You'll see folks, the day will come soon,
Here on the border peace will come,
We'll go to the movies in Khan Younis
With Abdul Wahab, in colloquial Arabic.
[…]
And instead of the trench at the border and gunnery stations
We'll build houses with red roves and gardens
[…]
You'll see…
(The Song of Peace, Tziki Dinstein)
The Song of Peace from Kibbutz Nirim was written in 1958. Every year since, Yom HaAtzmaut (Independence Day) celebrations at Nirim have begun with this song. Less than 2 kilometers from Khan Younis, to the light of a torch that is brought from the Dangor memorial (the spot where the kibbutz was originally built in 1946, where it withstood the Egyptian attack in the War of Independence, before moving to its current location in 1949), hundreds of people stand and sing about a different reality.
When I tell my children that there was a different reality, until the First Intifada and to some extent even until the Disengagement, that the borders were open and there were mutual visits, they can't even imagine. When we tell Israelis that we created, beginning in 1948, the Gaza Strip as it exists today, and that the horrific massacre (that has no justification) of October 7th and the war that has followed didn't happen in a vacuum, they don't want to believe it.
The foundational Hebrew story of the Jewish people is the story of the Exodus from Egypt. The Netivot Shalom (Rabbi Sholom Noach Berezovsky (1911-2000) explains that we left Egypt "in haste", because we were saturated with 49 levels of Tuma'a (impurity). We were a hair's breadth from the 50th level, from which there would have been no escape. He compares the Hebrews' redemption to a seed that seems to dissolve into the soil, until its life force sprouts it, like a miracle, above the surface.
We must sober up. In order to raise our heads to heaven, we must put our feet on the ground. We don't know if we have reached the 49th level. This bloodiest period in the history of this struggle still has the potential to get worse. There are plenty of terrible examples around the world. Some of them are quite nearby – Lebanon, for example, has never recovered from its civil war. Still, we can find some hope in the fact that a deep crisis has the potential to awaken deep, positive change. It can awaken real growth.
To achieve this, we'll need to do some hard work. We'll need feet and hands praying, concrete plans and a clear direction. A moment after the annual meeting of Rabbis for Human Rights and before our national Memorial and Independence Days, I am proud to say that we have all of these. I wish that we had far more (we all must work hard to bring them), but we have proven, especially since the 7th of October, that we have both the moral compass and the strength of our convictions, as well as the impressive power of our actions.
For my family and my community, this upcoming Memorial Day will be especially painful. At this moment, I'm not sure if we will sing the Song of Peace. In any event, we won't be singing it on the border of Gaza, but in Be'er Sheva, where we are living temporarily. We are in exile. We have members who are still hostages in Gaza (among them some who were organizers of the events in the past). We have hundreds of friends who lost their lives and these mourning families are among us. When we raise our eyes to the other side of the border, we see tens of thousands of dead and injured civilians, famine, and horrendous destruction, all being done in our name.
We must insist that this war and the struggle are not between Jews and Arabs, between Zionists and Palestinians, but between two very different camps: all those who are committed to the values of human rights, peace, equality, and justice are on one side, while on the other are those who only believe in violence and force, who are certain that God is on their side, and that the only way is to conquer, to destroy, to kill, and to lose.
In every generation, we are told to see ourselves as if we were leaving Egypt, as if we ourselves were slaves and sinking into the desperation of the 49 levels of Tuma'a. We should see ourselves as if we – and the entire Jewish people, in fact all humanity – were physically scarred from the pursuit, the war, and the enslavement. The Exodus carried a message of freedom for all humanity. The Chosen people are those people who free the slaves.
A national cry seen through these eyes is not some kind of radical "trolling". It is based in the vision of our Prophets, that vision that is mentioned in our Declaration of Independence, that we in RHR teach every year in dozens of Mechinot. At least once a year, we should all read that joint vision we all share, especially the clarion call found in paragraphs 16 and 17, especially in these days, at this time:
"WE APPEAL – in the very midst of the onslaught launched against us now for months – to the Arab inhabitants of the State of Israel to preserve peace and participate in the upbuilding of the State on the basis of full and equal citizenship and due representation in all its provisional and permanent institutions.
"WE EXTEND our hand to all neighboring states and their peoples in an offer of peace and good neighborliness, and appeal to them to establish bonds of cooperation and mutual help with the sovereign Jewish people settled in its own land. The State of Israel is prepared to do its share in a common effort for the advancement of the entire Middle East." (reprinted from the website of the Knesset)
With prayers for joint celebrations of Jews and Arabs from the river to the sea, with a flourishing State of Israel alongside an independent and flourishing Palestine (or any other equitable political solution we can agree upon. Our organization is busy with the struggle for human rights and not with a particular political model). I believe!
Translation: Rabbi Daniel Burstyn
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Avi Dabush is the CEO of Rabbis for Human Rights. He is a rabbinical student in the Bet Midrash of Rabbanut Yisraelit. He is the father of two sons, the author of the book "The Rebellion of the Periphery". He was at home in Kibbutz Nirim on the 7th of October when the Hamas attacked. He lives with his family in Be'er Sheva, until the kibbutz can return home.
Here on the border peace will come,
We'll go to the movies in Khan Younis
With Abdul Wahab, in colloquial Arabic.
[…]
And instead of the trench at the border and gunnery stations
We'll build houses with red roves and gardens
[…]
You'll see…
(The Song of Peace, Tziki Dinstein)
The Song of Peace from Kibbutz Nirim was written in 1958. Every year since, Yom HaAtzmaut (Independence Day) celebrations at Nirim have begun with this song. Less than 2 kilometers from Khan Younis, to the light of a torch that is brought from the Dangor memorial (the spot where the kibbutz was originally built in 1946, where it withstood the Egyptian attack in the War of Independence, before moving to its current location in 1949), hundreds of people stand and sing about a different reality.
When I tell my children that there was a different reality, until the First Intifada and to some extent even until the Disengagement, that the borders were open and there were mutual visits, they can't even imagine. When we tell Israelis that we created, beginning in 1948, the Gaza Strip as it exists today, and that the horrific massacre (that has no justification) of October 7th and the war that has followed didn't happen in a vacuum, they don't want to believe it.
The foundational Hebrew story of the Jewish people is the story of the Exodus from Egypt. The Netivot Shalom (Rabbi Sholom Noach Berezovsky (1911-2000) explains that we left Egypt "in haste", because we were saturated with 49 levels of Tuma'a (impurity). We were a hair's breadth from the 50th level, from which there would have been no escape. He compares the Hebrews' redemption to a seed that seems to dissolve into the soil, until its life force sprouts it, like a miracle, above the surface.
We must sober up. In order to raise our heads to heaven, we must put our feet on the ground. We don't know if we have reached the 49th level. This bloodiest period in the history of this struggle still has the potential to get worse. There are plenty of terrible examples around the world. Some of them are quite nearby – Lebanon, for example, has never recovered from its civil war. Still, we can find some hope in the fact that a deep crisis has the potential to awaken deep, positive change. It can awaken real growth.
To achieve this, we'll need to do some hard work. We'll need feet and hands praying, concrete plans and a clear direction. A moment after the annual meeting of Rabbis for Human Rights and before our national Memorial and Independence Days, I am proud to say that we have all of these. I wish that we had far more (we all must work hard to bring them), but we have proven, especially since the 7th of October, that we have both the moral compass and the strength of our convictions, as well as the impressive power of our actions.
For my family and my community, this upcoming Memorial Day will be especially painful. At this moment, I'm not sure if we will sing the Song of Peace. In any event, we won't be singing it on the border of Gaza, but in Be'er Sheva, where we are living temporarily. We are in exile. We have members who are still hostages in Gaza (among them some who were organizers of the events in the past). We have hundreds of friends who lost their lives and these mourning families are among us. When we raise our eyes to the other side of the border, we see tens of thousands of dead and injured civilians, famine, and horrendous destruction, all being done in our name.
We must insist that this war and the struggle are not between Jews and Arabs, between Zionists and Palestinians, but between two very different camps: all those who are committed to the values of human rights, peace, equality, and justice are on one side, while on the other are those who only believe in violence and force, who are certain that God is on their side, and that the only way is to conquer, to destroy, to kill, and to lose.
In every generation, we are told to see ourselves as if we were leaving Egypt, as if we ourselves were slaves and sinking into the desperation of the 49 levels of Tuma'a. We should see ourselves as if we – and the entire Jewish people, in fact all humanity – were physically scarred from the pursuit, the war, and the enslavement. The Exodus carried a message of freedom for all humanity. The Chosen people are those people who free the slaves.
A national cry seen through these eyes is not some kind of radical "trolling". It is based in the vision of our Prophets, that vision that is mentioned in our Declaration of Independence, that we in RHR teach every year in dozens of Mechinot. At least once a year, we should all read that joint vision we all share, especially the clarion call found in paragraphs 16 and 17, especially in these days, at this time:
"WE APPEAL – in the very midst of the onslaught launched against us now for months – to the Arab inhabitants of the State of Israel to preserve peace and participate in the upbuilding of the State on the basis of full and equal citizenship and due representation in all its provisional and permanent institutions.
"WE EXTEND our hand to all neighboring states and their peoples in an offer of peace and good neighborliness, and appeal to them to establish bonds of cooperation and mutual help with the sovereign Jewish people settled in its own land. The State of Israel is prepared to do its share in a common effort for the advancement of the entire Middle East." (reprinted from the website of the Knesset)
With prayers for joint celebrations of Jews and Arabs from the river to the sea, with a flourishing State of Israel alongside an independent and flourishing Palestine (or any other equitable political solution we can agree upon. Our organization is busy with the struggle for human rights and not with a particular political model). I believe!
Translation: Rabbi Daniel Burstyn
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Avi Dabush is the CEO of Rabbis for Human Rights. He is a rabbinical student in the Bet Midrash of Rabbanut Yisraelit. He is the father of two sons, the author of the book "The Rebellion of the Periphery". He was at home in Kibbutz Nirim on the 7th of October when the Hamas attacked. He lives with his family in Be'er Sheva, until the kibbutz can return home.