Island of Sanity

by Gideon Maron, Yedioth Aharonot, October 12, 2000

(translated from the Hebrew)

It is not a simple matter to be these days in a village in which Jews and Arabs live in complete equality. There are outbreaks of anger, there is rage, and sometimes the Arab teachers arrive at the School and break out in tears. But, nevertheless, a visit to NSWAS provides a rare opportunity to discover that coexistence between the peoples is still possible. As they say: “we are careful that the storm outside will not sweep us away.”

“Don’t think, says Boaz Kita’in, the principal of the Primary School in Neve Shalom to me, that the currents do not flow inwardly. We hear the calls of “Death to the Arabs,” or “Death to the Jews.” The frustrations are enormous, and so everyone asks themselves where are we in all this.”

Give me an example…

“I have an example from this morning. Every day I stand at the entrance to the school and greet the pupils. This morning the Arab students from one of the villages came up to me and told me that she is very angry with one of her Jewish friends. She told me that the afternoon of the day before her Jewish friend had asked her if the Palestinians had gone completely crazy. They had thrown stones at the family car. ‘Why did she say we are crazy?’ she shouted. And here is the Jewish – Arab conflict. I took this story and entered the classroom. I asked the Arab girl to present her position, and the Jewish girl to present hers, and we tried to take this matter to another place, to dialogue.”

Tom, the eldest son of Boaz Kita’in was killed in the [military] helicopter disaster of February 1997. The media found an interesting angle in the story of the grieving Kita’in family who were living in Neve Shalom, a communal village in which Jews and Arabs lived together with the declared attempt to create coexistence.

Noises under the surface burst out when the Kita’in family requested to create a memorial in the village to the memory of Tom. The human fabric, which is anyway so fragile threatened to fall to pieces or tear, when people confronted themselves in the heart of the conflict that penetrated into their so protected front yard. And within this bubble, which seemed till then almost impenetrable, to the atmosphere of conflict that surrounded it from all sides, different voices penetrated. Fundamental human dilemmas, with which people had not dealt until then, awoke and peeped out with full force: how should they relate to sons serving in the army, and what to do about all this anger?

“A bubble?” Boaz is surprised by my definition. “Whoever says we live here in a bubble doesn’t know what he is talking about. We experience the same frustration, the same anger, and the same fears. The main thing is where we take them.”

A strong fragrance of figs permeates the air. Olive trees and a great number of fig trees stand in the village, on a ridge clad with pine trees. From here one can look out over this land of conflict.

A notice, “The Al-Mukassad hospital in Jerusalem requires monetary donations due to the increased numbers of injured. Donations can be given to Michal until Thursday,” hangs on the board by the Secretariat, and an atmosphere of urgency and stress envelopes everyone.

At the peak of the events, an appeal was composed in the village that was sent by fax to all the peace organizations, to call for an emergency meeting, which took place yesterday.

The appeal says, “A moment before all of us fall into the abyss, a moment before another war that will claim thousands of casualties, a moment before all codes of behavior between State and citizens, all of its citizens, collapse totally, a moment before all is sacrificed in fire and blood and columns of smoke…”

Twenty-eight years ago, the village was established according to the vision of Bruno Hussar, a monk who hoped for religious coexistence between Christians, Moslems and Jews. The land on which the village is built belongs to the Latrun Monastery, which gave it as a gift to the residents. However, as opposed to the monk’s vision, those who came there, paradoxically, were non-religious people from the two sides. Today some 35 Arab and Jewish families live there in national coexistence and full equality.

“Often it is difficult and confusing,” says Shai Karta-Schwartz, who lives in the village with his family. “It is especially confusing to the younger generation. The children here grow up with respect for the other side. We try to raise them a knowledge of the contradiction in the narratives of the two peoples, rather than to say ‘there is no contradiction.’ When we see what happens in the media, it is hard to accept the fact that it is all so one-sided. The media sees things from a single perspective. For the media there is black and white, good and bad. In the education [we give them] there is dilemma, a living with differences.”

Shai’s son Omer is sixteen years old, and studying in the Tzafit regional school. "From my point of view I am aware that there are stupid people on both sides", he says. "So on the one hand I have my Arab friends here in the village and there are no problems between us. I am Jewish, but I don’t represent for them the Jews who run wild or are guilty of killing their relatives. I grew up with them and they know exactly who I am. It is all right for me that they identify with the Israeli Arabs. My school friends are mostly from kibbutzim, so our opinions are similar. Sometimes they show their ignorance, like when they come to me and ask if it’s not dangerous to live with the Arabs."

The mother, Daphna, teaches creative drama in the school. "The times are hard," she says. "The children from East Jerusalem who arrive here experience a sudden upheaval in their world. They come from the atmosphere there to the peace and quiet here. It’s hard for them and we try to give them encouragement. Here they receive warmth and support. Each lesson starts with listening within, to the heart."

"I see a lot of fear, frustration and anger within the children, but [in the drama class we depict] a persona, ’Satan,’ who enjoys seeing everyone angry at each another, fighting and killing, and it is our aim to neutralize this, to overcome our mutual enemy - fear."

"NS/WAS in my eyes is a way of living together that precedes its time. It’s not easy - but very complex. We try to live normally and be careful that the storm outside does not sweep us away. I heard from people here that they feel insecure with their fears. They are afraid of their anger and where will it lead them."

Nehaya Daoud was born in Tira. She studied in the [Hebrew] University on Mount Scopus, where she met Anwar, her husband. In the end of the seventies [actually the eighties], for ideological reasons, the two decided to join the binational community. Anwar for many years was the principal of the community’s primary school, where children from kibbutzim, Jewish communities and Arab villages learn together and thousands [sic] of Jewish and Arab children were brought up according to its values. Today Anwar is the General Secretary of the community.

"My problem is not with my Jewish neighbor," he says, "but with the Jewish establishment. The main problem is how to relate to an establishment that kills twelve citizens within a week. On this issue my neighbor and I agree that it is not permissible for a state to fire on its citizens."

How do you deal with the most basic questions, for instance the soldier who is a son of one’s neighbor?

I must admit that there is tension between myself and any parent whose son is a soldier. No doubt the tension rises when you touch on personal issues. There are gaps that cannot be bridged. There is an immense gap between a bereaved father and myself. For instance Boaz, the father of Tom, was among those who lit the Independence Day Beacon, and I thought that it isn’t respectful towards the community. What I said at the time hurt Boaz very much and I didn’t care.

"Today the situation is different. We struggle for common issues, like the issue of the killings of civilians. Look, on the second day of the uprising a father of a soldier told me ’I am in a terrible state, I don’t know anything about my son.’ At a point like this, my political opinion gets mixed up with my personal feelings. At this moment I will keep my criticism inside me, because I can understand the father’s feelings."

"You keep asking me how is it that I have Jewish friends, and how are my relations with them," says Samaa, the 12-year-old daughter of Anwar and Nehaya, " and I find myself thinking that on the everyday level I never think about it. This is our life here, it’s natural, it’s part of me."

Samaa studies in the Orthodox Junior High School in Ramle. "It is there in my class that the kids talk in a more racist and one-sided way against the Jews. They only see the side of the Jews that acts badly and they do not pay attention to the fact that Arabs are burning cars. I think the Arabs are allowed to express their opinions and the fact that they were shot is appalling. It’s like shooting someone for driving too fast."

The son of Ilan Frisch, a member of the community, is a combat soldier. "Many times this conflict is unsolvable," says Frisch. Abdessalam Najjar, another member, says that sometimes he gets up in the morning and does not want to see any Jew. Kita’in, the principal of the school tells that sometimes the Arab teachers are crying in the mornings and are full of rage.

Everything there is built on a delicate fabric, about to unravel at any moment. They are a small community, whose residents are sometimes confused and at a loss within the large commotion all around. But Daphna, the mother of 16-year-old Omer says that "Maybe this is why we just count to ten, restrain anger and go on."