I was born to a Christian mother and Jewish father. My surname, originally Silberblatt, is an Ashkenazic Jewish name that was shortened to “Silver” in the face of anti-Semitism — a common practice for Jewish families to avoid persecution. I have family members who were victims of the catastropheof Nazism, and I have family members who are perpetrators of the catastrophe of Zionism. This is my story.
Growing up in Messianic Jewish circles in New Zealand, I was exposed early on to the idea that Israel is the ancestral and biblical homeland for Jews. I carried the horrors of the Holocaust close to my heart and there wasn’t any room for questioning the narrative that Jews, in the wake of World War II and in the present era, are inherently deserving of having their own place to call home. At the age of 19, I travelled to Israel, visiting my uncle and his family who had moved from New Zealand to Haifa to pursue this idea of a Jewish utopia. By then, I’d already started to question the idea of ethno-centric ideologies and the “othering” of Palestinians. Hearing the way my family in Israel demonised Arabs and Palestinians didn’t sit well with me and I returned home with an eagerness to learn more about the Palestinian situation.
I researched the Nakba, which translates to “catastrophe” in Arabic and is the term Palestinians use to describe the period between 1947 and 1949 when more than 750,000 Palestinians were forced to flee their homes. During the time I spent in the West Bank, I would hear of how sudden this was for many families. In some cases, they fled with food still cooking on their stove and carrying nothing more than their house key in the hope that they would be returning soon. What Jews saw as an opportunity for a safe haven in the Middle East became nothing less than a nightmare for Palestinians, and one that they haven’t yet woken up from. Since 1967, Israel has continued to confiscate more land, building illegal settlements in the West Bank, and routinely imprisoning and killing any Palestinians who try to resist.
The inner turmoil of being Jewish, knowing how my own people have suffered immeasurably throughout history and the reality that we have gone on to cause immense suffering of our own, led me to go on a journey to Palestine to reconcile the tension. As a Jewish person critiquing Israel’s policies and occupation, I was so fearful of my family’s reactions that I took extreme measures to prevent them from knowing I’d be travelling to the West Bank.
I had four weeks of annual leave and decided to spend it living with a Palestinian family in a refugee camp so I could experience the realities of life in the West Bank. I flew into Tel Aviv, concealing my real reason for visiting, and on June 1, I crossed the border from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. I walked through the tunnel-like checkpoint used to control the movement in and out of the Occupied Palestinian Territories and was picked up by Ahmed, from my host family, who drove me to his modest home in Dheisheh refugee camp.
Lying just south of Bethlehem, where an 8m-high concrete wall separates the West Bank from Israel, it’s home to 19,000 people living within an area no larger than 1sq km As I made my way through the narrow alleyways of this vertical concrete jungle, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between this camp and the Jewish ghettos of Europe in the 1940s. Dheisheh was established in 1949 to provide temporary shelter to families fleeing the violence and destruction of their homes. As the years went by and occupation continued, they had to accept that this was their new reality. Tents became homes, dusty grounds became roads, and a new generation of displaced Palestinians was born. The permanence of these refugee camps means they’re now bustling neighbourhoods with small businesses, schools and of course, an abundance of Arabic coffee.
The walls of Dheisheh tell a story, stamped with paintings and posters of all those who have been imprisoned and killed by the Israeli forces — many of them children and youth.
During my four weeks in the camp, it was raided three times, with several young men arrested and one shot for taking videos of the soldiers. I woke up to the violent sounds of bombing and gunfire and would step out on to my street to see shattered buildings and debris. Ahmed told me this was normal, with the camp sometimes being raided by soldiers and tanks once or twice a week. The social worker inside me pondered how these people can heal from trauma when they have war so ever-present on their doorsteps.
Ahmed’s family’s home was raided a week after I left. Israeli soldiers destroyed their front door and left their young sons terrified. Their 7-year-old already lives with a long-term health condition due to being injured by tear gas during a similar house raid when he was a baby.
Life in Dheisheh is hard: households have water supplied only twice a month and endure regular electricity outages while struggling economically with lack of employment opportunities. Above all else, parents like Ahmed worry their children will become involved in a clash with Israeli soldiers and end up arrested or killed. When Ahmed and his family attempted to get permits to live across the border in Jerusalem, they were denied — apparently because their 5-year-old son said the wrong thing at the checkpoint. He hopes that one day they’ll be able to obtain refugee status and move to a country that affords opportunities and safety for his children.
Photo / Bex Silver
Refugee camps like this one are the heart of the resistance movement against the illegal occupation of the West Bank and, for this reason, they are highly targeted by Israeli forces. While I don’t justify any form of violence, I can understand why young boys grow up to be very angry, often throwing stones at Israeli tanks when they enter the camp. The heightened tension and trauma within the camp influenced my decision not to disclose my own Jewish ancestry. While I did share this with friends I made throughout my time in the West Bank, I brought it up only with those who had a good grasp of English and could have a complex conversation without them feeling worried about my motives for being there.
Like every Palestinian in the West Bank, people’s lives in the camp are controlled in every way — from the water and electricity they receive to the cars they can drive and the roads they can travel. It didn’t take long to understand why the West Bank, which is rimmed by the sea and the notorious 700km separation barrier — part concrete wall, part multi-layer barbed wire fence — is called the world’s largest open-air prison.
While some people I spoke to hold on to the hope of one day returning to their original homes, many others have resigned themselves to the reality of their lives as second and third-generation refugees. Tourists rarely venture beyond the beautiful historic sites of Bethlehem but, when you travel throughout the West Bank as I did, you see the stark difference between the two sides of the separation wall. One boasts a world-class education and health system; the other fights for access to water, suitable housing and employment. Yet amid the daily trauma of military raids, checkpoints and restrictions, the Palestinian hospitality is unmatched, and I’ve made friendships I will treasure for life.
Photo / Bex Silver
I left the West Bank with more questions than answers. As I sat on the beach staring out at the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, I felt a sense of guilt and overwhelming sadness. It didn’t seem fair that I could freely travel around Palestine and Israel while my friends in the West Bank were not even permitted to enjoy the land and sea that was once home to their grandparents and ancestors beyond.
It’s sad that the Zionist belief in a Jewish homeland in Israel has become more important than the values and morals of Judaism itself. I think about how Jewish sages taught the importance of human dignity and the sanctity of life. The passages I have read in the Torah say that if anyone takes a single life, it is as though they have destroyed the entire world. For this reason, there is a growing number of people with Jewish heritage who believe that Israel’s illegal occupation of Palestinian land undermines the very foundation of what it means to be Jewish.
On my departure from Ben Gurion Airport, I was sternly questioned about the nature of my activities. It was an interrogation. Had I been to the West Bank? Where did I go? Did I spend time with Arabs? My heart was racing as they stood over me, firing questions one after another. After my suitcase was late arriving at my next destination, I was informed it had been pulled aside and searched. Why? Israel had deemed me a security risk, simply for engaging with Palestinians. I thought to myself in that moment, if the mere existence of Palestinians is considered a threat, there will never be peace in the Middle East.
I don’t know how the story ends, but one thing is clear: if the question remains as to whether the Jewish people deserve a place to call home, we are still asking the wrong question. The answer to that will always be, unequivocally, yes. The question we should all be asking is whether the autonomy of Jews matters more than the human dignity and lives of Palestinians. My Jewish values of social justice and the sanctity of life guide me to believe that the State of Israel, as it exists today, isn’t worth the cost.
Since my time in Dheisheh, the tension I once felt has disappeared. I have a new sense of clarity: I am proud to be Jewish. With that pride, I stand with the Palestinian people and I say, enough is enough.
