My Promised Land: The Triumph and Tragedy of Israel Read Online Free Page A
Author: Ari Shavit
eighteen hundred years.
By noon, when they arrive in Ramleh, it is clear to them. Seven hours after landing in Palestine, most of the Bentwich pilgrims have no doubts: Judea is the place where the persecuted Jewish masses of Russia, Poland, and Romania should be settled. Palestine is to be a Jewish home that will ensure Jewish salvation. Soon the delegation will get on the train from Lydda to Jerusalem. But a man like Herbert Bentwich will not waste a valuable half hour. His fellow travelers are exhausted. They rest, mulling over their many impressions and emotions. But my great-grandfather is restless. In his white suit and his white cork hat he climbs up the white tower rising like a beacon from the center of Ramleh. And from the grand white tower my great-grandfather sees the Land.
Looking out over the vacant territory of 1897, Bentwich sees the quiet, the emptiness, the promise. Here is the stage upon which the drama will play out, all that was and all that shall be: the carpets of wildflowers, the groves of ancient olive trees, the light purple silhouette of the Judean hills. And over there, Jerusalem. By pure chance, my great-grandfather is at the epicenter of the drama. And at this juncture a choice must be made: This way or the other. Move forward or pull back. Choose Palestine or reject it.
My great-grandfather is not really fit to make such a decision. He does not see the Land as it is. Riding in the elegant carriage from Jaffa to Mikveh Yisrael, he did not see the Palestinian village of Abu Kabir. Traveling from Mikveh Yisrael to Rishon LeZion, he did not see the Palestinian village of Yazur. On his way from Rishon LeZion to Ramleh he did not see the Palestinian village of Sarafand. And in Ramleh he does not really see that Ramleh is a Palestinian town. Now, standing atop the white tower, he does not see the nearby Palestinian town of Lydda. He does not see the Palestinian village of Haditha, the Palestinian village of Gimzu, or the Palestinian village of El-Kubbab. My great-grandfather does not see, on the shoulder of Mount Gezer, the Palestinian village of Abu Shusha.
How can this be, I ask myself in another millennium. How is it possible that my great-grandfather does not see?
There are more than half a million Arabs, Bedouins, and Druze in Palestine in 1897. There are twenty cities and towns, and hundreds of villages. So how can the pedantic Bentwich not notice them? How can the hawkeyed Bentwich not see from the tower of Ramleh that the Land is taken? That there is another people now occupying the land of his ancestors?
I am not critical or judgmental. On the contrary, I realize that the Land of Israel on his mind is a vast hundred thousand square kilometers, which includes today’s Kingdom of Jordan. And in this vast land there are fewer than a million inhabitants. There is enough room there for the Jewish survivors of anti-Semitic Europe. Greater Palestine can be home to both Jew and Arab.
I also realize that the land Bentwich observes is populated by manyBedouin nomads. Most of the others who live there are serfs with no property rights. The vast majority of the Palestinians of 1897 live in humble villages and hamlets. Their houses are nothing but dirt huts. Bowed by poverty and disease, they are hardly noticeable to a Victorian gentleman.
It is also likely that Herbert Bentwich, a white man of the Victorian era, cannot see nonwhites as equals. He might easily persuade himself that the Jews who will come from Europe will only better the lives of the local population, that European Jews will cure the natives, educate them, cultivate them. That they will live side by side with them in an honorable and dignified manner.
But there is a far stronger argument: In April 1897 there is no Palestinian people. There is no real sense of Palestinian self-determination, and there is no Palestinian national movement to speak of. Arab nationalism is awakening at a distance: in Damascus, in Beirut, in the Arabian
By noon, when they arrive in Ramleh, it is clear to them. Seven hours after landing in Palestine, most of the Bentwich pilgrims have no doubts: Judea is the place where the persecuted Jewish masses of Russia, Poland, and Romania should be settled. Palestine is to be a Jewish home that will ensure Jewish salvation. Soon the delegation will get on the train from Lydda to Jerusalem. But a man like Herbert Bentwich will not waste a valuable half hour. His fellow travelers are exhausted. They rest, mulling over their many impressions and emotions. But my great-grandfather is restless. In his white suit and his white cork hat he climbs up the white tower rising like a beacon from the center of Ramleh. And from the grand white tower my great-grandfather sees the Land.
Looking out over the vacant territory of 1897, Bentwich sees the quiet, the emptiness, the promise. Here is the stage upon which the drama will play out, all that was and all that shall be: the carpets of wildflowers, the groves of ancient olive trees, the light purple silhouette of the Judean hills. And over there, Jerusalem. By pure chance, my great-grandfather is at the epicenter of the drama. And at this juncture a choice must be made: This way or the other. Move forward or pull back. Choose Palestine or reject it.
My great-grandfather is not really fit to make such a decision. He does not see the Land as it is. Riding in the elegant carriage from Jaffa to Mikveh Yisrael, he did not see the Palestinian village of Abu Kabir. Traveling from Mikveh Yisrael to Rishon LeZion, he did not see the Palestinian village of Yazur. On his way from Rishon LeZion to Ramleh he did not see the Palestinian village of Sarafand. And in Ramleh he does not really see that Ramleh is a Palestinian town. Now, standing atop the white tower, he does not see the nearby Palestinian town of Lydda. He does not see the Palestinian village of Haditha, the Palestinian village of Gimzu, or the Palestinian village of El-Kubbab. My great-grandfather does not see, on the shoulder of Mount Gezer, the Palestinian village of Abu Shusha.
How can this be, I ask myself in another millennium. How is it possible that my great-grandfather does not see?
There are more than half a million Arabs, Bedouins, and Druze in Palestine in 1897. There are twenty cities and towns, and hundreds of villages. So how can the pedantic Bentwich not notice them? How can the hawkeyed Bentwich not see from the tower of Ramleh that the Land is taken? That there is another people now occupying the land of his ancestors?
I am not critical or judgmental. On the contrary, I realize that the Land of Israel on his mind is a vast hundred thousand square kilometers, which includes today’s Kingdom of Jordan. And in this vast land there are fewer than a million inhabitants. There is enough room there for the Jewish survivors of anti-Semitic Europe. Greater Palestine can be home to both Jew and Arab.
I also realize that the land Bentwich observes is populated by manyBedouin nomads. Most of the others who live there are serfs with no property rights. The vast majority of the Palestinians of 1897 live in humble villages and hamlets. Their houses are nothing but dirt huts. Bowed by poverty and disease, they are hardly noticeable to a Victorian gentleman.
It is also likely that Herbert Bentwich, a white man of the Victorian era, cannot see nonwhites as equals. He might easily persuade himself that the Jews who will come from Europe will only better the lives of the local population, that European Jews will cure the natives, educate them, cultivate them. That they will live side by side with them in an honorable and dignified manner.
But there is a far stronger argument: In April 1897 there is no Palestinian people. There is no real sense of Palestinian self-determination, and there is no Palestinian national movement to speak of. Arab nationalism is awakening at a distance: in Damascus, in Beirut, in the Arabian
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