The Watson Fellowship requires its Fellows to submit a final report exlaining what we have gained from our fellowship year.  I am reprinting the report I submitted to them below as an appropriate conclusion to all that I have learned and how I have changed over the last year.  Enjoy

Before I left for my Watson journey, even before I graduated from Colgate University, I was talking to one of my favorite professors about my plans, excitement and anxiety for the coming year. On that day, she said something to me that I understood but could not quite conceptualize at the time; however, upon the completion of the Fellowship, I have realized the breadth of her wisdom: “You are going to learn more about yourself and who you really are in the next year than most people can hope to learn in a lifetime.”

This idea is the embodiment of Thomas J. Watson Fellowship’s mission, as a year of self-discovery, and one I have known since the early days of the application process, even if I was never able to imagine the details of how/when/where/why I would “find myself.” Thinking back on the past 12 months, I cannot exactly pinpoint a moment, place or trigger when my identity became shockingly clear, but I know that in the past few months there has been a fundamental awakening in me that leaves me feeling more like myself every day. This realization happened in phases, and I believe that both research and personal issues contributed to how I now feel. In this final report, I will try to trace my transformation into “myself” through a few formative research and personal moments from the past 12 months, and reflect on the lessons these have taught me.

My research, particularly in Morocco for the first three months, was inherently personal. My goals in that country were to learn about the Jewish community and its recent history, to juxtapose my family’s Moroccan history, traditions, mentality and culture with those Jews still living in Morocco and to judge if I understand my identity more from it. Aside for meeting and building relationships with the members of the Moroccan Jewish Community’s Organization, and religious and cultural leaders, I also attended events and religious services at synagogue every week for Shabbat and holidays, in order to meet as many different kind of Moroccan Jews as possible. The most striking aspect of their culture that I observed was the extremely high level of Moroccan hospitality offered by most Moroccan Jews and Muslims that I met, especially now that I can compare it to other countries. The Jewish community in Morocco numbers less than 3,000 people and the congregations of each synagogue (of which there are dozens) are even smaller; so, when I sat in synagogue alone, everyone knew that I was a foreigner. In many situations that may have been (and in fact was) awkward, but not in Morocco. They all wanted to know who I was and why I was there, and once they determined that I was “safe,” they invited me to their house for a meal almost unanimously. There were actually incidences when Moroccan women argued over who would take me home that day.

After three months in Morocco, it became clear that this hospitality is a very rigid cultural norm that transcends religious and ethnic affiliation, and also hit very close to home for me. The Moroccan-Israeli side of my family, in traditional fashion, respects and upholds the importance of this norm; any person is welcome at any of our houses, usually even without an invitation. This was not just familiar and comfortable to me, particularly during a difficult adjustment period at the beginning of my journey, but also helped me realize that there are definitive aspects of my personality, character and identity that are inextricably embedded in Moroccan culture and values. The value system that is at the root of the Moroccan hospitality holds loyalty and devotion to family and religion paramount, a cultural trait that has always been of the utmost importance to me and always set me apart from my fellow Americans and American Jews.

On the other hand, there were some aspects of the Moroccan culture and mentality with which I have never and could never identify. Witnessing and experiencing the tangible manifestations of the oppression of women for the first time was shocking, even after studying it at Colgate for many years. Simple, daily events are shaped by this cultural norm, and the most prevalent and telling is the café culture in Morocco and elsewhere in the region; most cafes are de facto all-male establishments where a woman would feel uncomfortable enjoying a cup of tea or coffee. The cultural attitude of woman as inferior intellectually and socially, and their resulting segregation, pervades the mentality of many of the Moroccans that I met, Jewish and not. I have one Jewish friend who grew up in Morocco, but moved to Strasbourg, France to attend boarding school when he was 13. After university and a year of work, he decided to try to move back to Morocco and has since moved back to France. Because he is an educated, Westernized, and relatively secular Jew, his opinion on men and women sitting together in synagogue surprised me. He proposed and I accepted the traditional argument; men and women cannot sit together in synagogue because it would cause distractions when people should only focus on prayer. I then offered him a compromise; what if the women’s section was positioned next to the men’s and separated with a barrier (instead of above it on another floor), with both having equal access to the bima (stage)? He could not accept this solution and could not explain why.

As the granddaughter of an ardent feminist (one of the first women Fulbrights in Paris) and an independent and strong liberal woman, this is one part of Moroccan culture that is not reflected in my personality and character. On the other hand, gender and racial equality are prominent American values and my time in the Middle East taught me to appreciate the freedoms and opportunities granted to women and minorities, and their cultural acceptance among Americans, whereas beforehand I never considered them out of the ordinary. The societal acceptance of the value of liberty was never demonstrated more clearly than the definitive moment of the 2008-2009 Watson Year: Barack Obama’s victory. The fact that a person of such a diverse background could rise to the most powerful position in the world speaks wonders to American progressivism, and caused immense pride in me as people of all walks of life exclaimed, once they found out I am American, “Obama, good!” and offered a thumbs-up. In making these comparisons all year, I actually reconnected to my American identity and I believe I will be able to appreciate these liberties once in America.

The most personally and professionally formative event of my Watson trip was Operation Cast Lead, the Israeli military campaign in Gaza in January. At the time, I was living in Cairo and decided to postpone a trip to Jordan until the situation in the region improved because of family pressures and advice from knowledgeable Egyptian friends. For the first time in my life, I experienced one of the worst recent outbreaks of Israeli-Palestinian violence not only somewhere anti-Israel, but actually at the heart of the Arab world. From the first moment of the Operation, it was on the forefront of everyone’s mind and lives in Cairo; televisions in restaurants were always playing the news, which was always reporting about Gaza, demonstrations were held often, people in the street were asking why Obama did not care that children were dying, bloggers were blasting the Egyptian government for not opening the Rafah crossing to refugees (and some consequently were getting arrested), and endless petitions and activities were circulated and advertised on the expatriot list serv of which I was a member.

As the invasion drudged on I became obsessed with collecting information. I spent countless hours in front of the television in my new apartment switching between BBC and Al-Jazeera in English, and reading every news article I could find. And I could not believe all that I was seeing and hearing; Israel, a country I always considered home and morally superior than any other nation, was becoming a source of shame and disgust for me. It was a deeply emotional time; I had a strong feeling of not only shame and disgust, but most interestingly, guilt. In some ways, I felt responsible for the atrocities I was witnessing on television, and in others I was outraged that the Israeli government would commit what I began to view as a masssacre. A few weeks after the fighting ended, I wrote a blog post trying to reconcile these different feelings and rationalize what it means for my search for identity.

This post (entitled Falling from Greatness, After the Israeli Defeat of Gaza at www.cecisibony.com) represents what is, in hindsight, my formal ideological break with the policies of the Israeli government and the values and opinions of my family, causing quite a stir. Recognizing the potential for influence of the media, I argued that Gaza “represents Israel’s final break from the moral, Judaic, and peace-loving principles that characterized its founding as a country.” As a Zionist and a Jew, I proclaimed it was my tradition and duty to question Israel’s policies, which, after much research, have rendered Israel morally inferior than in the past, and even less secure than before the Operation.

Some of my former professors and friends (particularly in Egypt) called my post “defining for my character,” while my parents bordered on tears as they told me they do not recognize their own daughter. I have come to realize that in some ways, they were right; my whole life my political beliefs were fundamentally shaped by the historical narrative I learrned from my parents, my Jewish private school and American media. By experiencing Gaza immersed in the “other” perspective, and living and learning from Arabs all year, I have been able to finally understand both sides of the conflict and formulate my own beliefs based on all of this information.

Probably more important than my political opinions, per se, was how Gaza and the emergence of these feelings and beliefs empowered me to finalize my independence from my parents, which began with my application and acceptance of the Watson Fellowship and ended not only with an ideological division, but also a financial one. The implications of this for my identity are evident; not a believer in mutual exclusivity in this case, I am a pro-Palestinian, pro-peace Zionist, who supports the Jewish Israeli and Arab Palestinian people, not necessarily the policies of their governments, in their pursuits of a better life for themselves and their children. My experiences on a beach camp in Sinai, witnessing Arab-Israeli coexistence unlike elsewhere in the world, confirms for me the possibility of the realization of this goal.

Months later, my arrival in Istanbul was very strange. I stepped out of the taxi from the airport and onto the most popular and hip pedestrian walkway in the city, and I was overwhelmed by the level of development, its resemblance to Europe and by how easy it was just to find my hostel. I had returned to the first world and not only did it feel supremely weird, but I did not like it. As I readjusted to the West and Istanbul as a city began to grow on me, I could not shake the feeling that my level of comfort in Turkey did not compare to the comfort I felt in each Arab country I visited. In a conversation with the same professor from Colgate that originally told me I was an Arab for the first time, she put it simply: “Ceci, its because you are an Arab.” Again, I realized the extent of her simple wisdom; my heart was not in Turkey the way it had been in the previous countries because I could not identify with Turkey the country, people and culture. The coldness and closed nature of the Jewish community was just one characteristic of Turkey with which I did not identify. Interestingly, the Muslim Turks maintain the same level of hospitality and openness that I love from the Arab world, but I still could not manage to feel at home there. I have come to realize that this feeling is something intangible and inquantifiable; sometimes the heart recognizes familiarity that the brain cannot reason.

After all of these experiences, the lingering question remains: who am I? The most important lesson I learned this year is that trying to define oneself by the things or ideas that describe you is an oversimplification of the complexities of human emotions and identity. I learned that ultimately, “me” is the amalgamation of how I feel, with what/whom I identify, and the things and ideas that describe me, all of which is dependent on my inherent personality. The fact that my brother and sister, who have identical backgrounds and upbringings, do not identify the same as I do helped me realize that first and foremost, I am ME, a dynamic and complex creature that changes over time and thrives on my own independence, the importance of family and humanism.

The implications of my new-found understanding of myself extend to all aspects of my life. Now, I understand that my innate passions, interests, and competence render me more suited to studying cultural Anthropology for my Master’s degree than International Relations, as I had previously thought. I have determined that I would like to use my skills, openness and broad understanding of history and cultures to pursue cultural coexistence among Arabs and Israelis as a grassroots movemont toward a positive peace. I have realized that all of my life decisions until this point have indicated that I prefer a challenging way of life versus the ease of living that characterizes most Western societies, and that this inclination even applies to my romantic life and the type of person with whom I would be most compatible. As I learn about myself and comprehend my own intricacies more every day, I am finding that my life path is being illuminated by my heart’s desire, and I have the Thomas J. Watson Foundation to thank for that.

The Exodus Obama Forgot to Mention

PRESIDENT OBAMA’S speech to the Islamic world was a groundbreaking event. Never before has a young, dynamic American president, beloved both by his countrymen and the nations of the world, extended so timely and eager a hand to a part of the globe that, recently, had seen fewer and fewer reasons to trust us or to wish us well.

As important, Mr. Obama did not mince words. Never before has a president gone over to the Arab world and broadcast its flaws so loudly and clearly: extremism, nuclear weapons programs and a faltering record in human rights, education and economic development — the Arab world gets no passing grades in any of these domains. Mr. Obama even found a moment to mention the plight of Egypt’s harassed Coptic community and to criticize the new wave of Holocaust deniers. And to show he was not playing favorites, he put the Israelis on notice: no more settlements in the occupied territories. He spoke about the suffering of Palestinians. This was no wilting olive branch.

And yet, for all the president’s talk of “a new beginning between the United States and Muslims around the world” and shared “principles of justice and progress,” neither he nor anyone around him, and certainly no one in the audience, bothered to notice one small detail missing from the speech: he forgot me.

The president never said a word about me. Or, for that matter, about any of the other 800,000 or so Jews born in the Middle East who fled the Arab and Muslim world or who were summarily expelled for being Jewish in the 20th century. With all his references to the history of Islam and to its (questionable) “proud tradition of tolerance” of other faiths, Mr. Obama never said anything about those Jews whose ancestors had been living in Arab lands long before the advent of Islam but were its first victims once rampant nationalism swept over the Arab world.

Nor did he bother to mention that with this flight and expulsion, Jewish assets were — let’s call it by its proper name — looted. Mr. Obama never mentioned the belongings I still own in Egypt and will never recover. My mother’s house, my father’s factory, our life in Egypt, our friends, our books, our cars, my bicycle. We are, each one of us, not just defined by the arrangement of protein molecules in our cells, but also by the things we call our own. Take away our things and something in us dies. Losing his wealth, his home, the life he had built, killed my father. He didn’t die right away; it took four decades of exile to finish him off.

Mr. Obama had harsh things to say to the Arab world about its treatment of women. And he said much about America’s debt to Islam. But he failed to remind the Egyptians in his audience that until 50 years ago a strong and vibrant Jewish community thrived in their midst. Or that many of Egypt’s finest hospitals and other institutions were founded and financed by Jews. It is a shame that he did not remind the Egyptians in the audience of this, because, in most cases — and especially among those younger than 50 — their memory banks have been conveniently expunged of deadweight and guilt. They have no recollections of Jews.

In Alexandria, my birthplace and my home, all streets bearing Jewish names have been renamed. A few years ago, the Library of Alexandria put on display an Arabic translation of “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” perhaps the most anti-Semitic piece of prose ever written. Today, for the record, there are perhaps four Jews left in Alexandria.

When the last Jew dies, the temples and religious artifacts and books that were the property of what was once probably the wealthiest Jewish community on the Mediterranean will go to the Egyptian government — not to me, or to my children, or to any of the numberless descendants of Egyptian Jews.

It is strange that our president, a man so versed in history and so committed to the truth, should have omitted mentioning the Jews of Egypt. He either forgot, or just didn’t know, or just thought it wasn’t expedient or appropriate for this venue. But for him to speak in Cairo of a shared effort “to find common ground … and to respect the dignity of all human beings” without mentioning people in my position would be like his speaking to the residents of Berlin about the future of Germany and forgetting to mention a small detail called World War II.

André Aciman, a professor of comparative literature at the City University of New York Graduate Center, is the author of the memoir “Out of Egypt.”

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Rebuttal

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As an American Jewish Obama-supporter of Moroccan and Israeli descent, I took particular interest in the recent Op-Ed entitled “The Exodus Obama Forgot to Mention,” by André Aciman. As a Thomas J. Watson Fellow researching Jewish communities in the Muslim Middle East, the breadth of my personal and academic experiences have compelled me to address the assumptions and argument of that piece.

Mr. Acimen asserts that “800,000 or so Jews born in the Middle East who fled the Arab and Muslim world or who were summarily expelled for being Jewish in the 20th century… were its first victims once rampant nationalism swept over the Arab world.” According to my research in Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt and Turkey over the past 10 months, this argument is an oversimplification; while it is true that Jews migrated for security, financial, educational, and ideological reasons, attributing the migration of any Jew, let alone diverse populations of them, to one factor is erroneous.

The motivations for migration vary not only for the people within each country, but even within each city, street and household . The most important lesson I have learned this year is that outside of formal expulsions (which were not executed in all Arab-Muslim countries), the decision to migrate is a personal one made by each family based on their circumstances. The story of my grandparents’ exodus from Morocco reflects the individual nature of this phenomenon, “We loved Morocco and the King because he saved us from Hitler. Our parents did not want to leave their home. We, the young adults, were Zionists and wanted to move back to the Holy Land.”

With reference to Mr. Acimen’s home country of Egypt, he forgot to mention that all British and French nationals were expelled after the Suez Crisis, while Jewish lives were made continuously eneasy because of Egypt’s military engagement with Israel, Britain and France. Upon my visit to his home city of Alexandria, I was able to meet at least 5 Jews currently living there, and I learned from the President of the community that 25 Jews remain, not 4 as he claims.

In the less extreme cases of Morocco, Tunisia and Turkey, describing Jews as having “fled” or been “summarily expelled” is an exaggeration because the Jewish communities in each country still number about 3,000, 2,000 and 18,000, respectively.

Misleading assertions aside, an examination of Obama’s intentions for his Cairo speech demonstrate why the inclusion of the issue of Jewish migration/expulsion from the Arab-Muslim world was neither relevant nor politically savvy. Many have argued that in his speech Obama was trying to reset the American relationship with the Arab-Muslim world and outline the problems that have led to its recent deterioration. While the plight of many, but not all, Arab Jews was regrettable and in many cases atrocious, this was not the appropriate forum to address this issue. The Jewish migration/expulsion is a legitimate concern for those Jews who were forced to leave and have grievances against their home countries. However, this is largely irrelevant to the current administration’s agenda, particularly during his speech in Cairo.

Arguably, its inclusion would have been counterproductive; aside from reaffirming a common Arab-Muslim belief that America is decidedly pro-Jewish (and therefore pro-Israel), it would have contradicted his goal of using the lessons from the past to progress into the future. Thankfully, many of the Arab Jews who were expelled were able to resettle elsewhere, attain citizenship and rebuild their lives, unlike many refugees the world over. With the help of Jewish philanthropies, organizations of Arab Jews abroad, the State of Israel and even some Arab governments, projects are underway to renovate and preserve Jewish establishments and ensure the survival and prosperity of the communities that remain today. In fact, even in Mr. Acimen’s country of origin, I observed the reconstruction of Maimonides’ Synagogue by the Egyptian authorities, which was destroyed by an earthquake, not “looted.”

We are witnessing a rare moment in global politics where it seems that justice, harmony and peace are not just rhetorical goals, but may have the chance to direct policy; is now the time to inflame an already complicated and fickle relationship? With all of my understanding of the plight of Arab Jews, I pray we can learn from and keep an eye on the past, while supporting President Mr Obama in his pursuit of the peace that can prevent such atrocities from occuring in the future.

During my first few weeks in Cairo, I realized that a different approach was necesssary to appropriately conduct research on its Jewish community. The differences from the Moroccan and Tunisian communities are plenty; the Egyptian Jewish community is smaller and more secular, regular synagogue services are not available, and they are typically very wary of outsiders. I thought that some time and patience would be necessary to meet and get to know the community, which would also give me more time to explore other aspects of identity, Arab-Israeli and Mulim-Jewish co-existence (or lack thereof) and their attitudes toward one another. The outbreak of violence in Gaza in December demonstrated to me the importance of understanding how societies view and approach war and violence, and how the these approaches, exacerbated by the media, perpetuate hate and violence in all parts of the world.

As a result of the invasion of Gaza, Cairo was buzzing with pro-Palestinian and anti-Israel behavior; protests and demonstrations, bloggers and their arrests, and documentaries, exhibits and discussions on Israel-Arab issues were all of a sudden thrust into the forefront of life in Cairo. These only lasted about a month or so after the end of the incursion, but during this month I tried to engage in these activities in order to put myself in the shoes of the other side of the conflict and try to understand their perspective.

I saw a documentary at the lovely Townhouse Gallery in downtown Cairo entitled “Of Blood and Tears.” Taking advantage of the opening blown into the border crossing at Rafah, the director focused her footage on the problems of daily life in Gaza; simple things, such as filling up gas or going to visit family, were inconvenienced or impossible due to their current situation. The film directed blame at the Israeli “occupation” and seige, but dislike of Hamas and even the acknowledgment of easier lives before their ascent to power were discussed. I was most struck by the attitude of the Gazans when telling their stories: downright jovial. They spoke about the hardships of their past, present and future with a smile on their face and cracking jokes. Even though the film and the Gazans were certainly anti-Israel (or anti-Jewish, as they would call them), it concentrated more on the personal lives and attitudes of the Gazan, which I admired tremendously as an aspiring anthropologists.

In February, the big news on the Cairo ex-patriot email list serv was the disappearance of a popular Egyptian-German blogger, at a protest on the border with Gaza. He had been quite active not only during the recent Israeli campaign, but in previous years, blogging and making documentaries on Palestinians. His arrest enraged the ex-patriot community, Egyptian students and the German government, causing a wave of protests and petitions demanding his release, particularly at the American University in Cairo. He was eventually released, but not before the government looted and stole his research materials in his apartment. Because of his ordeal, he achieved celebrity-status in Cairo and organized a viewing of a documentary he had produced a year earlier to a packed AUC auditorium. The documentary tried to direct some media attention on Palestinians who do not usually receive any: rural farmers. He traveled to the West Bank and Gaza to interview Palestinian farmers, and overall, the documentary was unimpressive. He makes the obvious point that the rural farmers live in archaic ways and are harassed by the Israeli government, without any final or enlightening message. After the documentary he “answered” some questions; the packed audience was expecting a profound statement or conclusion from their new Gaza-hero, and the questions reflected that as people asked, in nicer words, “So what? What does it all mean?” And in all his arrogance he provided the same response to each question: his intention was only to address an issue that is not touched upon by the media. The crowd was disappointed, but still no one had the courage to press him on his detention, even though he hinted that he would not discuss it. Thus, the significance of this event for me was the glimpse into how the Egyptian (and maybe other Arab) governments handle dissidents, and the productive ways to engage them for concessions: international attention, foreign government involvement, and, least importantly, protests.

Aside for these two documentaries, I attended some exhibitions- Palestine and non-Palestine related. Some of them contained war-photographs and were designed to evoke sympathy. On the other hand, one exhibition was an amateur contest, advertised on Facebook, searching for the photograph that most represents Cairo. Sponsored by the European Union Commission in Cairo, the finalist and winning pictures were displayed in the Townhouse Gallery, and put into a calendar. It took place during my first week in Cairo, and when I saw the winning photo, I knew right away it was quintessential Cairo, and four month later I know I was right. These experiences confirmed one of the first lessons I learned on my trip this year: within every group of people there are good and bad people. In these cases, I discovered the insightful and artistically-minded, whose themes reflect the concerns of their generation, however one-sided they may be.

The Israeli Academic Center in Cairo (mentioned in the previous post) is a forum to display and share Israeli creators of culture and media, and home to the largest collection of Hebrew and Jewish books in Cairo. Its library mostly services the students and professors from the Hebrew programs in Cairo, but it is open to researchers, as well. According to a few contacts, during the Rabin era the Merkaz was constantly filled with students and professors, but once Netanyahu came to power, the flow of people has trickled. Now, many of the professors will not even come to the IACC to find the books they require, they send their students. I had the pleasure of attending an event at the IACC in February. They were hosting lectures in English and Hebrew by Ronit Matalon, an Israeli fiction and autobiographical writer. The mix of people in attendance was interesting: Egyptian professors, ex-patriot students and professsionals, maybe 1 or 2 Egyptian Jews, and a handful of Egyptians that are friendly with the Israeli couple that run the center. The event, and Center for that matter, are managed by Dr. Gaby and Michal Rosenbaum, and a staff of Egyptian Muslim Hebrew-speakers, who are very cordial and accomodating. It is important to emphasize, for the purpose of understanding and for the well-being of the center, that they are funded by the Israeli university system, which is not associated with any Israeli political entity. Although independent, attendance always drops and security always becomes a more pressing issue when there are incidences of violence in Israel and Palestine.

From my contacts at the IACC (Israeli Academic Cultural Center), I learned that there are 7 Egyptian universities that offer Hebrew programs, some of which have 1000 students. Shocked, I had to learn more as part of my attempt to understand how Egyptians view Israelis and Jews. Below I provide the stories of three Egyptian men and how they became Hebrew-speakers. Please note that the three are, in fact, special cases of those who excelled in their programs and forged careers from them.

Mohammed (real name not used here for anonymity purposes) originally hoped to score high enough on his university-placement examination to study English. Because he missed it by half a point and had been a long-time lover of languages, he chose to study Eastern Languages, including Aramaic, Hebrew and ancient Ethiopian. Eventually, he was required to choose one language on which to focus; he picked Hebrew, even though he did not even know at the time that it was spoken in Israel. Throughout his undergraduate career, he frequented the IACC for research and became friends with the people that worked there. In 1995, while Mohammed was preparing to enter a Masters program and simultaneously completing his compulsory military service, his father passed away and he was forced to find a job. Through his connections at the IACC, he began working as a librarian and eventually won favor with the director and other employees because of his excellent Hebrew-speaking skills. They offered to pay for him to take business classes at the American Univerity in Cairo, in order to train him to be the first Muslim/Egyptian to handle the financials of the center.

When asked what motivates other Egyptian students to study Hebrew, he said that it mostly depends on test scores because the range in which a student scores only affords the opportunity to study a few subjects. Through his academic and professional experience, he learned that Israelis are not bad people, and that there are always two sides of any story, which he now accesses by reading and watching the media in Arabic and Hebrew. It should be noted, however, that Mohammed only reveals his actual profession to those who are closest to him, and tells everyone else that he is a translator (which is true, part time).

After receiving his PhD in Hebrew and teaching at Cairo University, Mahmoud (not his real name) is currently a Hebrew professor at Helwan University in Cairo. He originally studied Hebrew because he wanted to be a tourguide and the competition for English and French tourguides was too high. After his studies, Cairo University offered him a job as a professor because of his excellent Hebrew skills, which he accepted because the pay was even better and more consistent than that of a tourguide. He and his students use the library at IACC regulalry and he used to go to synagogue (when it was open more regularly) for his PhD research; he said he used to know some members of the Egyptian Jewish community, but they have since passed away. When asked about the difference between a Jew and an Israeli, he said that he understands the difference, but the simple and uneducated Egyptians do not and cannot because of the information they do have available.

I met Ahmed (psuedonym) through a mutual Israeli friend, who travels to Cairo sporadically for research on his Masters thesis. Ahmed is not only an informative source on contemporary Jewish life in Cairo, but also a caring friend. He was born and raised, until the age of 16, in Harat al Yahud, or the old Jewish quarter, located adjacent to the Coptic Quarter in Old Cairo. His family moved from there some years ago, but when he began his Masters work and career, he rented an apartment in the Hara.

He took me on a personal, guided tour of Harat al Yahud, which is now home to Muslims exclusively, after the last Jews residing there passed away within the last few years. We visited his uncle’s house, which is down the street from Maimonides’ temple; from the apartment’s balcony, when kneeling at a certain angle, I was able to see the construction inside the synagogue, and the Aron Hakodesh covered with a sheet. We also passed by many old buildings whose iron gates or windows were adorned with large Jewish stars. We even passed by the house in which Gamal Abdel Nasser was born; surprisingly, the father of the secular Arab nationalist movement and eventual expelor of the Egyptian Jewish community, was born in the Jewish quarter in a house decorated with the largest Jewish stars of all. Ahmed and his uncle and family have witnessed many heartfelt reunions of old friends and neighbors, filled with joyous tears, when Jewish families return to visit their former homes and lives in Harat al Yahud.

During Ahmed’s childhood in the 1980s, only two Jewish women remained in the Hara. One woman was named Mary, famous for her lovely singing voice, which she showered on the local Egyptians outside cafes in the Hara. Ahmed, intrigued both by a Jew and by her magnificent voice, always came to watch her, and eventually, developed a relationship with her. He discovered that she refused to make aliya to Israel as did her family and friends because she considered herself “an Egyptain, a Jewish Egyptian.” He used to pummel her with questions about anything related to Judaism, and she was always happy to oblige with stories about her specifically Jewish identity as an Egyptian. And, according to Ahmed, even after the majority migrated, she was friends with everyone in Harat al Yahud, particularly those who had been acquaintances of her family. Mary had an apartment in the Old Age Home in the Hara, but after the Jewish migration, it was sold to Muslims while she maintained it; it was only when she fell ill that the Jewish community moved her from Harat al Yahud to a more appropriate facility. Apparently the move occurred without anyone’s knowledge, and just overnight the Hara lost their beloved Jew, Mary.

Ahmed originally wanted to study engineering in college, and like many students, did not score enough points on the placement exam to enter the engineering school. Due to his history in the Jewish Quarter and his genuine interest in Judaism and Hebrew, he chose to study Hebrew at Ain Shems University in 1995, which maintains a 1000-person Hebrew concentration. He argued that the reasons students study Hebrew vary: based on their score on the test, ambitions to work in the government, journalism, tourism or translation, and lastly and leastly, to “prepare for war.” As soon as his studies began it was clear he was an excellent student and had a knack for the language; he was speaking and buying newspapers by the 2nd year, was asked to be a Teaching Assistant by his fourth year, and began his Master’s degree (on Peace Now) in 2001. After he obtained his Masters degree, he was hired by Masr Al-Yom, a daily Egyptian newspaper, to cover Israeli news. He also still works at Ain Shems on occasion, and appears on TV as an expert on Israel and Judaism.

Ahmed, while interested in Judaism, is a skeptic of religion in general and attributes many of the world’s problems to the misinterpretations, misundertandings and misusages of religion by individuals throughout history. Considering my (fairly liberal) research on coexistence and Muslim Arabs (as a Jew) he was surprised to hear that I am an observant Jew. I hope that I succeeded in showing him that the desires for mutual understanding and peace, and the devotion to and observation of religion and traditiions are not mutually exclusive.

Through all of these varied and meaningful experiences I have been able to synthesize all of the lessons into one fundamental issue: the perception of Jews and Israelis as separate entities. This question had enourmous consequences for the Jewish populations in every country I have visited, and it also may help contemporary seekers of peace to pinpoint specific hurdles to achieving peace. It was argued to me countless times in Egypt that before all of the Jews migrated, Egyptians understood that the Jews living on their streerts and buying goods from their market are fundamentally different then those causing political unrest in Palestine. However, as that turmoil escalated into direct conflicts with Egypt, with Egyptian interests, men and dignity at stake, the links between Jew and Israeli began to be formed; the Lavon Affiar confirmed that linkage as sons of Egypt were caught committing treason for Israel. As this linking and the political and colonial tensions inide Egypt increased, Jews began migrating, exacerbating the problem further. If, according to many sources, the differentiation was made because every Egyptian knew a Jew personally, then, as the population of Jews dwindled, less Egyptians could fill the blurred image of a Jew or Israeli with the actual face of a friend. Egyptians began forming their opinions on them based on the media, which, as a government-operated service, projects images of Jews and Israelis, without distinction, as the “other” and “enemy.” Thus, the cycle perpetuated and today the younger, simple and especially uneducated Egyptians are not aware of the differences between the two. If this argument is correct, than a crucial step toward reversing this trend of misunderstanding-turned-hatred is the humanization of Jews and Israelis through personal interaction and engagement among the adversaries; it is crucial for Egyptians to begin putting faces and personalities and human qualities to the people they now conider inhuman and the enemy. I would like to also add that in my experience, this is the case on the Israeli side, and the same remedy would help.

On April 8^th, 2009, the Jews of Cairo gathered for a Passover Seder, just as Jews were doing all across the globe. However, only at this seder was the story being told set in the same place as our seats- a somewhat surreal feeling. I was both nervous and excited for the seder because it was my first Jewish event with the Cairo community and a very important holiday to me.

The seder was held in a back room of the Adley Synagogue, organized by Mrs. Weinstein and her staff. In addition to about 100 Jews of Egyptian and American backgrounds, the American Ambassador to Egypt was in attendance, and the seder was led by a Rabbi from Israel. The seder was conducted mostly in English because most of the Egyptian (and probably American) Jews do not read or understand Hebrew. It proceeded normally, even with the search for the afikoman, but without the singing and merriness/intoxication that I normally associate with Passover seders.

The most interesting thing I noted at the seder was the presense of a few women, with their children, muhagabaat, or wearing the Muslim head covering. I was sitting next to an American woman who has been living in Cairo for four years and is very familiar with the members of the Jewish community; she explained to me that these women, or their mothers, were Jewish, but they converted to Islam for their marraiges. They still attend the seder every year out of honor and respect for their mothers. Another reason, more cynical but perhaps just as true, was provided; apparently, Mrs. Weinstein calls all of the people on her “list” of Jews in Cairo, no matter their current religion, and implores them to attend the seder because if she can maintain high attendance at events, she can continue to petition money for the community from donors and the Joint Distribution Committee.

I spent my seder sitting amongst the lovely remaining Egyptian Jewish women of the community, and I enjoyed their spunk, liveliness and stories. I bonded with one woman because she also strictly observed the laws of Kashrut, and we took turns “stealing” the few items of Kosher-for-Passover food for one another.

All in all, it was a surreal, interesting and moving Passover seder, but I missed many of the traditions of home.

Jewish life in Egypt, while in decline, still exists. Currently, the Adley Synagogue downtown and the Maadi Synagogue are opened alternately for Jewish holidays; while I was in Cairo, a Hannukah service and Passover Seder were held at Adley, and the Purim Megilah reading was held at Maadi. The Ben-Ezra Synagogue, in Coptic Cairo, as well as the Adley Synagogue are open to tourists. The Adley Synagogue houses a library of Jewish books, but it is not open to the public. Maimonides’ synagogue and former house of medicine was destroyed in an earthquake in the 2000s because the maintenance of it had been poor. The Egyptian government is currently in the process of restoring it and a few others. There is no kosher meat available in Egypt, unless brought in from Israel. The Jewish community of Egypt is serviced by a Jewish organization, headed by Carmen Weinstein, and supported by donations from Egyptian Jews living abroad, the Joint Distribution Committee and the Egyptian government.

The current Egyptian Jewish population of Cairo is about 25, only one of whom is a man, and Alexandria’s population is about the same. Most of these people are elder women, but two of their daughters (I am not sure if they are counted amongst the 25 because they have non-Jewish fathers) are now living in Cairo and in their 20s. I heard from one mother that when her daughter was enrolled in the French school, the children found out that her mother is a Jew, and they began to taunt her, “Your mom is a Jew-bitch.” According to her mother, this was a very traumatic time for this little girl. At the Passover seder I met the daughter of an Egyptian Jew and Christian. She is just now beginning to discover her Jewish roots, and she told me that she was planning a trip to Israel. Later, her mother explained to me that after a fight with her father and a few years rejecting Egyptian life and Arabs in general, she is trying to search for her real identity.

The ex-patriot and Israeli Jews in Egypt are also invited to share the holidays with the community, and in turn, give a boost to the vibrancy and attendance of these events. The Israeli population in Cairo is small, and consists of the Embassy and El-Al staff; heavily guarded and overly cautious, this population lives in Maadi (a smaller, wealthier expat town to the south of Cairo) and do not mix with the locals often.

The Israeli Academic Center in Cairo is the result of the Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty that stipulated each side was to set up a cultural center in the other’s country. While Egypt never managed to create one in Israel, the IACC, an outgrowth of the independent, non-political Israeli university system, brings “creators of Israeli culture” to Egypt, in order to share Israeli culture with Egyptians, according to the Center’s director Dr. Gaby Rosenbaum.

I must first apologize for the inactivity on my blog for the last few months; I hope it serves as a sign that I have kept myself very busy. Currently, on the 8^th day of Passover, I am on the beach at a Bedouin camp in Sinai, preparing for my own Exodus from Egypt. There is an interesting similarity to be drawn. Before the Hebrews fled from slavery to the Promised Land, they prepared to leave their home of the previous 400 years by quickly gathering their belongings and preparing bread. I came to Sinai for a few days of isolation to collect all of my thoughts and notes about Cairo, my home for the last 4 months, and draw conclusions and lessons to be learned from for the rest of my voyage.

A reference to the Jews of Egypt usually conjures up images of the Exodus to which I just referred; however, my intention, while in Egypt, was to learn more about the last 60 years of its Judaic history. The years prior to 1948, and even into the 50s, were considered by many a Golden Age in Egypt; Cairo and Alexandria were brimming with British, French, Italian, Greek and Jewish colonialists, and British and French troops. According to some accounts, it was an era of high civilization and culture that was uniquely Egyptian. So often I heard the phrase “the good old days,” in reference to a time “when nobody cared nor could tell the difference between a Jew, Christian or Muslim.” It was also reported that only wealthy and well-connected Egyprians, and few “real” ones, actually lived in the cities at this time. The Jewish community came from varied origins (Egyptians, Ashkenazi, and Sephardic), and lived at various levels of the rigid Egyptian class structure. The Jews who came with the colonialists from the mother country enjoyed colonial-related privelege, while many Jews still (as had their ancestors) lived in Harat al-Yahud, the Jewish quarter in old, Islamic Cairo- a more “popular” area. However, all Jews, no matter their class or wealth, were cared for by the Jewish community and its services (synagoguess, hospitals, old-age homes).

(more…)

My friend Lydia sent me this interesting article about the Jewish community in Iran, and I thought it may be relevant to post here…

What Iran’s Jews Say

Esfahan, Iran

At Palestine Square, opposite a mosque called Al-Aqsa, is a synagogue where Jews of this ancient city gather at dawn. Over the entrance is a banner saying: “Congratulations on the 30th anniversary of the Islamic Revolution from the Jewish community of Esfahan.”

The Jews of Iran remove their shoes, wind leather straps around their arms to attach phylacteries and take their places. Soon the sinuous murmur of Hebrew prayer courses through the cluttered synagogue with its lovely rugs and unhappy plants. Soleiman Sedighpoor, an antiques dealer with a store full of treasures, leads the service from a podium under a chandelier.

I’d visited the bright-eyed Sedighpoor, 61, the previous day at his dusty little shop. He’d sold me, with some reluctance, a bracelet of mother-of-pearl adorned with Persian miniatures. “The father buys, the son sells,” he muttered, before inviting me to the service.

Accepting, I inquired how he felt about the chants of “Death to Israel” — “Marg bar Esraeel” — that punctuate life in Iran.

“Let them say ‘Death to Israel,’ ” he said. “I’ve been in this store 43 years and never had a problem. I’ve visited my relatives in Israel, but when I see something like the attack on Gaza, I demonstrate, too, as an Iranian.”

The Middle East is an uncomfortable neighborhood for minorities, people whose very existence rebukes warring labels of religious and national identity. Yet perhaps 25,000 Jews live on in Iran, the largest such community, along with Turkey’s, in the Muslim Middle East. There are more than a dozen synagogues in Tehran; here in Esfahan a handful caters to about 1,200 Jews, descendants of an almost 3,000-year-old community.

Over the decades since Israel’s creation in 1948, and the Islamic Revolution of 1979, the number of Iranian Jews has dwindled from about 100,000. But the exodus has been far less complete than from Arab countries, where some 800,000 Jews resided when modern Israel came into being.

In Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt and Iraq — countries where more than 485,000 Jews lived before 1948 — fewer than 2,000 remain. The Arab Jew has perished. The Persian Jew has fared better.

Of course, Israel’s unfinished cycle of wars has been with Arabs, not Persians, a fact that explains some of the discrepancy.

Still a mystery hovers over Iran’s Jews. It’s important to decide what’s more significant: the annihilationist anti-Israel ranting, the Holocaust denial and other Iranian provocations — or the fact of a Jewish community living, working and worshipping in relative tranquillity.

Perhaps I have a bias toward facts over words, but I say the reality of Iranian civility toward Jews tells us more about Iran — its sophistication and culture — than all the inflammatory rhetoric.

That may be because I’m a Jew and have seldom been treated with such consistent warmth as in Iran. Or perhaps I was impressed that the fury over Gaza, trumpeted on posters and Iranian TV, never spilled over into insults or violence toward Jews. Or perhaps it’s because I’m convinced the “Mad Mullah” caricature of Iran and likening of any compromise with it to Munich 1938 — a position popular in some American Jewish circles — is misleading and dangerous.

I know, if many Jews left Iran, it was for a reason. Hostility exists. The trumped-up charges of spying for Israel against a group of Shiraz Jews in 1999 showed the regime at its worst. Jews elect one representative to Parliament, but can vote for a Muslim if they prefer. A Muslim, however, cannot vote for a Jew.

Among minorities, the Bahai — seven of whom were arrested recently on charges of spying for Israel — have suffered brutally harsh treatment.

I asked Morris Motamed, once the Jewish member of the Majlis, if he felt he was used, an Iranian quisling. “I don’t,” he replied. “In fact I feel deep tolerance here toward Jews.” He said “Death to Israel” chants bother him, but went on to criticize the “double standards” that allow Israel, Pakistan and India to have a nuclear bomb, but not Iran.

Double standards don’t work anymore; the Middle East has become too sophisticated. One way to look at Iran’s scurrilous anti-Israel tirades is as a provocation to focus people on Israel’s bomb, its 41-year occupation of the West Bank, its Hamas denial, its repetitive use of overwhelming force. Iranian language can be vile, but any Middle East peace — and engagement with Tehran — will have to take account of these points.

Green Zoneism — the basing of Middle Eastern policy on the construction of imaginary worlds — has led nowhere.

Realism about Iran should take account of Esfehan’s ecumenical Palestine Square. At the synagogue, Benhur Shemian, 22, told me Gaza showed Israel’s government was “criminal,” but still he hoped for peace. At the Al-Aqsa mosque, Monteza Foroughi, 72, pointed to the synagogue and said: “They have their prophet; we have ours. And that’s fine.”

—

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I am not permitted to travel to Iran during my Watson year, but it is evident that it would be a relevant and extremely interesting trip for me. According to Cohen’s description of Iran, it seems that the country’s attitudes and ideas toward its Jewish population reflects that of Morocco primarily, and even Tunisia. They seem to differentiate between “Jew” and “Israeli,” whereas most Egyptians (from experience) and Palestinians (from watching documentaries and the news) do not.

When the majority of the population of a country truly understands and internalizes this distinction, the lives of the “authentic” Jews living in that country appear to be easier and they can engage more openly as Jewish. Moroccans and Iranians exemplify this, identifying “their Jews” as distinct or “good” (as an Iranian man that I met in Egypt explained) and disassociating them from the Israeli government and its policies, particularly towards the Palestinians.

In the case of Egypt, perhaps it was the blurring of this line, exacerbated by incidents like the Lavon affair in 1954 (where Egyptian Jews were implicated in Israeli espionage), that triggered the behavior in Egypt that compelled most of the Jewish population to migrate.

However, ascertaining and learning the cause(s) of this differentiation are more fleeting, but my hypothesis is that proximity to Israel and engagement in direct war and violence may be just two of the factors.

Anyone have any other ideas?

Those who know me well are aware that I am not exactly the “outdoorsy” type. As such, I had yet to take a camping trip to the desert in the last six months, which is a popular activity for tourists and backpackers in every country I have visited. Finally, this past weekend, two friends and I rented a Land Cruiser and hired a Bedouin guide named Badry from the Bahariya Oasis to tour and camp in the Black and White Deserts.

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Bahariya does not exactly match the images I once associated with oases: a beautiful pocket of green palm trees, grass and access to water surrounded on all sides by endless rolling hills of dry, hot sand. As an oasis, Bahariya is certainly greener than the desert around it; it has multiple springs all over the oasis that bring hot and cold water to the town and cause plant growth, and therefore, the viability of human life in the oasis. However, as a town per se, I would not characterize it as beautiful, rather similar to other smaller, run-down North African towns in the desert. However, its beauty transcends the physical because Bahariya provides the Bedouin people, who have roamed the desert for centuries, the provisions for happy and fruitful lives.

Badry is somewhat of the “big boss” in Bahariya. As it is a small town, most of its inhabitants are part of the same tribe, clan, family etc., and he is well-known by everyone in the oasis and in the desert. His father began the desert-trekking-tourism business in Bahariya in the 70s and 80s, and Badry is now the family patriarch and owns many businesses in the Oasis (sounds like a family I know very well). Tourism and taking foreigners on tours of the desert is the least profitable of his businesses, but he still does it because of his genuine love for time spent in the desert and his eagerness to show off his home to others. His website is www.badrysaharacamp.com

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After we arrived and ate a deliciously simple Bedouin lunch of fresh vegetable salads, cheeses, tuna and BBQ potato chips (haha!), we headed out in our 4×4 to a small mountain in the Black Desert. When gazing out on this desert, one observes, intermingling with the beige color of the sand and stones, a layer of black, the residual color of the volcanic action on the many rolling hills and mountains. I actually climbed to the top of this one hill/mountain and was able to appreciate the full scope of black-and-beige in much of the Black Desert.

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From there, we headed to sites in the White Desert, so named because the residual salt of its oceanic state has left the terrain white. The interesting feature of this desert is the oddly-shaped figures dotting its landscape. Reminiscent of structures one would find on the ocean floor, these large stone and sand structures sometimes resemble mushrooms, and even animals (One famous site is “The Tree and the Chicken.”). They all shine a beautiful bright white, and when you look out over the White Desert, all you see for miles are these brilliant white figures.

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We set up camp in the White Desert, and within 10 minutes of parking the two cars, a nice Bedouin-style sitting area was erected, complete with rugs and mats lining the floor for seating and low tables for eating. As we took this time to wander the desert a bit and take photos, our Bedouin guides began preparing dinner. All of these supplies somehow had been neatly packed in the car, but we never felt their presence. All of a sudden, we had a full, tasty meal in front of us, prepared with simple tools, simple ingredients and the fire they built. We learned how to make Bedouin tea. It’s very good, and we decided to buy some to take home. This trip has afforded us the opportunity to practice Arabic, speaking with Badry about his life and Bedouin life in general.

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The most incredible part of the trip for me, besides the striking beauty of the desert, is that for centuries the Bedouins have tamed this barren and almost unlivable land and really respect and appreciate the natural wonders or beauty of their homeland. According to Badry, he has been wandering and driving around the vast desert from the outskirts of Cairo, west to Libya, and south into Sudan since he was a little boy, and knows its ins and outs like the back of his hand, without a map or signs and with very few roads.

We were so impressed with our trip to Bahariya that we are planning another, larger and longer trip to the Siwa Oasis and the desert surrounding it. Can’t wait!

My friend Zach, who came on the trip, is an excellent photographer and really did a nice job capturing the beauty of the desert. You can check out his photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/rockman1881

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To the Reader:

I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, and it has recently been brought to my attention that it had some flaws. Based on the intellectual and much-appreciated feedback I have received (thanks Grandma), I have edited this post to address these concerns. Namely, that by not mentioning or condemning Hamas, I am complicit in viewing the conflict from albeit a new, but one-sided, point of view. I want to make clear that I do not sympathize with Hamas, and I only did not mention their immorality and horrific tactics because I thought it was evident; erroneous, I now realize, so I have changed the piece accordingly. Lastly, it was observed that my original post lacked historical perspective, which I have now tried to inject, using examples of Israel’s strategies toward both Hizbollah and Hamas in recent years. I hope this edited version represents a more balanced and supported approach for my arguments, and I encourage any and all questions, comments, criticisms etc. Thanks for reading.

Ceci

I have been watching Israelis and Palestinians fight for years, and in those years, I have seen endless footage of carnage and bloodshed: the charred skeleton of an Israeli Dan bus after an attack by a suicide bomber, fragile Palestinian villages decimated by an Israeli airstrike, and images of both Israeli and Palestinian children and civilians dead or grieving for loved ones. I thought I was used to these heartbreaking stories, or at least as much as one could be, until the latest round of Israeli-Palestinian violence broke out about 3 weeks ago. Something has felt different this time around, and this is my attempt to pinpoint what that something is.

The first is obvious: perspective. One of my major motivations for accepting the Watson Fellowship and traveling around the Middle East and North Africa for a full year was exactly that—a more balanced point of view. My entire life I was surrounded by Zionists, infused with Zionist principles, and even living in the USA, a pro-Israel country. I myself am certainly a Zionist, but one who believes that Zionism will never be completely realized until Israel exists peacefully and securely, as a Jewish homeland. I have spent my academic career educating myself in ways that will make me equipped to achieve peace for the country I love, and in my opinion, without true understanding of both sides and perspectives of a conflict, one can never be a just arbiter for peace.

So here I was, five months into my journey to learn “how the other side feels and lives,” when yet another Israeli-Palestinian conflict began. Living in Cairo, the heart of the Arab world, I have been exposed through its media and residents to the “Arab perspective,” and it has been utterly enlightening. This is the first time I am experiencing this conflict in an environment that is evidently and tangibly pro-Palestinian. People on the street, in shops, and in taxis have made this the topic of conversation by asking me, “What do you think about all the people dying in Gaza?” I am a member of an ex-patriot email list server where anti-Israeli articles, announcements for rallies and demonstrations, and discussions have pervaded. I receive the Al-Jazeera channel in English in my apartment and have watched, for the first time ever, news reports with a pro-Palestinian slant. The effects have been massive; I have been more emotionally connected and upset by the humanitarian atrocities I have witnessed over the last three weeks, than at any other point in my life.

However, is it possible that the amount of sadness I have felt is solely the result of my new perspective on how the Arabs react to this violence? While this new point of view is a factor, I believe the true source of my discontent is my personal realization that this war represents Israel’s final break from the moral, Judaic, and peace-loving principles that characterized its founding as a country.

Let me be clear: I am a Zionist who loves Israel as much as, if not more than, my own home country of America. However, I am fed up with those people who label anyone that is even remotely critical of Israeli policy “anti-Semitic” and conjure up Holocaust images in an attempt to negate such criticisms through fear of a recurrence of the genocide. This manipulation of Holocaust lessons is not only appalling, but detrimental to the future of Israel, as we are currently witnessing. As Jews and as Zionists it is our communal duty, based on our Jewish and democratic tradition, to think critically about the actions of the Israeli government, and hold it accountable to the morals and values that are supposed to characterize the nation.

In my opinion, an Israeli military, with some of the most advanced intelligence in the world, which bombed countless United Nations buildings, schools and hospitals “by accident,” is NOT representative of the Jewish and Israeli traditions I know and love. According to the Torah, if you were to learn only one lesson in order to lead a Jewish life it would be the following: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.( Particularly after the Exodus from Egypt, statements in the Bible specifically speak to learning from one’s own negative experiences. Laws pertaining to the peaceful coexistence with strangers who live in your midst, even though not believing in your God, are mentioned as early as the story of Noah. All that was expected was the observance of all humanitarian laws. Unfortunately, this idiom has evaporated from the psyche of the Israeli leadership, as they spent the last 3 weeks treating Palestinian civilians as Hamas had been treating Israeli civilians. Perhaps, this is the reason for my melancholy; Israel, the country I held on a pedestal for its morality as a refuge for a people persecuted for thousands of years, has fallen from greatness in my eyes, and that devastates me.

The most unfortunate aspect of Israel’s succumbing to this inhumane strategy is that it happened in vain. Israel’s stated objectives for the most recent incursion was to end Hamas rocket attacks into southern Israel, an understandable and justifiable reason for action. Hamas, a notorious terrorist organization that has absolutely no regard for human life, neither Israeli nor Palestinian, has been terrorizing southern Israeli cities since the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza. By concealing their rocket fire under the cover of civilians, Hamas deliberately and inhumanely endangers the lives of “its” citizens.

In trying to secure southern Israel from this nearly impossible conundrum- protect Israeli civilians or target Hamas’ fighters hiding amongst Palestinian civilians- Israeli leaders have managed to forget the purpose and principles of Israel’s founding fathers, and have preserved the same archaic military means past leaders used to achieve those principles. In the Six Day War and the most recent war on Gaza, the Israeli military targeted the sources of potential aggression toward Israel: the Egyptian air force and structures covering rocket launchers, respectively. The only problem is that in the 21st century, 20th century strategies do not apply. The enemy has changed- Israel is no longer fighting state actors that make decisions based on rational self-interest (i.e. 5 Arab countries in 1948, Egypt in 1956, Egypt and Syria in 1967, Egypt in 1973). The new enemy is terrorism, and, if anything, defined by its irrationality; therefore, former military tactics simply do not bear the same fruit of success.

A closer examination of the Bush administration’s “War on Terror” proves that terrorists cannot be fought solely physically; the use of a single-faceted, military approach in the American invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq has only perpetuated the cycle of violence and created even more terrorists in the wake of their destruction of civilian lives. The recent improvements in the fight against Al Qaeda in Iraq only further demonstrate this argument; Al Qaeda operatives in Iraq have been almost completely eradicated as a result of the Iraqis own decision or determination. When faced with a choice between Al Qaeda members marrying into and terrorizing their families, or living under an American occupation, they chose the latter. However, in many parts of the world, particularly in the Gaza Strip, Waziristan and the mountainous border region between Afghanistan and Pakistan, the choice is much less clear. Fundamentalist madrassas are currently the only source of welfare, education, and religious connection in these regions, as was the case in Gaza before Hamas defeated Fatah in Gaza elections in 2007. Their appeal is obvious since people’s decisions are easy when motivated by the humanistic and Darwinian desire to provide basic needs, like food and shelter, for one’s family.

After the 2006 Israeli attacks on Hizballah in southern Lebanon, the latter’s popularity in the Arab world soared with every Arab death. Palestinian refugees’ perception of Hizballah as their protector and provider of services, enhanced all the more by the Israeli retreat and Hizballah’s declared victory, legitimized the terrorist organization, increased its appeal to future terrorists, and enabled its election to the Lebanese Parliament. Hamas mimicked Hizballah’s strategy of civilian-shields for rocket fire because in their irrational calculations, a Palestinian civilian death garners increasing support for their cause, the true source of their power, strength and appeal. With each deat, Gazans, Arabs and even Iran increase support, recruitment and sympathy for Hamas, empowering Israel’s greatest enemies and tipping the regional balance-of-power and public-relations scales in their favor.

Greg Mortenson founded the Central Asia Institute in 1996, a non-profit organization devoted to promoting and supporting community-based educational facilities in remote regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan. In his New York Times Best-selling book Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace, One School At A Time he describes his experiences observing the rise of the Islamist movement in these regions. He argues that the rise and spread of this extremist movement was the result of the population’s lack of resources, education, food and welfare services. As the CAI began to sponsor and organize the building of schools by local populations, he witnessed the decline of the appeal of such madrassas; unfortunately, the CAI could not keep up with the millions of dollars pumped into this movement from state and non-state actors. The takeaway lesson, however, is that the improvement of the daily lives of those who are underprivileged and vulnerable to extremist movements, through the provision of welfare and education, is the most effective way not only to stem the tide of terrorism, but also to prevent the recruitment of terrorists in the future. Finally, this lesson must be learned and internalized by Western governments and Israeli leaders, so they can begin to combat the sources and root causes of the “War on Terror” successfully.

In Israel and the West’s dealings with Hamas, bombs and mortar attacks only exacerbate the appeal of extremism because every Palestinian death plays into Hamas’ hands. After Palestinian reconstruction and rearming after this recent round of violence in a few years (and do not be fooled by the US-Israel agreement to halt weapons smuggling into the Strip), Hamas will emerge stronger than ever because as the anger and defiance of Palestinians, Arabs, and less moderate Arab states grow, Hamas’ recruitment and popularity and the Arab states’ support will increase to all-new levels.

Therefore, I propose coupling military with economic and social strategies that tangibly demonstrate to the Palestinians that an alliance with Israel, the West and Fatah will improve their daily lives. What if Israel and the West, via Fatah, built infrastructure rather than destroy it, preparing it for economic integration and mutually beneficial economic trade agreements, rather than siege and devastation? I hypothesize that those Darwinian instincts would emerge again, and Gazans will choose the method that tangibly provides the most security and services to their families. If Hamas were to prevent these activities inside Gaza, the Western alliance will win its first battle for the “hearts and minds” of the Palestinians, finally weakening Hamas’ position. However, economic reconstruction is only the first step; restoring schools and providing a free and universal neutral education, achieving an ideological reunion of Gazans with Fatah, institutionalizing rules of law and order and distribution of aid and welfare, and the creation of a free press are all necessary to achieve a unified and legitimate Palestinian negotiating partner for peace.

Iran, one of the greatest threats of this era, has forged an alliance of convenience, based on common enemies, with these Islamic Fundamentalist organizations, providing them funding in a bid for regional leadership. However, by identifying the root causes of extremism and counteracting them as outlined above, the Western alliance will be able to figuratively kill multiple birds with one stone; as an alliance with the West demonstrates tangible benefits and Gazan lives improve, Hamas’ and Iranian appeal and strength will wane, and empower Fatah as the Palestinian voice and Israeli partner for peace.

If anyone were to ask me now if I am pro-Israel or pro-Palestine my answer would be this: I fall in the pro-people, pro-peace camp because only from here can we start to benefit the lives of both sides.