Posted By  richards on January 31, 2015    
				
				    I grew up in Israel, born into an Ultra-Orthodox Hasidic Jewish    family, convinced that all Arabs desired my destruction, and    totally unprepared for any genuine encounter with Muslims. So,    my decision to participate in the seventh annual conference of    AMP (American Muslims for Palestine) in Chicago was far from    simple; and my anxiety soared when I saw the conference title:    "Rising from the Ashes: Gaza Teaches Life." The violence of    this last summer had inflicted new scars on my heart, etched on    old pains. I felt a deep sense of frustration, fearing that    those who had died on both sides had been mostly forgotten, and    that neither side had done anything to prevent war from    returning, adding more living to the dead.  
    I could feel my fears, like wild animals almost, pinning me    down, trying to keep me from attending the conference. I feared    that I would be "catalogued" as the Jewish Israeli who served    in the I.D.F., and as someone who does not fit into the stock    categories of supporters of Israel or of Palestine who "know"    exactly how to solve the problem. I was afraid that no one at    the conference would believe that I can feel the pain of every    Palestinian who is hurt, as well as every Israeli. How could I    explain who I really am?  
    I wondered how many Israelis and American pro-Israel activists    might come to this conference, to see the face of "the others"    and to hear their pain. Gradually we would admit, to ourselves    and each other, that face-to-face meetings with Palestinians    could transform our own stances in ways that our "media    knowledge" never could.  
    How nave. The few Jewish participants who had come were all    strongly anti-Zionist. Why had not one supporter of Israel come    to hear the Palestinian point of view? So many Americans are    proud to support the Jewish State, by this token participating    in the wounding of the Palestinians, for better or worse,    justly or unjustly. How could they fail to even show up at a    conference like this, missing this opportunity to learn about    the consequences of their own convictions?  
    The second day of the conference was Friday, Yom    E-Juma, the Muslim day of prayer, and also Erev    Shabat, the eve of the Jewish Sabbath. At midday, I    participated with thousands of Muslim attendees in the    Juma prayer, falling to my face in the long chain of    those who love God. That evening, I sat with a handful of    Hasidic anti-Zionist participants at the holy table of Erev    Shabat, and the sweet taste of Arabic tea mingled with our    stories about the Jewish saints of the Hasidic tradition. Our    Muslim colleagues watched with caressing eyes our Shabbat    prayer in the midst of their conference on Palestine. How much    sweetness there was in this Muslim hospitality toward us on    that Shabbat Eve.  
    During the conference, as the speakers went on about    ideologies, I kept my gaze on the faces of the older    participants who had been exiled from their homes in Palestine    in 1948. We Israelis always refused to take them into account,    stifled the voices that tried to tell their story, carefully    wiped out every memory of their homes and villages. And now, at    this conference, these elders did not seem to understand    exactly what the speeches were about, but they felt loved, and    they knew that, here, they were believed and honored.  
    So I went to them, and I asked them, in my limping Arabic; I    asked them to tell me. Where are they from? So they asked me    back, did I know the names of their villages? I, the occupier,    the conqueror, did I know the names of the places they called    home? I wanted to say, "ana bahibak ya jeddi" --    Grandfather, I love you... " But all I could say was, "No, I    don't know the name of your village. But I know the name of the    kibbutz that stands there today. Does that help?" They smiled    back, almost tenderly, embarrassed for me, as I stood there,    trying to bridge between the narratives of enmity and loss.  
    I saw that it was no use; their memory and my reality could    never touch. Then I remembered the tales of the Hasidic saints,    and I tried to speak about divine love, the bridge of bridges.    They understood me then, and told their stories. In my heart,    in my Yiddish-Hebrew tongue, I prayed the Hasidic words:    "beqedusha u-vetahara; in holiness and purity." And in    that instant their words became the tales of new saints, the    holy melodies of new prayers. I wanted to kiss their hands, as    trembling and calloused as they were, as a disciple might kiss    the hand of the Hasidic saint. I wanted to return with them, to    make my home with them in their villages that we long ago    destroyed, to live with them, finally, in peace.  
    But I saw that the light in their eyes was dimmed, their bodies    bent by pain and shame, until they could barely move. Trembling    a bit, like pious Hasidic elders at prayer, they listened to    the young voices telling them how they would all march back to    Palestine, and build a true democracy, in a Falastin    made whole again. The elders knew that they had passed on    something to the younger generation; but I could see that they    wondered if the youngsters understood what they had received.    Do they understand the fragrance of the villages long lost? Do    they hear the true, sweet melody of home?  
    It seemed to me that they did not quite understand why the    American Palestinian fighters of these days walked around in    sharp modern suits, with smart phones. All they know is a lost    place, somewhere near Al-Quds, or Nablus, or Jaffa; the sacred    memory of home is all but gone. I could sense in the older    Palestinians something like my own frustration with clean-cut    American Jews who are so sure of their stand on Israel, that    some of them even have the nerve to join the I.D.F. so they can    stop Palestinians at the check points, humiliating them in    shoddy Hebrew with annoying American accents.  
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A Hasidic Prayer at a Palestinian Conference | Yakir Englander
				
Category: Hasidic |  
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