Between Pacifism & Privilege, Hebron & Jaffa, Personhood & Peoplehood: Five Lessons from “1929″ for 2014

I just finished reading Dr. Hillel Cohen’s 1929: Year Zero of the Jewish-Arab Conflict (תרפ”ט: שעת האפס בסכסוך היהודי ערבי) and, like many other readers who have written reviews of the book and with whom I have spoken, I was alternately moved, shocked, enlightened and challenged by many parts of Hillel Cohen’s reexamination of the Events of 1929 –events whose central occurrence (the massacre of 67 Jews in Hebron on August 24, 1929) is well-known and frequently cited in Jewish and Israeli frameworks, but whose context and layers are generally regarded as unimportant, by both the Left and the Right (as Cohen states in the introduction, his is the first complete Hebrew book dedicated to understanding the Events of 1929 since 1930). Hillel Cohen makes the case -convincingly, to my esteem- from the book’s title and throughout its almost-400 gripping pages, rife with primary documents, archival reports and his own sober-but-never-removed analyses, that an examination of these events and their context can elucidate and explain much of the Jewish-Arab conflict as it exists today.

As should be the aim of a serious history book, Cohen’s 1929 succeeds in shattering any comfortable national narrative to which one might cling. In the final chapter of the book, Cohen castigates two well-know historians’ attempts at categorizing the Events of 1929. First is Ilan Pappe, whose fervor to discredit the Zionist movement allows him to make the morally-warped claims (my words) that the Jewish killings of Arabs were as cruel as the Arab killings of Jews in 1929. “Is that right?” Cohen asks, “If the measure for cruelty is the killing of innocent, unarmed people, then the numbers that Pappe presents [7 and 90 respectively] do not support his claim but rather refute it” [not to mention the fact that the numbers are inaccurate]. On the other hand, Cohen addresses Benny Morris, whose analysis minimizes and even ignores the instances of Jewish violence against innocents during 1929, including a number of lynches in Jerusalem and the murder of five members of the Al-Awan family in Jaffa. And so it is throughout the book: Cohen lets no simplified narrative, moral or political, stand. Even as the reader feels disgust with the Arab community’s glorification of the murderers, Cohen reminds her that the Jewish collective did the same with Shlomo Hinkis, the policemen convicted of murdering the unarmed Al-Awan family of five in Jaffa. On the other hand, when the reader finds himself empathizing with the ways in which Arab Palestinians viewed the Zionist movement as inextricably linked with colonial projects and as a threat to Palestinian communal life in the land of Palestine, and the ways in which the Palestinians of Hebron viewed the Jewish Community in Hebron as inextricably linked to the Zionist movement, Cohen interjects: “Does this justify acts of massacre? No. It only explains why one should not see the events in Hebron as an onslaught of illogical savages upon a serene community that threatened no one.”

In short, the book is a must-read. Unfortunately, as these things go, it will likely be a long time until an English translation of the book is published. I would highly recommend that Hebrew-readers (including second-language Hebrew readers like myself – the book is written in language and style that are eminently accessible) go and get a copy of this book right away, and that English readers plan to do so when the translation is released. Meanwhile, I wanted to share a number of reflections that I had while reading the book (reflections that are influenced by -but not necessarily the same as- those provided by Cohen throughout the book). This is not to be seen as a book-review, per se, but rather as a elaboration of where this brilliant (Ok, that’s my review) book met me in my process of growth, activism, understanding and questioning.

1. Pacifism, like Activism, is a Circumstantial Privilege. In the first chapter of the book, one of the many primary documents included is a seemingly marginal letter by Zvi Nadav (Nadav was a leader of the Haganah in Haifa in 1929; Haifa was barely mentioned in the entire book), but one which I found to be powerful and personally problematizing. In this letter, Nadav writes of his experiences during a pogrom in Russia, about the humiliating laughter of the drunken pogromchiks, and about his desire for revenge, but of a specific type [My translation]:

“I dreamed of a revenge of remorse, their consciences awakening. ‘They’ feel what they have done. Remorse consumes them… They come in haste, asking forgiveness for the awful sin of humiliating, hurting a human soul. My heart fills with compassion and love. I am filled with compassion and love. I want to love everyone. I love them. I comfort them.”

My admiration for and resonance with the views expressed by Zvi Nadav was compounded when I read that he was not only able to open his heart towards his European tormentors, but also towards the Arabs: Quoting a Bedouin saying, “What is heaver than heavy?” (وشو ثقيل من الثقيل), Nadav emphasizes that there is nothing “heavier on a human heart than the spilling of blood.” He declares: “I in no way want blood.” (pp. 83-84). As Cohen points out, Nadav’s letter illustrates the differences between views held by Nadav and those held by many others in the Yishuv (“[Nadav] was far from relating to Arabs as only rioters…”). This letter also struck a very personal chord: I can imagine (of course I can’t know, but I can imagine) that if I were transported back to 1929, I probably would have: (1) like Nadav, moved to Mandatory Palestine rather than stay in Russia, (2) like Nadav, learned Arabic and found points of resonance in Arab culture, (3) like Nadav, had no desire for blood or to kill, and (4) like Nadav, joined some part of the Jewish armed movement, at least during the attacks of 1929, during which the main reason that more cities did not turn out like Hebron was the presence and action of armed Jewish groups and individuals. I say all of that along with the fact that today, in 2014, I still self-define as a type of pacifist. I think that Zvi’s letter, and the entire description of the events of 1929, reminded and sharpened for me the fact that my pacifism is circumstantial, which is to say: In the current political reality of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I am unwilling to join any organized violent body (be it Jewish, Palestinian or otherwise). This is not to say that there are not circumstances in which violence becomes necessary: There are. Just like activism, which is often a privilege enabled by resources, circumstance, education, finances, and more, pacifism is a privilege related to circumstance. And, like activism, pacifism is a circumstantial privilege that should be utilized. I hold that choosing circumstantial pacifism when the circumstances allow is both morally and politically critical. Perhaps 1929 would have looked differently if Zvi Nadav and others like him had publicized their views on spilling blood and enacted campaigns to influence and change their comrades who saw Arabs as invisible, at best, and as primitive beasts, at worst, in 1909 or even 1919. Or perhaps not (there were those who did try to do so, most notably the members of Brit Shalom and the Communist Party). But perhaps 2015 will be less violent if more people in 2014 declare their Circumstantial-Absolute opposition to violence. I do not aspire to be a No-Matter-What pacifist. I don’t think I aspire to be a No-Matter-What anything, except maybe a Person: “In a place where there are no people, try to be a person.” ובמקום שאין אנשים, השתדל להיות איש.

2. In a place where there are no people, try to be a person. The Palestinian man in Hebron who sat on his horse and faced off violent attackers in order to protect the Jews in the house behind him. The dozens of other Palestinian men and women who took action to save Jewish lives and without whom, most of the Jews of Hebron at that time may have been killed (as was, about one third of the community’s members were murdered). The Jewish woman in Mea Shearim who hid a Palestinian man in her house as he fled from a Jewish mob (yes, there were Jewish mobs during the Events of 1929, and no, these mobs were not nearly as prevalent or violent as the Arab mobs: most of the Jews killed during the Events were innocent and unarmed, most of the Arabs killed were taking part in attacks, but there were instances of Jews who murdered Palestinian innocents, most notably the murder of five members of the Al-Awan family in Jaffa by Shlomo Hinkis). The quarrymen from Sur Baher who risked their own lives to save four Jewish colleagues from other quarrymen who wanted them dead. The Jews and Palestinians who expressed regret and spoke for peace and reconciliation after the horrors of the late-summer week in 1929. The takeaway here is both simple, and deeply unsimple: when everyone around you has allowed themselves to join with the current, as many people do (there were hundreds and hundreds of people who took direct part in murder during that week), or at least to float with it (there were tens of thousands of people who didn’t do anything during that week), it is upon each and every one of us to swim. I don’t know if I could swim in such a case, but I do know that reading books like this, allowing my thoughts to immerse in the waters of history, and my soul to meditate on questions of right and good and evil and justice, is one of the best swimming-lessons I have found. So, that is another reason to read this book: to re-encounter the stories of violence and murder and, through them, to be doubly stunned and, God willing, molded by the stories of good.

3. The stories of good, Or: Taking leadership and calling for peace in times of crisis may not be enough change the national political situation, but it may be enough to change a local political situation, and thereby to save lives.  Good can be done on many levels. In addition to the individuals who acted so bravely to save lives, there was a story of one city that was “a light within the darkness”: Tiberias. According to Cohen, of the four holy cities (Hebron, Safed, Jerusalem and Tiberias), Tiberias was the only one in which there was no blood shed during the Events of 1929. Hebron and Safed were the sites of massacres against Jews (European Jews and Arab Jews alike, Zionist and non-Zionist Jews alike), and Jerusalem was a tinderbox of religious fervor, mutual killings, viscous rumors and rampant violence. But in Tiberias, “the Jewish and Arab leaders published a call in which they pled that their community members preserve the city’s peace – and so it was,” (pp. 287). Religious leaders (Muslim and Jewish-Mizrahi and Jewish-Ashkenazi) and political leaders called on their followers to preserve peace, and by and large, so it was. No one was killed in Tiberias. The narrative is imperfect: Arabs from the surrounding villages tried to enter Tiberias and attack the Jewish community there, and were prevented by armed policemen from doing so. But even as the narrative is imperfect, it is still stunning. To repeat: during a time in which there were violent attacks in every other mixed holy city, a broad-based call for people to preserve the peace in Tiberias was enough to save lives. This emphasized, for me, both the obligation of those with political and religious power to use it for peace and the way in which words can change reality: in the case of 1929, the leaders of Tiberias could not stop the bloodshed around Palestine, but they could prevent bloodshed in Tiberias. Who knows what would have happened had Jewish and Palestinian leaders tried the same on a national level. They didn’t, from either side.

4. When the violence began, there were only two sides during the Events of 1929. One of Cohen’s most surprising and challenging claims is that the distinctions between Mizrahi/Arab Jews and Ashkenazi Jews, as well as those between other non-Zionist Jews (Haredi or Communist) and Zionist Jews, were much less clear, even then, than many political analysts, then and now, seek to claim. Cohen illustrates how the most profound disagreements between different groups of Jews (Zionist and anti-Zionist, secular and ultra-Orthodox, Arab Jews and Russian Jews) were dwarfed, from the Palestinians’ perspective, in the light of the profound agreements across groups. In his writing on the relationship between Haredi Jews and Zionist Jews, Cohen lists the following points of consensus [My translation]: 

”(A) Zionists and Haredim alike agree that the People of Israel (עם ישראל) is a People. Which is to say, that Judaism is not only a religion but also a nation. (B) Both streams agree that Jews are a continuous people whose history stretches from the days of the forefathers through modern times. (C) Both streams feel a deep affinity to the land of Israel, and base this affinity on the Torah of Israel, whether as history or as a holy book. (D) Despite the rivalry between them, the different streams share a basic feeling of mutual responsibility, certainly in times of trouble. (E) Zionists and anti-Zionists alike were involved in acts of settlement: both groups purchased land in [Palestine]… built houses, founded educational institutions, and engaged in Torah and Labor, in different measures. (pp. 223).

Cohen also provides a sixth point of agreement: Both anti-Zionist Haredim and secular Zionists aspired to and worked for a reality in which, at some point, whether through human efforts or the coming of the Messiah, Jews would become sovereign in the land. I found this point less convincing than the first five, as I think it is exactly the sort of inter-Jewish nuance and subtlety that would be lost on an outside group, ie., If I were an outsider hearing a Haredi Jew say he is an anti-Zionist because he believes that Jews must wait for the coming of the Messiah, I would take the anti-Zionist part of his declaration to the the important part– were it not for points A through E. Whether one accepts the sixth, the first five points serve to deeply complicate whether such a clear distinction could then (or can now) be drawn between Zionist Jews and anti-Zionist Jews living in the land of Israel-Palestine.

And in his addressing the fascinating dynamics between Mizrahi/Arab Jews and Ashkenazi/European Jews (members of both groups were killed indiscriminately in places like Safed/Tzfat and Hebron, without regard to Arabness or Zionism), Cohen writes:

“During the Second Aliyah, the established [Arab] Jews were split between their loyalty to the members of their religion and people, the Jews,  and their traditions and culture which resembled those of the local Muslims and Christians. But during the early years of the Mandate, with the strengthening of the Jewish Yishuv in [Palestine] thanks to the same Zionist pioneers, many from the established [Arab Jewish] community felt satisfaction and pride. Side by side with the discomfort that many of them felt with the foreign values brought by the “pioneers” [and with] the superiority and alienation relayed by the immigrants from Europe…. they also saw positive sides. They [the pioneers] were brothers who came to redeem the homeland… Most importantly: they [the pioneers] were part of their [the Arab Jews'] people, helping them turn into a majority in their land” (pp. 300).

Which complicates many narratives held by many on the Left today (a particularly orientalist strain goes that the European Jews imposed Zionism on the unsuspecting Arab Jews who lived in absolute peace and harmony with their Muslim and Christian neighbors prior to Zionism).

5. The lack of empathy for those outside the bounds of one’s assigned collective (both Arabs towards Jews and Jews towards Arabs), coupled with the glorification of the murderers-cum-heros from inside the bounds of one’s assigned collective (both Arabs and Jews) can lead to radically divergent understandings of the past and to devastation in the present and future. Which is why we need to read more history. Which is why we need to stop glorifying killing and death. With that, I don’t want the takeaway from this observation to be that “all we need to do is see every person as a person.” That is not all we need to do. Political action has to accompany and inform our efforts at broadening our boundaries. “Coexistence” is not enough, as was shown in Safed and Hebron of 1929, and, in a different way, in with the Seeds of Peace of 1999. With that, it does need to work the other way, as well, that is: our broadened interpersonal and intercommunal boundaries need to inform our political action. Things could not have been otherwise in 1929 only because they were not otherwise in 1929. The future is not written: we are not doomed to a millennium of bloody conflict, and the more we can learn from the past, from 1929, the more I believe we can ensure a better future in 2014 and onwards. 

With those five points, which are largely praiseful of the book, I do want to offer what I think is a constructive pre-critique of/recommendation for the English version, which may be a long time coming, but nonetheless: the Chapter Order. Hillel Cohen starts his book in Jaffa-Tel Aviv, on August 25th, 1929. In the second chapter, he goes back to Jerusalem, on August 23rd, and in the third chapter he arrives at Hebron on August 24th. I think that this is intriguing, certainly appropriate and maybe even correct for a Hebrew-speaking/reading audience, virtually none of whom will be aware of at least the outline of the events in Hebron on August 24th, 1929. However, for an English speaking audience, who may not have the same context, there could be something misleading or distorting about bringing Jaffa and August 25th, 1929 to light before addressing in depth what happened in Jerusalem on August 23rd and Hebron on the 24th. I don’t know how/if/when the translators will address this issue (goodness gracious translating is complicated. Translating, as I’ve heard said and believe myself, is a misnomer: it’s re-writing). But I wanted to note it here.

I will conclude this post by quoting (in what is not my most nuanced translation, but I think it communicates the concept) one of the most brilliant of the many brilliant lines in this book. It came at the end of the second chapter (pp. 196), on Jerusalem, addressing the claim, on one hand, made by the lawyers for the Arab Executive Committee who sought to claim in court that the murder of Karkar and Dahudi (two Palestinians killed by Jews in Jerusalem on August 23rd, 1929, the day before the massacre in Hebron and the beginning of the Events) was the spark of the Events. “On the other hand,” writes Cohen, “there is the Zionist claim that the incitement by the Mufti [Hajj Amim al-Husseini] was the cause of the Events. Placing the claims one in front of another can remind us of the important rule (which political discourse tends to cause us to forget): Explanations are usually complementary, not contradictory.” The world is more complicated than any national narrative or simple political explanation would have us believe. Let’s keep that with us as we think, write and act. I know I will try to.

1929

1929

About Moriel Rothman

Writing, Activism, Poetry, Love.
This entry was posted in Reviews and Responses and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Between Pacifism & Privilege, Hebron & Jaffa, Personhood & Peoplehood: Five Lessons from “1929″ for 2014

  1. I wish I were fluent enough to read a book of this complexity. Thank you for your post – it’s given me much food for thought as I approach my first trip back to Israel in several years.

  2. Pingback: “Scores of Arabs were killed.” On Ari Shavit & Arab-Blindness. | The Leftern Wall

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