Stoke Newington, London, June 1, 2020
Today I remembered that two months ago, when thousands of people were still hospitalized, celebrities were singing John Lennon songs from theIR fancy castles.
I also remembered that when I was a child, I wanted to have a time machine. I wanted to go back to the 1960s and be a flower child. I wanted to go back to the turn of the last century and join the Zionist movement. I dreamt of revolutions and protest waves.
I dreamt of eras when people believed in grand ideas and noble values. And then I grew up. I discovered that Charles Manson killed Sharon Tate and that the hippies became corporate chiefs. I discovered that in the Land of Israel there were also Palestinians who had been expelled from their lands and wanted statehood.
I am sick and tired of having my dreams dashed, of having authority based on false history; of empty promises on a bright future. "I cannot breathe," African American George Floyd said as he was being arrested by police in the United States, his neck crushed by and officer's knee.
A handful of protesters in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem chanted "An entire nation cannot breathe," in a demonstration following the death of an unarmed Palestinian man in Jerusalem after being shot by Israel police.
Throughout the entire week I have been reading on their brutal death, and on the special police forces that detained three Eritrean youths who had been drinking beer in Tel Aviv. And on the violence against women, which has skyrocketed during the pandemic.
I also read about the fact that in West, people from lower socioeconomic status or minorities have been infected with coronavirus disproportionally.
"They are allowing you to go out of your home," I asked my friends across the sea, as America's cities burn and police cars disperse crowds. And in Israel, things are relatively calm in light of the regime's brutal force, making it all the more chilling.
"Yes, we can go out," some said. Others said, "No, not yet." I hate this new language of ours; the words of obedience; the language of passivity and submission. Perhaps what I hate even more are my complaints on the new authority in my life, which is still limited, probably temporary, and is minuscule compared to the turbulence around the world.
I was reminded of what Edward Said said in his book, Orientalism: "There is nothing mysterious or natural about authority. It is formed, irradiated, disseminated; it is instrumental, it is persuasive; it has status, it establishes canons of taste and value; it is virtually indistinguishable from certain ideas it dignifies as true, and from traditions, perceptions, and judgments it forms, transmits, reproduces. Above all, authority can, indeed must, be analyzed."
He wrote this call for action, a call for thinking, some 40 years ago. These days, I find it hard not to embrace this deep call instead of its inspiration.
I think the analysis, the criticism, has become much more sophisticated over the years. But authority, its power and apathy, only got more complicated and took on a new form. For me, this is a mystery for which I have yet to have found a solution.
