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The road to reconciliation As the second week of riots, stone throwing, and arson comes to a close, at least 13 Arabs and one Jew, all citizens of Israel, were killed in the fierce, violent riots that broke out in Umm el-Fahm, Faradeis, Nazareth, Acre, Jaffa, and Arab towns and villages throughout the country, and in the counter-violence of Jews against Arabs in Upper Nazareth, Or Akiva, Tiberias, Jerusalem, Bat Yam, Tel Aviv-Jaffa, and elsewhere. Arabs complain of police brutality, of a deep sense of exclusion, discrimination, and de-legitimization, and like-minded Jews express fear for their lives and a sense of national betrayal by their fellow citizens. Nearly 200 coexistence and dialogue groups and organizations operate within Israel. Yet their good intentions and hard work were unable to prevent the outbreaks of violence. This week, as if to pull Israeli society back from the brink of civil war, politicians and social organizations have called for reconciliation and dialogue. Ads calling for restraint and tolerance and signed by Jewish and Arab leaders have appeared in the daily press, and 'peace tents' have been erected throughout the country. But on Tuesday, when a delegation of left-leaning Jewish intellectuals visited bereaved Arab families in Sakhnin and Nazareth, it became clear that meetings between Jews and Arabs have become even more complex and difficult, confounded by both hope and suspicion. The visit was initiated by author Ronit Matalon. 'By Yom Kippur,' says Matalon, 'I realized that I simply couldn't stand aside any longer, that we needed to do something. I am appalled at how the Israeli police are treating Arabs, who are full citizens of the State of Israel. I couldn't stand it anymore.' Matalon contacted author and lecturer Nissim Calderon, and within 24 hours they had enlisted 35 of Israel's most prominent poets, novelists, and journalists, including A.B. Yehoshua, Yehudit Katzir, Batya Gur, Chaim Guri, Natan Zach, Yehoshua Kenez, Meir Shalev, Adam Baruch, Etgar Keret, and Amos Keinan. Together with Israeli Arab poets Siham Daud and Salam Jubran, who are from the area, Calderon and Matalon had arranged for the group to first visit Sakhnin, where they would meet with the families of Omar Ranaim and Walid Abu-Salah, both shot dead by the police during the riots there. They would then continue on to Nazareth, site of some of the worst community violence between Jews and Arabs. 'I have come as a simple act of humanity,' says novelist Meir Shalev, explaining his decision to participate. 'I have a lot of criticism of my Arab friends and neighbors, and a lot of anger, and I am appalled at some of their actions. But neither of us - neither Jews northe Arabs - will leave this land, and we must learn to live together as neighbors. And the first step, the first crucial step, is simply to express our sorrow and condolences to the families whose sons have died.' IT SOON becomes apparent though that simple acts of humanity are no longer simple. As the bus travels north from Tel Aviv, the driver, on orders from his employers, suddenly announces that he won't even go near Sakhnin. 'It's dangerous there,' he insists, although the radio reports no rioting, stone-throwing or forest fires in the region. Calderon and Matalon, in countless cellphone consultations with their Arab friends, consider forgoing the visit to Sakhnin. But Razal Abu-Ra'aya, spokesman for the municipality, insists that he will take 'personal responsibility' for the safety of the delegation. The families waiting in the mourners' tent, he insists, would be hurt and offended if the Jews don't come. But the driver remains adamant and refuses to approach the town. 'Isn't Sakhnin part of Israel anymore?' Calderon mutters. The symbolism is lost on no one. The fragile seams that bind Jews and Arabs have come apart in the past two weeks. Riots and stones have defined new borders, based on fear and mutual distrust. In the end, the Sakhnin municipality, at its own expense, charters a bus to pick up the delegation from the parking lot at the Misgav junction outside the town. Why make the effort? Why is it so important to them that the delegation visit Sakhnin? 'Because you are the conscience of your people,' answers Abu-Ra'aya. 'Because we needed to know that there are Jews who love us, as we love you. Because we need to know that the extremists among us, Jews and Arabs, will not destroy our coexistence.' And so, at the junction, the delegation transfers to another bus and continues on to Sakhnin, a sprawling town with a population of 22,000. On their way, they passed by the local cemetery, where the newly-dug graves were covered with flowers and PLO flags and the surrounding tombstones were draped with black cloths. The bus arrives at the mourning tent, where nearly 30 men representing the town's religious and political leadership, together with the bereaved families, have been waiting for nearly two hours for the delayed delegation. The reception line is long and sad; in Hebrew or faltering Arabic the Jews express their sorrow, and in fluent Hebrew the Arabs thank them for coming. Mustafa Abu-Ra'aya, the mayor of Sakhnin, begins to address the assembled with undisguised cynicism. 'We welcome you distinguished guests and intellectuals, who have come to visit us even though your driver refused to take you to Sakhnin, a town in land of the 'tribe of Zulu.' We have instructed our border police not to stamp your passports.' His cynicism passing into evident anger, Abu-Raya continues. 'Since the 'al-Aksa intifada' broke out ten days ago, mail has not been delivered in Sakhnin. The fire brigade will not come here, and Bezeq will not repair its services. Are we in Area A, B, or C - or are we now part of some new area, not part of Israel at all?' Naim Abu-Salah, father of Walid who was shot dead by police during the riots, speaks next. 'It is important to us that you have come, and that you understand,' he says. 'Walid was a young, nice, athletic man, who was about to be married. Everyone who met him liked him. My son, and our boys, were not demonstrating against the Jews, or against the State of Israel. They were demonstrating against the policies of discrimination. They should not have died for that. You are a ray of light to all of us.' But that light is not without shadows. A.B. Yehoshua, the outspoken author regarded by many as Israel's greatest novelist, rises to speak for the delegation. First, he thanks the mourners for allowing the delegation to come, noting that there have been recent instances of Jews being told that they are not welcome at Arab houses of mourning. 'The Israeli public,' he promises, 'will not tolerate trigger-happy killing, and we will demand investigations. 'But you, the Arabs of Israel,' he continues, 'as justified as your anger and complaints are, are not living in Gaza, and you know the truth about us. You know that no one wants to do anything to the al-Aksa mosque. You read our papers, you speak Hebrew - don't fantasize about things that aren't happening. Fight for the right things, and we will join you.' A ripple of discontent passes among the Arab listeners, but they remained politely silent. Mayor Abu-Ra'aya concludes the meeting. 'Our hope is not lost,' he said, knowingly making reference to Hatikva, the national anthem. As the delegation pass by the mourners on their way out, Abdel Majid, Walid's cousin, shoved a photocopied paper into their hands. He had made copies of admission papers to the emergency room at Nahariya Government Hospital. Although the name was not clear, Majid insists that these are the papers of someone who had been wounded in the riots in Sakhnin on October 2. And on the papers, typed clearly, it says that the wounds were incurred during 'enemy activity.' 'Enemy?' he angrily asks. 'Are we enemies of the state? Why does this appear on a hospital document? When will you finally believe that we are loyal citizens of Israel?' (In response, Dahlia Sharabany, Ministry of Health spokeswoman, said that the listing was a 'technicality' and that the Ministry intends to correct the glitch. She further stated that the Ministry apologizes if any of the wounded were offended in any way by what should be seen as 'merely technical procedures.'). Walid points to his own bandaged head and says 'The Israeli police are killing us. What democratic country kills and maims its own citizens? Both saddened and reassured, the delegation makes its way to the bus that will take them back to Misgav junction and their original transportation. On the way, Abu-Ra'aya points to a newly built military base, across the street from the elementary school. 'Is it right that a base be built across the street from an elementary school?' he challenges the delegation. 'They wouldn't do this in a Jewish town. The authorities would only dare to treat Arabs this way.' THE bus arrives in Nazareth, site of some of the worst Arab rioting during the past two weeks. It is also where Jewish residents of Upper Nazareth went on an anti-Arab rampage last Sunday night, during which two Nazareth residents - Sheikh Nazm Abu-Salim and Wissan Yizbeck, both young men in their twenties - were shot to death, apparently by the mob. 'Jews, on the eve of Yom Kippur, conducted a pogrom against Arabs!' says best-selling mystery author Batya Gur, telling why she decided to join the visit to Nazareth. 'It is inconceivable. And so I, as a Jew, must take a stand and say, this is wrong. No matter what the other side has done, this is wrong.' At the mourning tent set up in the town, local leaders, together with some noted Arab intellectuals, are waiting to meet the famed literary lights from Tel Aviv. 'Thank you for coming,' Hamdan Yizbeck, the father of Wissam, greets Haim Guri, noted 'Palmah generation' author and a pillar of the Israeli cultural establishment. 'This is my country, and my son was a son of this country. I am a Palestinian, and my home is here, in the State of Israel. But you do not treat us as equal citizens. When the Arabs riot, they are shot at and killed. And when the Jews riot, the Arabs are shot at and killed.' As the hosts serve cold drinks, coffee, and sweet dates, Mayor Ramez Jeraisi welcomes the delegation, but blasts the government, the State of Israel, and its Jewish citizens. 'The State of Israel, and all of its citizens, must apologize. We will not mouth empty slogans. Those who are responsible for what has happened must pay.' But he concludes on a conciliatory note, saying, 'I express my deep appreciation to you. You are writers, and your weapons of words are no less efficient than the weapons that have killed us. But your weapons can be used for good. And you will find us to be worthy partners as we build a better future.' Guri expresses his condolences, then adds: 'With great effort, we have built a fabric of coexistence here. Why now, when peace is so close, have you chosen to respond as you have? All of the guilt, all of the responsibility, isn't only on one side.' Guri's words anger the mourners, and they cut him off. Standing close to the elderly author, towering over and almost threatening him, a middle-aged man pulls up his shirt, revealing fresh bullet wounds in his back. 'These bullets weren't bullets of peace!' he shouts. 'Where are the Jews?' someone called out. 'Why aren't you demonstrating? When one Jew dies - and that is wrong - you are upset. But you don't care about 13 Arabs who have died!' Guri, troubled and shaken, steps back. The Arabs demanded retribution and justice, not reconciliation. Sensibilities are raw now on both sides, and it seems that there is little tolerance for words or opinions. An older man grabs the microphone and calms the crowd, reminding them that the Jews are their guests. Author Amos Keinan and poet Natan Zach then address the crowd, speaking of their hopes for equality and justice. The assembly disperses quickly. There is no further discussion, no exchange or dialogue between the authors and poets. The delegation boards the bus quickly. Some, like Matalon, feel they had been chased away, without the ritual good-byes and extended handshakes that usually mark such events. Not everyone in the Israeli delegation agrees with Guri, or with his choice of words. Some thought that it was inappropriate to bring up the issue of responsibility at the mourning tent - even if the mayor himself spoke in those terms. Yet, in conclusion, Calderon was pleased. 'Yes, tempers flared, and everyone is sensitive. It is hard now to know what is the 'right' thing to say. But we provided a message of humanity and sympathy, at a time and place where there have only been messages of hostility. And that is important.'
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