Among the reason for my writing this little piece is to let you all know that I’m ok. More than a few people expressed concern for my emotional state following the last blog—none suspected I would jump off a building, but a few worried that I was depressed.
So, the point is . . . we have a lot of work to do. One of the most interesting replies to my blog was from a friend who wrote me this:
"It’s like we are in a room with a giant TV and lazy boy recliner and Xbox and a big bowl of chips and every thing on the outside of the room is falling apart. And instead of looking out or reaching out we just turn up the volume and pretend like it will all go away."
Well, kind friend, as you pointed out, it—and we could all name at least ten social ills facing our world today—won’t go away, especially not on its own.
But rather than this turning into a Vietnam/Iraq/Occupation/Marxist sit-in (go ahead and assume what you’d like about me, but remember that maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do), I’d rather share with my readers (all 23 of them) the people whose lives I had a glimpse into this week. First Round: Ex-Gush Katif Residents-Current Nizan Residents.
After leaving the Hebrew University at 3pm sharp (original time of departure was set at 2:30), we traveled southwest to the “town” of Nizan. Nizan, despite being a town founded in 2005, has a much longer history. For you see, the inhabitants of Nizan were previously, proudly, residents of Gush Katif. Whatever your political leanings are—Jews should be in the territories, Jews shouldn’t be in the territories, only biblical Philistines should be in the territories—the current story of Nizan’s residents is a sad one. The Israeli government promised the Gush residents that after the Disengagement—either referred to as the “evacuation” or the “expulsion” depending on your feelings concerning the event—they would receive compensation for their homes, land to build homes on, and social support. As sometimes happens when governments promise things, the promises were not completely kept.
Twenty-one months after the Disengagement, the land suggested for their future homes has in many cases not even been procured by the government, and meanwhile they live in temporary (imagine slightly better than FEMA trailer) housing. The residents have set their priorities, and keeping their previous communities together is admittedly the highest one. A woman, Caroline*, who lived in Neve Dekalim (in Gaza) for 14 years explained to me: “When you’ve experienced such intense experiences with your neighbors, your friends who have taken the place of your relatives, they are your family and you can’t leave them. When you’ve experienced years of terror—while living in your home—they are your protection, the people who check on you and care about you. It’s impossible to live without them.”
In addition to the high incidence of health and relationship problems, caused by stress, is the financial hardship the families are experiencing. The ageism that exists in the Israeli job market, the lack of training for the tasks demanded of them in a non-agricultural setting, their geographical location, and the uncertainty that looms over their heads contributes to a 50% unemployment rate.
Caroline was asked, “Why don’t you go out and protest—-hold demonstrations in front of the Knesset (Parliament) building?” She answered, in an exasperated voice, “I just don’t have the energy—we protested so much before and it did nothing. Then, we protested for something ideological, something we truly believed in. Now, it just doesn’t seem worth it.” The argument that was left stuck in my throat? It seems like your family, your life, your future is worth it. And yet, I could understand her.
We were told—our varied group of high school and university students, professors, and more—that “You may think, when you walk into these 'Cara-villot' (Caravan + Villa = Cara-villa), that it doesn’t seem as bad as we are making it out to be.” The truth is that after our walk around the neighborhood, I was thinking that. “But you have to compare it to what we had before.” And to me, then, her argument fell apart. Because all I could think of was that they now possess what some people would dream of possessing-—perhaps her former neighbors in the Gaza Strip, if you catch my drift.
But the other side is this—there are Gush residents who took out loans to build homes in Gush Katif—and no matter how subsidized it was, it was still a good chunk of money to be invested in their futures. Now, they do not have their homes, but they still have their mortgages. They do not have jobs, but they still have their daily living expenses. And so, the money comes from their retirement funds or the money they were given to build new homes inside the Green Line. “There goes the roof” is the saying in Nizan—the money for the roof that is. “There goes the foundation” is the more dire circumstance—and yes, some of them have said it already.
*Caroline is not the real name of the woman I spoke to.Second Round (coming soon): Sderot--The "Beauty" of a Development Town
1 comment:
a well-written piece about the harsh realities facing the Jews who were expelled/evacuated from Aza ... Waiting for the next installment ... Keep up the good work.
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