiffel Tower) and more a mere symbol.

This is not to say that everyone who has paid tribute to Rachel throughout the last two years, much less the multitudes of people worldwide who were so deeply touched by her story, are entirely lacking in respect for her as a human being. In fact, I believe it was largely her humanness that resonated with them to begin with. What concerns me most is the manner in which her actions will be remembered in the time to come, when everyone who crossed paths with her during her lifetime is gone. Even now, when her community is still reeling, there can already be seen a deeply misleading mythology springing up around her. Like Rosa Parks, she is most commonly portrayed as a lone figure moved by sudden, nearly superhuman inspiration to throw herself heroically in front of a bulldozer poised for destruction, when in reality her actions were carefully planned (even routine, by that point), carried out not in isolation but as part of an organized network of experienced, community-based activists. Before that singular moment now emblazoned in our collective consciousness, she and others in her organization repaired wells, walked terrified children to school, and spent countless hours just trying to dig some semblance of dignity and humanity from the rubble of lives shattered by incomprehensible suffering. Rachel did not travel to Gaza simply to stand in front of a bulldozer, and she did not go there to die. Nor are these her greatest achievements.

Like its Arabic counterpart “shaheed,” which now graces posters of Rachel on the streets of Rafah and has become source of pride for many here in Olympia, the term “martyr” has its roots in the meaning “to bear witness.” And, indeed, it was primarily to bear witness to the plight of a people with whom the lives of Americans are so intimately yet so remotely connected that my fallen schoolmate chose to undertake the work she did. One cannot help but wonder, though, whether it should have taken her brutal killing to make the world pay attention. Why could she not have borne witness, and been heard, without becoming a martyr and losing her life, a life boundlessly irreplaceable in its uniqueness and beauty? Further, why do we not offer the same recognition to the many other internationals who were lucky enough to evade such a brutal fate, or to the many Palestinians who were not?

As we remember the life of Rachel Corrie, and the many peacemakers who came before her and are sure to come after, it is my hope that we will remember them not as infallible, superhuman figures acting alone and out of some extremely rare quality of character, but as ordinary people immersed in communities of compassion, because in the end, the reality is far more inspiring than the myth.

An American in Haifa

Published October 2006 in Hakol.

When I arrived in the northern Israeli city of Haifa in early July, I was struck by the breathtaking beauty of the city, with its winding mountain roads, whitewashed Mediterranean buildings, and serene beaches. What better place to learn Hebrew and experience firsthand Israel’s most pluralistic city, with its coexistence between its substantial Arab, Jewish, Druze, Bahai, and Christian communities. By the time my second week in the Middle East arrived, however, it would become clear that this educational experience would provide lessons far beyond those I had come to learn.

On Thursday, July 13, Haifa’s previous sense of disconnect from regional strife was shattered as the first of many Katyusha rockets slammed into the Stella Maris neighborhood, a beautiful area from which, two days before the attack, I had enjoyed views of Haifa’s port and the distant coast of Lebanon. That night would be the first of several spent in a bomb shelter huddled anxiously around a classmate’s radio. In the following days, nearby explosions would shake the ground, and with the routine of classes interrupted, I would find myself spending hours in a stuffy shelter. The experience was not without its benefits, however. From these besieged Israelis I would learn not only the unforeseen joy of chocolate sandwiches, but more importantly, the impact of life under siege upon a society.

For Israel, as for all nations, the experience of the present is colored by historical memory. From the solemn halls of the Holocaust museum Yad Vashem to the war memorials dotting each city, past suffering fills one’s consciousness as strongly as does the fact that nearly every Israeli one meets has lost a loved one to political violence. Huddling in the shelters, people’s thoughts inevitably meander to the past…especially, in this case, to the SCUDs rained down by Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War. That war has left an indelible imprint upon Israel not only because of its experience of terror—drudging to the surface the ever-present specter of annihilation—but perhaps even more because of the powerlessness Israel felt when asked by the United States to stay out of the conflict so as not to provoke Arab ire. This sense of powerlessness surfaced then in the form of inward-turned aggression, as the country faced an epidemic of domestic violence, and it is resurfacing today, only this time turned outward.

While many in the international community have condemned the extent of Israel’s military operation in Lebanon, the overwhelming majority of Israelis I spoke with said, “enough is enough.” And “enough,” let us not forget, is a word that stretches over not only years of Hezbollah aggression, but decades of unremitting conflict, the ongoing need to assert Israel’s very right to exist, and centuries of persecution of Jews. These are not the fault of innocent Lebanese, and Israel’s air campaign has been both deadly to civilians and ineffective in ensuring Israel’s security. This painful reality was brought home to me every night as I lay in bed listening to the constant roar of Israeli war planes headed north, unable to sleep with the awareness that the sound meant crushed homes and lives cut short. This reality was also brought home to me every time I did manage some sleep, only to awake to the sound of explosions and artillery fire. However, while it is crucial to condemn the killing of civilians, it is also important to understand the context in which such violence takes place. When the leaders of Europe insist that Israel lay down its arms, even as rockets continue to fall upon its cities, the painful memory of Gulf War powerlessness sounds as loudly in Israelis’ ears as does the wailing of air raid sirens outside. The problem is only further compounded when the condemnations of Israel come with accusations of Israeli exploitation of the Holocaust.

Historical memory also provides clues into the unanimity with which Israeli public opinion has stood by the actions of the Israeli military in Lebanon. In the early 1980s, when Israel invaded Lebanon in order to combat the PLO and aid Lebanon’s Maronite Christian leadership in the midst of civil war, the invasion was met with widespread dissent. A large segment of the population was vocally opposed to the war, and formed the peace movement that has in more recent times shifted its focus to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Following the withdrawal of Israel’s remaining troops from Lebanon in 2000, such peace-seeking sentiments have finally turned sour when they failed to bring about the desired results, and attacks continued. In the bomb shelter, an Israeli student told me about a close friend, one of the founders of Four Mothers, a peace organization sometimes credited with the withdrawal from Lebanon. This time, she said, “we gave them their chance, and they blew it.” The tradition of dissent, nonetheless, remains alive in Israel, evidenced by a recent ten thousand-strong peace demonstration in Tel Aviv. The calls for peace are often led by women, including the organization Women in Black, which continued its weekly vigil in Haifa even as the city faced ongoing violence. Even among those who support the war in Lebanon, many tears are shed for its innocent victims on both sides.

Even in such a time of strife, Haifa taught me many things. I experienced the enduring generosity of its inhabitants, from Israelis such as my roommate, who insisted on feeding her new American friends a feast of hummus, yogurt, olives, and traditional Arab bread and soothing our nerves even though her own family faces greater danger farther north. “Savlanut,” the Israelis would remind us. “Patience.” I saw that in a pluralistic city like Haifa, targeted perhaps for this very pluralism, everyone suffers together, Jew and Arab alike. And I even managed to learn a little Hebrew.

September 11: The Day the Words Changed

Published in Days Beyond Recall special issue A Nation in Distress, September 11, 2006.

Few Americans who lived during the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001 will ever forget the searing images that filled their television screens that day, nor will they forget the words they have come to associate with those powerful images. Almost immediately, the discourse that sprang up around the tragedy became deeply imbedded in the collective American consciousness, and few have questioned it due to its emotional nature and the fear of dishonoring the victims or eroding national solidarity by questioning its mythology. Because of this discourse, which arose from within the elite rather than spontaneously, Americans have been able to debate the implications of 9/11 only within the framework of several fundamental myths.

September 11 is perhaps the only date in American history, besides July 4, that has been deemed so significant that the date itself has become a national buzzword summing up a tremendous well of images, emotions, and associations. The immediate coverage of the 9/11 attacks cemented within the viewer’s consciousness a highly emotional memory that has since been invoked by political leaders seeking to use the potent mix of fear, anger, herd mentality, righteous victimhood, and religious feeling to forward their own agendas. The attacks were reported as a national crisis of epic proportions, prompting American viewers to feel as though they themselves were closer to the tragedy than most were in physical reality and to respond with crisis instinct rather than careful reasoning. This, in turn, has become a powerful rhetorical device; as long as leaders could invoke the memory, so too could they invoke that crisis mentality, whether crisis truly existed or not.

One of the central myths saturating the discourse on the attacks is the loss of innocence. In a 2002 speech before Congress, former Secretary of State Colin Powell asserted, “The world is a different place, a more dangerous place than the place that existed before September 11.” Later, in the same speech, he remarked that, “As a consequence of the terrorist attacks…a new reality was born.” Though the majority of Americans were indeed largely unaware of the tension that has for several decades surrounded U.S. foreign policy toward the Middle East, the ignorance had been chiefly the result of official brushing aside of warning signs. Yet the attacks have been presented as random acts of irrational savagery that befell an uninvolved and unsuspecting nation quite literally “out of the clear blue sky.” Certainly, the direct victims were innocent and unsuspecting, but coverage maintained that the nation itself was the victim, presenting only a partial view of the larger picture in which the attacks were spurned in part by exploitative policies of the United States government.

The loss of innocence also meant the loss of a sense of complacency and security. No longer could Americans feel safe in their own homes and offices; no longer could they afford the luxury of opting for an isolationist approach to global affairs. “America’s determination to actively oppose the threats of our time was formed and fixed on September 11” George W. Bush remarked in his pivotal October 2002 speech extolling the necessity of invading Iraq. In the speech, President George W. Bush invoked the attacks by saying, “We must never forget the most vivid events of recent history. On Sept 11, 2001, America felt its vulnerability.” He concluded the speech with a reminder that “the attacks of September 11 showed our country that vast oceans no longer protect us from danger.” The President has been able to invoke the attacks ad infinitum without criticism because one of the universal human responses to tragedy is to place a sense of sanctity around the issue of remembrance. In numerous speeches, Bush has peppered discussions of various issues by reiterating, “America must remember/never forget the lessons of September 11.” Since the vast majority of Americans feel compelled to honor the victims by preserving the memory of what happened, such rhetoric carries the uneasy implication that to oppose Bush’s agenda is to forget, and hence dishonor, those who lost their lives.

Despite the lack of evidence pointing to a connection between the Iraqi government and the al-Qaida network, President Bush continued to draw a parallel between the two situations, stating that “[Saddam’s atrocities] have killed or injured at least 20,000 people, more than six times the number of people killed in the attacks of September 11” and “some citizens wonder, after 11 years of living with this problem, why do we need to confront it now? And there’s a reason. We’ve experienced the horror of September the 11.” While he avoided overt references to collaboration between Iraq and al-Qaida once this was declared a dubious possibility, the President maintained the habit of discussing both in the same sentence, prompting many Americans to form an unconscious association. In the October speech, Bush mentioned Iraq and al-Qaida in tandem six times, asserting that “Iraq and the al-Qaida terrorist network share a common enemy-the United States of America.” The connection was further cemented by discussion of Saddam’s “arsenal of terror,” along with his potential to form “links to terrorist groups” and to “finance terror.” It would be a mistake to underestimate the impact of this rhetorical device, in light of a Zogby America poll revealing that five years after the attacks, 46% of Americans still believe that Saddam was directly involved with 9/11.

One of the most frequently repeated truisms about the tragedy was that “everything changed on 9/11,” or “the world changed after September 11.” In many speeches by government officials, political pundits, and journalists, one can find frequent references to “the world after September 11.” The concept of a new reality, though it was a reality created not by the event itself but rather by the response, has been echoed in a plethora of official speeches, offering justification for policies that had once been considered unacceptable. A new reality, the logic went, calls for new ethics; no longer can the United States rely upon outmoded codes of chivalrous warfare in the face of an unpredictable and inhuman enemy. The impact of the tragedy had little to do with the number of lives lost, as indeed recent history is filled with violent events leaving far greater casualties, but rather with the importance assigned to it by those with the power to shape popular discourse. In actuality, the U.S. invasion of Iraq has had a far greater impact on the objective reality of geopolitics, directly bringing about a dramatic increase in instability that will affect global politics for decades. Particularly important is that the creation of a new, socially constructed reality serves the Orwellian purpose of erasing history, with all of its valuable lessons and clues about the present. And that is why it is so vital that as we recall the tragedy of September 11, we also take care to remember September 10th, to remember the world we inhabited before this great shift in consciousness. Only those of us who lived through the change can preserve the reality the Bush administration is striving to erase, and transmit that reality to generations to come.

Still Standing for Peace: A Different Side of Israel in a Time of War

Published in Days Beyond Recall Vol. No. 3 (March 2007).

When I headed to the northern Israeli city of Haifa this summer to study at Haifa University, I certainly did not anticipate that I would spend many hours huddled in an underground bomb shelter as the building shook from the impact of Katyusha rockets launched by Hezbollah. The experience, nonetheless, afforded me an opportunity to see firsthand the diversity of responses to a war depicted in the mainstream media as backed by overwhelming consensus on the part of the Israeli public. The war in Lebanon did occur with the backing of the majority of Israelis, especially in its beginning stages. Epitomizing the apparent unanimity with which Israelis accepted the war was a conversation I had with a Haifa University student in the shelter. He told me of a discussion he had with a close friend, one of the founders of Four Mothers, an organization that formed the heart of popular opposition to the first Lebanon War in 1982 and is sometimes credited with Israel’s withdrawal in 2000. This summer, she adopted a drastically different viewpoint, wholeheartedly backing Israel’s government and military. Referring to opponents of Israel north of the border, she had one thing to say: “we gave them their chance, and they blew it.” To the chagrin of many longtime advocates of peace, her change of heart was not unique. Polls show that at various intervals during the conflict, between 86%-95% of the Israeli public supported the deadly bombing and subsequent invasion of Lebanon.

Behind this ostensible unity, however, lay a burgeoning movement of vocal opposition to the invasion of Lebanon, representing a side of Israeli society rarely seen in the media. Although criticism of the invasion only entered the mainstream as the war became understood as a humanitarian disaster and strategic failure, internal opposition on a mass scale existed from the earliest days of the war. On August 5, at the pinnacle of internal dissent, 10,000 Israeli demonstrators poured into Tel Aviv’s Magen David Square to voice their opposition to the destruction of Lebanon. Despite verbal harassment and eggs thrown by detractors, they chanted in Hebrew, “Children want to live/in Haifa and in Beirut!” Many called for the resignation of Defense Minister Amir Peretz. While the August 5 demonstration marked the height of Israeli mass protest against the war, public dissent existed throughout the duration of the conflict. On July 22, 5,000 demonstrators amassed in Tel Aviv to demand that their government “stop the guns and start talking.” Although the war brought about a split within the Four Mothers, 15 former members decided to form their own organization called Waking Up On Time, seeking to prevent a repeat of the tragic events of the first war in Lebanon.

Throughout the month-long conflict, the Israeli organization Gush Shalom (“Peace Bloc”) emerged at the forefront of the movement, working in tandem with Women’s Coalition for Peace, the Arab/Jewish partnership Ta’ayush (“Life in Common”), Anarchists Against Walls, Yesh Gvul (“There Is A Limit”), the Israeli-Palestinian Forum of Bereaved Families, and many others. The movement was comprised of a diverse cross-section of the Israeli public, including feminists, parents with young children, students, veteran peace activists, and political parties such as the Marxist, non-Zionist Hadash party, the Israeli-Arab Balad party, and the United Arab List. Addressing the crowd on August 5, Gush Shalom spokesman Adam Keller remarked that “the criminal has returned to the scene of the crime,” drawing a parallel between the July 30 attack on Qana and the 1996 massacre that targeted the same Lebanese city. “That massacre compelled [Prime Minister] Shimon Peres to break off his war,” Keller continued. “The conclusion is that we must stop this war at once, before it is too late.”

The attack on Qana, in which at least 56 civilians were killed, was a major focal point for criticism of the war. A few hours after the bombing, Israelis came together spontaneously to express their outrage over the attack. Several hundred demonstrators gathered outside the Ministry of Defense in Tel Aviv, accompanied by former Knesset members Ya’el Dayan and Naomi Hazan, who condemned the official pro-war position of their Meretz party.

Israeli dissent against the war in Lebanon was not limited to street protests. Following in the footsteps of numerous Israeli war refusers before him, 28-year-old Iztik Shabbat became the first conscientious objector of the conflict. When ordered to serve in the West Bank on July 19 in order to replace IDF soldiers being sent to Lebanon, he instead signed the Courage to Refuse petition, telling the Israeli paper Haaretz that “Someone has to be the first to break through the false consensus around this war.” On August 12, Yesh Gvul and others staged a demonstration outside Israeli Military Prison #6, from which the “refuseniks” inside could hear musical performances and speeches of support and solidarity. Among the speakers was Yonatan Shapira, himself a refusenik who as a young Air Force pilot co-founded the joint Israeli/Palestinian organization of veterans Combatants for Peace. In 2003, Shapira and a group of fellow pilots resolved not to fly attack missions against Palestinian targets. Standing outside the prison, Shapira delivered a speech honoring his brother Itamar, who was confined inside for his refusal to serve in the war. In an interview with Haaretz, Yonaton announced “there is no chance that I’m wearing a military uniform in any situation in this war while the military is doing what it is doing.” Additional support comes from New Profile: the Movement for the Civil-ization of Israeli Society, which provides services and education to those who refuse service for reasons of conscience.

Despite the strength of the demonstrations and the resoluteness of the war’s refusers, many activists concur that the July conflict marked an unprecedented split within the decades-old Israeli peace movement. Particularly indicative of this split was the pro-war stance of Peace Now, the organization that stood at the heart of public opposition to the 1982 invasion of Lebanon. During that period, Peace Now played a pivotal role in mobilizing Israeli public opinion against the killing of civilians, most notably the massacres of Palestinian refugees at Sabra and Shatila by Israeli-backed Lebanese militia. In 2006, however, the organization openly supported attacks on Lebanon, which Peace Now leaders referred to as a defensive war. Renowned novelist Amos Oz, a founding member of Peace Now, echoed the sentiment in the op-ed pages of the L.A. Times, writing that “the Israeli peace movement should support Israel’s attempt at self-defense, pure and simple.” Perhaps most illustrative of the change is the very fact that Peace Now co-founder Amir Peretz went on to be one of the primary architects and advocates of the 2006 invasion.

Regardless of the official stance of the organization, Peace Now members were by no means unanimous in their support of the war. Galia Golan, a longtime Peace Now leader and Professor of Political Science at Hebrew University, challenged the popular conception of the war as an unavoidable measure of defense. “I am strongly opposed to this war,” she said in an interview with the Heinrich Boll Foundation, explaining her participation in the July 22 protest. “And if Peace Now and Meretz are not demonstrating, I had to find another vehicle for protest.” In a July 31 interview with NPR’s Michele Norris, Golan lamented, “I think the peace movement has been badly hit, frankly. I have been thinking all along that it might take just a few weeks and people would come out against the war and that we would have a better sense of at least where our own public is. That’s not happening.”

For Golan and many others, dissent against the invasion of Lebanon and the occupation of Palestinian territories are deeply and irrevocably intertwined with the need to challenge gender oppression. The implications of militarized masculinity are profound for women in a society in which military service is a centrality. Military conflicts are often brought home in the form of domestic violence, which is frequently overlooked or excused because of the stress soldiers face during combat and the willingness of the collective society to sacrifice women’s well-being for the sake of “national security.” Although women are required to complete military service, the perception of the military as a fundamentally male sphere has consequences for female members of the military, which in a militarized society such as Israel often carries over into civilian life. Since women are kept away from performing the more prestigious combat roles and are typically relegated to menial military jobs, they do not establish the valuable contacts that benefit many men as they enter the workforce. Of particularly profound importance is the sexualized manner in which the nation itself is conceptualized, and by extension, the way territorial conquest is conceptualized. It is telling that the Hebrew word kibbush, which is the popular term for a military occupation, also describes the sexual conquest of a woman. The dynamics of militarized masculinity were especially relevant during the war with Hezbollah, which began with an act of kidnapping that served as an insult to Israel’s national manhood. The subsequent killing of more than 1,000 civilians, mainly women and children, in retaliation for such an insult struck an especially poignant chord for many Israeli women activists.

It is because of this keenly felt connection that the movement against the Lebanon invasion was comprised largely of women. “All the elements of this war bring the issues together,” feminist activist Yana Knopova told Lily Galili of Haaretz during an August 11 rally in Tel Aviv: “Feminism, social justice, class distinctions, the environment, and the occupation. Women make this connection.” Many of the leading voices against the war were those of women, including the Women In Black, the umbrella organization Coalition of Women for Peace, and Women Against War, which was formed shortly after the first attack on Lebanon. Hannah Safran, a co-founder of Women Against War, writes on the organization’s website, “We have just completed six years of peace and quiet in the north, but we kept Lebanese prisoners in captivity, not willing to return them or to negotiate their release. Why?” Women Against War co-founder Abir Kopty, who is an Arab-Israeli activist, explained that “we don’t want to see any citizens on both sides killed because of an avoidable war.” The two also belong to the Haifa chapter of the Women in Black, which began its weekly vigils in 1988 and continued them throughout the summer of 2006 in spite of death threats, harassment, and the ever-present threat of Katyusha attacks.

In the months following this summer’s war, the Israeli Left has found itself at an unprecedented crossroads. The war, in conjunction with the ongoing violence stemming from the Gaza Strip, has posed a serious challenge to the traditional premise of the peace movement, which is that the key ingredient in regional peace is withdrawal to Israel’s pre-1967 borders. The dominant view, even among the Left, was that the 2005 Disengagement Plan and the 2000 withdrawal from Lebanon had failed to ensure Israel’s national security. In the eyes of many Israelis, the peace movement itself had failed. The existence of strong, organized opposition toward this war nonetheless demonstrates the likelihood that the summer of 2006 represented not the death of the Israeli peace movement, but rather a new beginning for a movement better acquainted with the philosophical issues looming beyond an ostensibly territorial dispute. The role of feminism this summer is a testament to the possibility that the peace movement will emerge strengthened and better prepared to look beyond the obvious questions of territory and into the deeper myths and ideologies that continue to drive the conflict. ♦

Valerie Saturen is a graduate student in Near Eastern Studies at the University of Arizona. She can be reached at saturen@daysbeyondrecall.org.