One the eve of the 75th anniversary of the miraculous revival of the State of Israel after almost 2,000 years, I wanted to reflect on a challenging topic. I wrote this in the form of a parable for one simple reason -sometimes truth is difficult to swallow but when we step back and remove the emotional charge, things suddenly become clear. I think the meaning of the parable will be understood by all, and no, I did not write this with ChatGPT, so here it goes:
Our family built an estate hundreds of years ago, over a dozen generations ago in fact. It was our family’s ancestral home. Generations were raised there, lived there, worked there and died there.
The home was small but beautiful and the land upon which it sat was fertile and plush. Orchards, productive fields and fertile greenhouses dotted the acreage. It was lush, fruitful and produced in abundance. The home itself was elegant, well-designed and efficient.
We thought we would live there forever but that all changed one horrible, dark night.
A band of violent marauders surrounded the home with weapons, torches and threatening calls. We were forced to leave our home, abandon our family’s ancestral place and sent into exile.
A tumultuous saga unfolded, marked by a never-ending cycle of disputes, conflicts, turmoil, and displacement. Successive ruthless factions would swoop in, lay claim to the land, vanquish the existing residents and seize control, albeit fleetingly, until the next wave of marauders would arrive to usurp the home from its current inhabitants. The allure of this land proved irresistible, drawing one group after another, each vying to conquer and possess this coveted property. This saga endured for millennia.
Ironically however, as each successive group inhabited our land and attempted to cultivate the once fertile and abundantly productive plot, not a single faction could convince the ground to cooperate. It was as if the once bountiful land went into a deep slumber, refusing to send forth its plenty. The home fell into disrepair and no matter how much effort was invested in renovation or even basic maintenance, the home itself just seemed to disintegrate and dilapidate. It wasn’t due to a lack of skill or knowhow, nor was there any limit to the resources poured into the home and its environs. But, for some reason that remained a mystery to all of the victors, none could reproduce even a fraction of the former glory of this once magnificent estate. In fact, many of them simply abandoned the property after continued frustration and inability to make the home inhabitable. (More on this in part two of this essay next week).
The pattern continued for what seemed like an eternity. Settlement, complete failure, abandonment or subsequent conquer, followed by another round of failed homesteading and repeated desertion. And nobody could explain why this home, once the emblem of elegance, and the land, a virile, productive plot, seemed to enter a deep slumber, refusing its tenants any pleasure or success.
Throughout the generations, the descendants and offspring of our illustrious family never forgot about our familial plot. We continued to declare our convictions: this land is our home, we built it, we lived there for generations, and we were brutally forced to leave. We never relinquished our ownership and always maintained our rightful claim to the land. And, most importantly, we never abandoned our dream of one day returning to rebuild.
To remain connected to this land, we established layers of family customs. Wherever we would find ourselves, we’d turn three times a day towards our home and recite hopeful prayers of yearning to return. Even in our happiest and most joyful moments in foreign lands, such as the weddings of our children, we’d make a deliberate effort to remember that we are not home and that we have not given up our dream of one day returning.
But for what seemed like an eternity, the people who occupied our home and property would permit our return. And we couldn’t find anyone to take up our cause. Nobody seemed to care one iota that we continued to wander homelessly as others occupied our home.
That was until the terrible tragedy stuck. Wandering the globe with nowhere to call home, those around us viewed us with suspicion and fear. “Who are these strangers in our midst? We have to elminate these people, they don’t belong. They are homeless vagabonds who need to be exterminated.”
And that is when they set out to kill our family. One by one, they hunted us and cut us down in murderous cold blood. They looked for anyone who descended from our family and, in the end, they managed to wipe out half of us.
At that point, people began feeling bad for us. Recognizing that our homelessness wasn’t good for anyone, and knowing that we did indeed have a home, just that it was being occupied by squatters, they undertook to encourage others to allow us to return home. Hundreds of years had passed, but finally it was our time. Our family prepared to go home, with the blessing of the majority.
But there was one problem.
What would happen with the people that had been living there all these years? True, their initial arrival there was illegal and unjustified. But that was a very, very long time ago. The people that lived there now, the offspring in many cases of those who had unlawfully occupied the home and the property, understandably felt that this was their home. After all, they were born there and their parents were born there. They raised children there. They worked the land, cultivated it to a small degree, and as far as they knew how, and felt they had every right to be there.
For reasons not difficult to understand, they were less than thrilled when our family showed up saying, “Sorry guys. Indeed you have been living here for a long time, but as squatters, not as lawful owners. We know it wasn’t any of you who took this land from us, but the reality is, this is our home. We were forced from here a long time ago, before you or your grandparents were born, but we never, not for a single moment, gave up title to this home or to the property. I know this seems unfair, but you have to allow us to rebuild our home here. We are not even asking you to evacuate. You can stay here so long as you realize that this home and the property belong to us. If you are willing to live by our rules, you can stay. If not, you will have to leave.”
Doesn’t it seem just? This was, after all, our rightful abode. Granted, they’ve resided here for an extended period, but only as tolerated intruders, not lawful proprietors. Thus, we regretfully informed them, it’s time to make way for us to rebuild our home here. We are the legitimate owners who never relinquished our rightful claim. We’ve simply bided our time, awaiting the moment when we would be permitted to reclaim our ancestral dwelling.
Amidst the turmoil, our ancestral family was even willing to accept a compromise. We understood that the current inhabitants had made the land their home, and we didn’t want to see innocent people suffer.
A plan was proposed that would allow us to posses a small portion of our original plot while offering the larger and more accessible portion to the squatters. Together we would work together to cultivate the land and share in its bounty, with mutual respect and cooperation.
Recognizing the reality and taking a pragmatic stance, our family accepted this plan, albeit reluctantly.
The squatters, on the other hand, patently rejected any possibility of sharing the land. Instead, they declared an all-out war on against our family, determined to drive us all into the sea. (The offer to divide and share the land would be presented to the squatters five more times as the years went on, but each time their leaders categorically rejected any compromise and denied our right to be there).
Instead of accepting an agreement to share the land (they were even offered the larger and more productive portion of the property) they started attacking us, killing us, terrorizing us. Choosing not to reach and agreement, they launched an all-out war against us.
We certainly didn’t want to fight. After the preceding decade, when half our family was massacred and those that remained were deeply traumatized, the thought of fighting a war to recover our home was daunting to say they least. But, we were prepared to do so to defend our home and we did. (In fact, not only did we have to fight one war to protect our home, but we were forced to fight continuously, war after war, with short reprieves in between).
When they continued to do everything they could to destroy us and force us out, we had to take some extreme measures to protect ourselves. For example, we had to build walls on the property to enclose the squatters on the parts of our land were they remained to prevent the from sniping at us as we’d drive our children to school. We had to set up checkpoints where they could enter from so that we could search their cars to make sure they weren’t on a terror mission. We even had to kill them when they were trying to kill us. We never wanted any of this. We never wanted to harm anyone. But when we returned to our home and they refused to let us live in peace we had little choice.
As the dispute escalated, neighboring communities and authorities were called upon to intervene. Opinions were divided, and finding a resolution proved to be incredibly complex. Legal battles ensued, with arguments based on historical records, land deeds, and ancestral claims. Emotions ran high on both sides, and the situation seemed to be at an impasse. And, looking with a very narrow lens, most considered us to be the aggressors and occupiers.
Some of us understood and even sympathized with the squatters. From their perspective, they had been living happily in what they felt to be their home for generations. They didn’t steal it from anyone. They were born on this estate, their parents were born there and even their grandparents and great grandparents were born there. They felt that this was their legitimate home in every way. And all of a sudden, these people show up and force them to comply or leave, uprooting their families, and forcing them to go find somewhere else to live? That doesn’t feel fair. How can we can’t accept this. We will fight for our right to remain here. They felt that it was their land because they had been there for so long.
Nobody should feel good about having had to transfer local populations and engage in bloody battle to retake our homeland. In fact, a deeper person will even feel a level of sympathy with the local population that lived here before our return. From their perspective, “we are aliens from outer space who have landed and trespassed on their land, gradually taking over parts of it,” to quote one of Israel’s literary laureates Amos Oz. “Is there any wonder that they have taken up arms against us?” Oz wonders in his autobiography. “And now that we have issued a crushing defeat up them and hundreds of thousands of them live in refuge camps, do you expect them to celebrate with us and wish us luck?”
But, it all depends on where do you start the story? Which chapter? If you start the story 25 chapters in, then yes, this home belonged to their family and we came and took it forcefully from them. But, if you start from the beginning of the book, of course you know that is not the case.
As we commemorate the 75th anniversary of our nation’s rebirth, we reflect on our achievements with joy. And yet, it is important to sympathize on one level with the local Arab population that was living here when we “aliens” showed up. However, above all, we must remember that this is our home, the land we yearned to return to for 2000 years during our bitter exile. Now that we have returned, we are determined to stay and continue building our nation, radiating our light to the world, regardless of the circumstances. We fervently pray for peace as we pursue this noble endeavor.
Happy 75th birthday Israel, I am proud to call you my home!
