Since October, there have been so many demonstrations of incredible courage in the face of existential material danger. This is another kind of courage, from the head of the majority Arab socialist Hadash Party, Ayman Odeh, a Palestinian lawyer and MK from Haifa. A must-read. This is the kind of courage that we need in the face of both current and historical events. A statement that displays more leadership than anything we have heard or read from any other politician in a very long time. Please read. And please please share. If you need hope, here it is.
Many Israelis and Palestinians Have 'Sobered Up'. I Refuse to Do the Same (original in Hebrew, both published in Haaretz)
Over the past month, I’ve heard many people say that they’ve “sobered up.” After the horrific massacre in Israeli communities near the Gaza border on October 7 and the war that followed, it requires a heart of iron in addition to a calculator to tally the toll of the victims without crying – a huge loss of lives and hopes and dreams, dreamed in both Hebrew and Arabic, that vanished in an instant.
It’s difficult, very difficult, to escape the growing calls of people who insist that they now see reality “as really is,” that finally they “understand” who the “Arabs” are who are living in the region.
They explain – some of them still hesitantly – that all this talk about peace and justice may be appropriate for the goyim in Europe but not for us, the Jews, living their lives in the Middle East.
These people who have “sobered up” already know that the idea that we have been fighting for these many years isn’t realistic. They’ve sobered up from the illusion and now declare: a two-state solution is bad. And please, for heaven’s sake, don’t ask us to discuss the future in the middle of a war. We’ll talk about "the day after” later. In the meantime, Gaza is burning and to hell with the word “peace.”
I’m not capable of sobering up from the prospect of establishing peace. Far from it. Even after October 7, my faith hasn’t changed that a two-state solution is the firmest foundation for the most humane form of justice and also the only realistic solution.
I repeatedly tell my friends, Jews and Palestinians alike, that anyone who doesn’t think the suffering of a Gazan child is at all different from the suffering of a child on a kibbutz near the Gaza border needs to shout it from every street corner. Two states are the only solution. We have no time to waste.
I mention to my Jewish friends that the group of Jewish Israelis who have “sobered up” over the past month is in addition to the large group of “sobered up” Palestinians (in Israel and beyond) who have been claiming for years that the occupation will never end and that the composition of Israel’s current government and its policies are yet another example of long-standing Israeli government policy to manage rather than solve the conflict.
Indeed, they also tell me to “sober up” from my illusions about the end of the occupation and the partition of the land. Really, how can I not “sober up” from the illusion of a possible shared life when a government minister deliberates over whether it’s worth dropping an atomic bomb on my people in Gaza?
But I refuse to reconsider the dream of a shared life. I am not going to reconsider, even though I have read in Benny Morris’ book “The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem 1947-1949” how hundreds of thousands of my people were forcibly deported during the Nakba.
I’m not going to “sober up” even when I look at pictures of my city, Haifa, after 1948 and see how the homes of its Arab residents were looted and destroyed so that they would not return. (Read about that in “The Looting of Arab Property” by historian Adam Raz, in Hebrew).
I’m not disillusioned even when I read how fields and orchards were burned to prevent Palestinians from returning to their villages. I refuse to sober up even after visiting places where war crimes and massacres have been committed against Palestinians over the years.
I refused to become disillusioned even when I attended the events marking the anniversary on October 29 of the Kafr Qasem massacre and after I read in detail in Raz’s Hebrew book “The Kafr Qasem Massacre: A Political Biography” about what lay behind it. I refuse to sober up when I talk to refugees who were expelled in the Six-Day War from homes where they had lived for generations and to which they were not allowed to return. I still refuse to sober up when I meet the victims of the first intifada, and the second one, which claimed thousands of victims.
I refuse to sober up even though I have learned about the attempts to poison wells in Arab villages (see the study published last year by Benjamin Kedar and Benny Morris); of the rape of Palestinians (for example, in Nirim in the Negev); of the open-fire policy for which few are held accountable; of the policy of not prosecuting soldiers for war crimes.
I refuse to be disillusioned, even after seeing the government’s conduct in the occupied territories: how it steals land and natural resources, how it abuses helpless Palestinians, how it allows settlers to do whatever they wish, and unfortunately, the list goes on.
I didn’t become disillusioned in the face of the long siege on Gaza, even after four wars in which thousands of Gazans were killed, and even after hearing that the UN forecast that Gaza would be unfit for habitation by 2020 due to the disgraceful lack of humanitarian conditions. Three years after that date, I still refuse to sober up.
And just as I don’t “sober up,” I don’t make comparisons. Comparing acts of injustice to other acts of injustice is futile because the price of any blood, whether Palestinian or Israeli, increases the joint price that the two peoples are paying to the gods of war.
The calamitous pain of a Gazan family buried under an apartment building is intertwined with the excruciating pain of a young Israeli family murdered in a Gaza border community. The dreams that have vanished are the same dreams, and we, Palestinians and Israelis, who are left to count our dead and sink into the same pit of bereavement, with no exit in sight.
“Sobering up” means giving up: abandoning the simple dream of a normal life, in which politics is only a small part of daily life rather than occupying every corner of it. A normal life means a life in which the most important landmarks are birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, graduation parties.
A life in which days of mourning are few. If we “sober up” from the vision of a normal life, what will we say to our child who asks when the war will end? When will he go back to school? When will he play soccer with the neighborhood’s other children again? And when will his mother stop crying?
Seven million Jews and seven million Palestinians are not going anywhere. The fates of the two peoples are intertwined, and we have no choice but to find a solution in which both peoples can live normal lives side by side. We have to understand that there’s no other path than the path of peace. That’s what genuinely sobering up means.
Ayman Odeh is a Knesset member and chairman of the Hadash-Ta’al faction.