A Zionist’s Palestinian Friends

by Abram Epstein Several years ago, I received a call from Ami Dayan, a gifted theatrical director (related to Moshe, but not the immediate family), who had heard about my friendship with various Palestinians. He wanted to know whether I would join an on-stage discussion group after the performance of Masked, then playing in New York. The production, about three Palestinian brothers sharply divided on the subject of Israel, was sold out for its full run. Why me? (By background, a writer and Hebrew school director). As he put it, it was not very common to find a New York Zionist who had Palestinian friends. The Q and A after the show was revealing. The largely Jewish audience, judging from their questions, didn’t know any Israeli Arabs and found the very idea of a genuine friendship with Palestinians insulting to their sense of loyalty to Israel. Obviously, not all of us feel the same way. Although we are a minority, a growing segment of American Jews now seem to sense the tug of history moving us in a more receptive direction toward “social peace” with Israel’s Palestinian neighbors. Today, despite a subsequent timeline of war, intifadas, suicide bombs, and failed peace efforts, matched by expanding settlements and occupation, I believe the process of reconciliation has a momentum of its own and has been ongoing since the 1967 war. Back then, as an American volunteer, netting fish from the ponds of Kibbutz Maagan Michael, I was joined on my shabbat walks on the seashore by lots of local Israeli Arabs, all of us earnestly looking down to see whether the February winds had uncovered any Roman or Byzantine coins. It was way more fun than looking for sea glass. Learning that the Arab quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City had shops that offered ancient coins and other artifacts, I began a collection — of unearthed treasures, and of Arab acquaintances. It was a remarkable period. More than a few Arab and Jewish Israelis, believing that 1967 was the war that would finally end hate, opened their hearts to each other, sometimes even falling in love and getting married. Currently, I have an East Jerusalem Arab friend who goes every shabbat to visit his aunt Rivka and her husband Mohammed somewhere near Beit She’an. But the calm was short-lived, and small signs of the coming storm were everywhere. While I was walking the narrow streets of the Arab quarter in Jerusalem, some Palesitnian kids on a rooftop hurled down tomatoes on a patrol of passing Israeli soldiers, who “returned fire” with tear gas. My eyes burning, I stumbled half blindly into the nearest doorway of an Arab shop. The owner, seeing my bloodshot, half-closed eyes, mumbled, “Jewish gazz. Get him some cold water and rags.” They did and I left only after being forced to drink a cup of the ever-percolating Turkish coffee. I can tell you first-hand what they say about Arab hospitality is true. Still, since then, nothing can make up for the terrible price we Jews have paid confronting a violent Palestinian population — whether partly our fault or not — nothing except peace. Is peace possible? Expanding settlements have been built on land not rightfully ours, justified by Biblical war-cries of Jewish jihadists, who muster like an army of God for never-ending battle. In response, an Arab “Zionist” prays to return one day to his former home, and rid the land of Jews, from the Mediterranean to Amman. We drown each other out seeing who can sing “Next Year In Jerusalem” the loudest. These mirror images of mistrust and contempt bring me to the subject of Ibrahim, a pseudonym for my closest Palestinian friend. (I am intentionally giving him this popular Arabic name, a cognate of Avraham — which happens also to be my name.) He is an East Jerusalem resident and, like many other upper middle-class Palestinians, lives in a beautifully decorated, modern apartment. When I first visited his home, he and his wife made me a feast, one joined by five of their friends. Almost immediately, my preconceptions went out the window (or over the balcony with its bounteous grill). I would have thought that the Arab wife was expected to serve the guests. To my surprise, they took turns, and she sat at the table completely equal, though the company happened to be young men (unmarried), and one widower. As the meal went on, I snapped many pictures, and conversation was mostly about West Bank Arab accomplishments. I admitted I didn’t know there were ten colleges spread across the territories — or that Israeli and Palestinian scientists were collaborating on as many as seventy-five research projects. I recall the contempt they all expressed toward Hamas which may even have outdone my own. Then, toward the end of the meal, almost on cue and to my utter amazement, the men put down small rugs and prostrated themselves in prayer. A few minutes later, the flushed appearances caused by their lowered heads returned to normal, and dessert (I recall mountains of the most delicious fruit) was served. Smiling, Ibrahim said to me so all could hear, “You see how it is, Avraham? First we honor you with a great feast, then you take pictures, following which we all pray — and only then do we kill you!” Never had the stereotype of a Palestinian as a bloodthirsty “wild-ass of a man” been so adroitly shattered. I heard myself laughing, as we all did — and it was good laughter. Not too many days after, Ibrahim called me at my hotel to ask whether I might take his teenage son with me on a tour of Beit Guvrin. Historically, the man-made subterranean caves are one of the most important sites bearing witness to our struggle to preserve the Jewish presence in Judea. Underground, Bar Kochba’s soldiers (132-135 C.E.) hid from the Romans and made their way through a nearly mile-long tunnel to fight another day. Baffled by the request that I share the experience with his son, I asked Ibrahim why. “I want him to know you,” he said. “I want him to see what Jews are like. Then there can be no hate.” Was he right? Well, it was several years after we went through that tunnel, each on our bellies, illuminating the way for the other with small flashlights, that his son and I met again in Ibrahim’s Old City art gallery. He was taller, and much more a young man than a boy — and our smiles at seeing each other were warm and filled with delight as we embraced and recalled that time together. As it happened, that was on a Friday afternoon, and Ibrahim said to his son, “Come. Let us go to pray at Al-Aqsa.” I started to say goodbye, but Ibrahim said, “No. Please. I need you to stay here and run the gallery. Maybe somebody will come in and buy something.” “What should I charge? I don’t know any of the prices,” I said. “Either make up the price or tell them I’ll be back in a short while, and later we are going to Jericho. So I hope you have no plans.” Now it was my turn to talk about prayer. “As long as I am back before sundown. It is shabbat and I am joining relatives later.” We worked out all the details, and I found myself, a Zionist, the temporary curator of a Palestinian gallery in the Old City. During the next two hours I was the object of quizzical scrutiny by Ibrahim’s colleagues dropping in from their neighboring shops, obviously wondering what I was doing there. By way of explanation, all I said was, “We are friends.” On the route to Jericho, we came to an Israeli checkpoint. Seeing my companions were East Jerusalem Arabs, the soldiers immediately waved us through. “Who are they looking to stop?” I asked. “Israelis,” Ibrahim replied. “Netanyahu has decided not to let Israeli Jews go to Jericho.” I kept my peace, but I was bothered by the restriction. An American Jew like me can go to Jericho (which was a splendid outing), but an Israeli Jew cannot. Hmm . . . Of course, friends can argue, and the prohibited travel to Jericho was only one topic of mild disagreement. But to summarize our differences of opinion would probably take more pages than the Oslo Accords. Our discussions were sometimes characterized by agreement, and at other times, serious dispute. They covered the settlements, the right of return of diaspora Palestinians, access to “holy places,” Jerusalem, the occupation and checkpoints, Hamas, Operation Cast Lead (the Gaza invasion), Netanyahu, Abbas, and more. Once or twice we got so mad at each other we didn’t talk through the rest of whatever meal we were eating together. But then we did, and the respect was only increased by the recognition that we share a profound bond with this sacred land. It is a bond that gives us far more in common than whatever could divide us. When Israeli Jews are again able to travel to Jericho and Bethlehem (as they are now prohibited from doing); when all Jews are again able to ascend the Temple Mount without restrictive hours (now a rule enforced for fear we would disturb prayer at the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa mosques); when we can visit Joseph’s tomb in Nablus and have no hesitation to go to the sacred tombs in Hebron — we will feel the glow of social peace. And when Palestinians can travel throughout Israel without hesitation (as the East Jerusalem Palestinians can do now); when those who have a family history in Israel prior to 1948 can buy their old houses, if and when they come on the open market, and again live in them; when there are no more Israeli soldiers ordered to blow up Arab houses, or bulldozers used to demolish Arab buildings for the sake of shopping malls; when Zionism is no longer distorted by Orthodox teaching to justify settlements in the Palestinian territories — we will enjoy the fruit of social peace. These are just some of the roadblocks. Once they are lifted, I believe our two states will be partners in a truly brilliant future. Abram Epsteinis an ardent Zionist, peace activist, and contributing member of J-Street. He is author of The Historical Haggadah.