“Planting Seedlings of Hope”

Yesterday I spent the most interesting Tu Bishvat I have ever experienced, first, a word about the holiday.

Tu Bishvat is the Jewish New Year of the trees—sometimes described as the Jewish Arbor Day. Tu Bishvat is actually a date, the Hebrew letters equaling 15 spell out the sound “Tu,” hence the name of the holiday, Tu Bishvat literally means the 15th day of the month of Shvat. The Talmud notes that this date comes after the heavy rains of Israel have past and the ground is saturated and ready for planting saplings. And, that is exactly what Israelis do with a vengeance (or, more aptly a reverence) they plant trees.

Ever since I was a child in religious school I remember collecting dimes and filling the slots in the card bearing the logo of the Jewish National Fund promising me that a tree—my very own tree—would be planted in the sacred soil of Israel for each dime-filled card that I completed. To this day Jews buy trees in Israel to celebrate births, b’nei mitzvah, weddings and simchas (joyous occasions) of all kinds. So, too, do I remember, how comforted I was when my rabbinic classmates contributed to the planting of a grove of trees as a living memorial to my parents and brother after their tragic deaths 26 years ago. Trees are a symbol of life and a potent symbol in Jewish life.

The Torah itself is likened to a tree in Jewish liturgy, quoting from the book of Proverbs, “It is a tree of life to those who hold fast to it and all it supporters are happy.” And so we sing each time we return the Torah to the Ark after reading and learning from it. We so revere trees that our sacred Torah itself is likened to a tree above all other of God’s creations.

Coming to the land of Israel, the halutzim—the early pioneers—set about a zealous program of forestation, making each new sapling planted a statement of the Zionist dream. With time, forests reappeared where capricious nature and human neglect and exploitation had denuded parts of the Land of Israel that had not been verdant since ancient times. Near the northwestern Galilee kibbutz where I lived in my student days, there was a mountain that was called Har Karei’ah (Bald Mountain) in the early days of Jewish settlement, by the time I lived there it was called Har Porei’ah (Blooming Mountain) because of all the trees than crowned it. Planting trees is an Israeli obsession and Tu Bishvat is its holy day.

Given the near sanctity of trees, it would seem unthinkable that anyone would wantonly damage or destroy one. Even in the heat of battle the Torah forbids us from cutting down fruit-bearing trees: “When you are engaged in war against a city and lay siege against it for a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding an ax against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the forest human that they can flee from you into the besieged city?” (Deuteronomy 20:19) Even the trees of your enemy may not be cut down, that much is clear.

And this brings me to my Tu Bishvat experience this year. Tragically, there are those in this land who do not seem to practice what our tradition preaches. Over the past few years there have been a number of incidents, especially in the areas of Judah and Samaria in the West Bank where trees—especially olive trees—belonging to Arab villagers have been vandalized and even destroyed. This past year alone over 2,000 trees have been victimized. Please understand I am not referring to trees destroyed in military actions or trees uprooted by the security forces because they have provided cover for terrorist activities. I am talking about trees that have been axed, chopped, burned and brutalized anonymously under the cover of night in a clear attempt to threaten and intimidate the Arab owners of those trees.

It is interesting about olive trees, providing food, fuel and wood, they require years of careful nurturing to give their best. Many trees in Israel are hundreds of years old, carefully tended by the same family for generations. An olive tree is more than a commodity to these farmers and cannot be replaced in an instant. Those who attacked those trees so cravenly knew exactly what they were doing and the message that they were sending.

At long last, because the number and severity of the incidents has become so egregious, the Israeli authorities have begun a serious and thorough investigation. Though it is premature to draw any conclusions, the evidence appears to point to Jewish settlers who have not been reticent about expressing their antipathy towards the Arab villagers in whose midst they live. The reality is that relations between Jews and Arabs living in the West Bank, in Judah and Samria, are tense. This by no means implicates all those Jews who live in Judah and Samaria many of whom have relatively peaceful relations with their Arab neighbors (despite what the international media might imply), but clearly there are a violent few who will not stop short of causing such damage. By the same token, not every Arab living in these areas is a potential terrorist or even supports the use of violence in advancing Palestinian national objectives, though there are assuredly violent elements who would not hesitate to bring devastation upon Jews were the opportunity to present itself. But here, we are talking about trees, apolitical, non-ethnic olive trees.

In response to the problem of tree destruction, the New Israel Fund, along with Rabbis for Human Rights and the Israel Center for Pluralism sponsored a tree planting on Tu Bishvat to replant some of the olive trees damaged and destroyed in this violence. Living in Jerusalem we hear much about the situation in Judah and Samaria from the settlers' perspective. I was curious to see first-hand the other side of the story. So, hearing about this project from my friend, I joined him and some 300 other Jews and an admixture of non-Jews and boarded buses for Salem an Arab village not far the city of Nablus. Our journey took us through the West Bank of Judah and Samaria, past Amonah (where the violent dislocations of Jews from the illegal settlement took place recently) up past Tapu’ah (a settlement known for its radical right-wing element) and on up towards Elon Moreh (one of the larger Jewish settlements) until we came to Salem.

The drive up was magnificent! The countryside is breathtaking in its stark beauty, especially at this time of the year. In much of America winter is the “quiet time” for nature, but not here. In Israel nature bursts out in greenery and growth in the blessing of winter’s rains. And now, in February, the wild flowers in their motley array begin to appear in their annual ballet of anemones, cyclamen, and white broom dancing amongst the rocks and crags.

Looking at the fecund red soil that gives birth to such richness, I also observed how much people have to love, really love this land to work it. Every inch of ground seems covered by rocks—everywhere you look, rocks! Large rocks and small rocks, from boulders to pebbles, the ground is covered with rocks as if to challenge any would-be farmer foolish enough to dare to cultivate it. But they have—from generation to generation for millennia people have plowed and sowed these fields to win from this earth whatever bounty it was willing to give up. You have to love this land to live here, and they do, the Jews who heroically have come home to reclaim and restore this land and the villagers of Salem and the people who live in the hundreds of other Arab villages and towns that dot the rural landscape we traversed in our Tu Bishvat pilgrimage. They love it, with all their hearts and might they love it.

We came to plant olive trees; to make amends for what was destroyed and to plant for the future. We wanted to plant seedlings of hope and goodwill for the farmers of Salem and those of Elon Moreh, too. We were not there to solve the political conundrum about who ultimately had rights to the land. We came to show the people of Salem that not all Jews cut down trees; Jews could help them plant trees. So too did the farmers of Salem show us by their hospitality and friendliness that not all Arabs hate Jews or want to kill us.

To be honest, our Tu Bishvat planting was a planned media event, carried out in front of cameras and with lots of speeches (more time spent listening to speeches than planting trees, in fact). But what happened yesterday up in Salem is not likely to make it on CNN and certainly not on the BBC. Even in the Jerusalem Post a picture appeared with a brief caption but without an accompanying story. That’s why I wanted to share my Tu Bishvat experience with you so that you could hear about people planting instead of uprooting the chances for peace. It’s a story worth being heard and worth repeating. Happy Tu Bishvat.

Shalom from Jerusalem.

“Pogo Was Right”

The scenes on the television news and in the newspapers the next day were graphic and disturbing. Mounted police wielding clubs confronted stone-throwing teens in a heated and bloody melee. Yet this was not the picture with which we have become all too familiar during these days if Intifada violence in which Israeli security personnel array themselves against Palestinian youths violently protesting Israeli occupation or the routing of the security fence. No, to our deep, soul-freezing disquietude, these were scenes of Israeli Jewish teenagers cursing and defying the Israeli authorities who came to the illegal outpost of Amonah in the West Bank to dismantle nine buildings in accordance with government orders.

Yes, Pogo was right, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” But, who, exactly is the enemy here? Is it the stone-throwing teenager spewing defiance at the very symbols of Israeli democracy and the rule of law? Or is it the baton-wielding policeman who, reacting to the rocks, paint, eggs and curses being hurled by the out-of-control youth, slashes headlong into the crowd in apparent overzealous use of force? No matter the answer, Pogo was right the enemy is us. No one can blame any outside foe for the tragedy that was the Amonah evacuation this past Wednesday.

The events of this past week—in such sharp contrast to the generally peaceful evacuation of Gush Katif and the Gaza settlements this past summer—adumbrate the harsh truth that Israelis face the real possibility of violent civil strife as we take the inevitable next steps toward removing Jewish settlers from the West Bank whether through negotiation with a Palestinian governmental authority or by unilateral action in absence of a negotiating partner. This will be the gravest test Israel will have ever faced in its history; greater than any threat posed by its Arab enemies.

But, who were those youths at the Amonah barricades? They were kids—young teens of fifteen and sixteen years old; too young even to serve in the army. What, we might ask, were they doing there in harm’s way?

At the time of the first Intifada, and when the last Intifada broke out, we saw young teens throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers, who responded with force—sometimes deadly force—and we asked, “Where are their parents? How could their parents allow their children to put themselves at such risk? Is any political cause worth sacrificing your young children?”

Today, we hear Jewish parents “admitting” that these Hilltop Youth as they are called, are out of control. Out of control? More so than those Palestinian youths? Can we condemn the actions of Palestinian youths while defending those of our own children? If we can demand to know where their parents were, and how their parents could allow children to put themselves in harm’s way, should we not ask ourselves the same hard questions? And more, where were the parents? Where were the rabbis of the settler movement? Why were they not there attempting to bring calm, trying to dissuade these children from attacking the police and the soldiers? How could they stay at home while their children were in such danger?

The young teens, brutal and brutalized at Amonah, are among those whose anger at the government and resentment over what they perceive as an abandonment of the Land of Israel by the Israeli authorities has turned them against the very symbol of that authority—the army. Those Hilltop Youth who riot and defy the authorities in these increasingly violent confrontations risk losing the right to serve in TzaHaL, the Israel Defense Forces.

In Israel, the army holds a mythic, almost sacred place in the culture of the nation. It’s very name TzaHaL—Tzva Haganat L’Israel (literally, the Army of Defense of Israel), bespeaks a history held in reverence by Israelis of soldiers—men and women—who have given their lives helping to create, sustain and protect this little country of ours. The army has been the meeting place where life-long friendships are begun, marriages made, and careers determined. Young people agonize about which unit or branch of service they will get in to the same way that American teens stress over which college or university will accept them. There is simply no institution in Israeli life that is held in such high regard as the army.

For most Israelis the attitude of the Hilltop Youth is unthinkable; not serving in the army is beyond imagining. And yet, when confronted by this very real possibility, many of the Hilltop Youth defiantly respond that they do not intend to serve in an army that represents a country that they do not support. Crazy words? Maybe, but, remember, these are fourteen and fifteen year olds. How many young teens make equally outlandish statements without understanding their consequences? All the more reason to ask again, “Where are their parents? Where are their rabbis?” These youngsters have been indoctrinated—intentionally, though I would not say cynically—to sincerely believe that they are defending Torah and the Land of Israel and fulfilling God’s will for the Jewish people. It is therefore incumbent upon those who have inculcated those values to protect these children and not allow them to be used as pawns. They should not be allowed to take actions the consequences of which they are too young to fully appreciate.

And we must remember that they are our children. We, along with their parents, bear responsibility for them. So too do we bear responsibility for the actions of the police and military personnel who carried out the government’s orders to evacuate Amonah and may have done so with excessive force. Was there another way to accomplish the evacuation? That is for a commission of inquiry to determine and I imagine—I hope—there will be one.

So, where does this leave us? Though the majority of Israelis favor the government’s position in evacuating these illegal settlements, is it worth the political and social risks? Consider this: There are those who argue that the forced evacuation of these illegal settlements will only encourage Israel’s enemies and that it shows signs of weakness. Might not the opposite be the case? Israel is a country where the rule of law can effectively be enforced—even against its own people. Can the same be said of the Palestinian Authority? I dare say that there are those in the Palestinian government—most assuredly in Fatah, but also in Hamas—who are most likely very envious of the Israeli government right now. The Israeli government has demonstrated authority and the ability to enforce that authority in evacuating Gaza and, most recently, Amonah.

There will be many more—and more difficult—evacuations in the future. How they are carried out and how they will be challenged may well determine the future of the country, not just the shape of Israel on a map, but also the social shape and integrity of our national unity. We cannot afford to have Pogo prove correct in every encounter and certainly not in the long run.

Shalom from Jerusalem