Natasha Roth : Riconoscere il dolore della Nakba
Migliaia di cittadini palestinesi di Israele marciano verso il villaggio distrutto di Hadatha il 23 aprile 2015. (Activestills.org)
Qualche anno fa all'Università di Toronto ho partecipato a un seminario sul genocidio armeno . I miei compagni di classe erano studenti provenienti da tutto il mondo, tra questi vi erano armeni e turchi.
Tre studenti armeni erano seduti di fronte a me durante il seminario. Dopo 15 minuti che il docente aveva iniziato a parlare, sono scoppiati in lacrime .Vedendo la loro angoscia uno dei nostri compagni turchi, A., cominciò a piangere. E 'stata una lezione forte sul dolore che permane nonostante il trascorrere dei decenni e la negazione di questo dolore da parte della Turchia.
Mi sono ricordato di questa scena leggendo l'articolo eccellente di Haaretz op-ed sul perché Israele dovrebbe riconoscere il genocidio armeno, così come dovrebbe riconoscere la sua responsabilità per la Nakba
, quando oltre 700.000 palestinesi furono espulsi o fuggirono e oltre
500 villaggi furono distrutti nella guerra che ha accompagnato la fondazione
dello Stato di Israele.
Si tratta di un pedaggio pesante da esigere Il dolore non riconosciuto , respinto o minato diventa ancora più profondo e non può dissiparsi
Rimane una ferita aperta . Come un amico palestinese mi ha detto di recente, il periodo di tempo trascorso non ha reso la perdita meno acuta.
Eppure negli ultimi 68 anni Israele ha imposto questo onere ai palestinesi continuando lo spostamento e l'espropriazione. Inoltre i palestinesi non sono solo ridicolizzati, molestati , minacciati nelle loro istituzioni pubbliche,ma si chiede loro di dimenticare attivamente la loro storia smantellando la speranza di un possibile recupero .
Quindi tutte le case palestinesi abbandonate, i cumuli di macerie, gli alberi da frutto e le piante grasse devono essere interpretate attraverso la lente del sionismo . La loro storia deve essere raschiata via e così i ricordi . Così si muove una potenza colonizzatrice: sceglie le narrazioni e vi lavora , sia retroattivamente sia nel presente, per determinare il futuro.
Ma che tipo di futuro ci può essere quando esso si basa su un fondamento così fragile e ingiusto come la negazione e l'ostruzione della verità? Come ha detto Ayman Odeh nel Negev senza il riconoscimento della Nakba non ci può essere riconciliazione. E in effetti è difficile ipotizzare un cambiamento significativo fino a quando Israele non riconoscerà la perdita che ha costituito la pietra angolare dello Stato.
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Al termine del nostro programma di studio a Toronto, tutti gli studenti e i docenti si sono riuniti per una cena d'addio. Poi è successo qualcosa che credo nessuno nella stanza dimenticherà mai. Uno degli studenti armeni si è alzato e ha iniziato a parlare dell'esperienza vissuta nel seminario di studio. .Poi si è avvicinato al nostro compagno di classe turco , A., che era rimasto così sconvolto in precedenza.
Prendendo A. per mano lo ha portato al centro della stanza, gli ha messo un braccio intorno alla spalla e a tutti noi ha detto semplicemente ". Questo è possibile" Poi i due si sono abbracciati strettamente e la sala è esplosa.
In appointing itself the gatekeeper of historical memory, Israel has shackled the…
972mag.com|Di Natasha Roth
Natasha Roth
Recognizing the pain and grief of the Nakba
In appointing itself the gatekeeper of historical
memory, Israel has shackled the promotion of its own narrative to the
suppression of the Palestinian narrative.
Thousands of Palestinian citizens of Israel take part in March of Return, to the landsof the destroyed village of Hadatha, near Tiberias, April 23, 2015. (Activestills.org)
A few years ago I was sitting in a class about the Armenian genocide
at Toronto University. My classmates were students from around the
world, including several Armenian and Turkish participants.
Three of the Armenian students were sitting opposite me during the seminar. Within about 15 minutes of the lecturer beginning to speak, they broke down crying, one by one. Seeing their distress, one of our Turkish classmates, A., also began to weep. It was a stark visual lesson about how close to the surface grief remains when it is boxed in over decades, and when the perpetrator of that grief refuses to accept responsibility for the pain it has caused, as is the case with Turkey.
I was reminded of this scene recently when reading Louis Fishman’s excellent Haaretz op-ed about why Israel should recognize the Armenian genocide as well as its responsibility for the Nakba,
when over 700,000 Palestinians were expelled and fled, and over 500
villages destroyed, in the war that accompanied the founding of the
State of Israel.
Without drawing parallels between the nature of the two events, there is a meaningful comparison to be made regarding their position as defining national traumas. Additionally, as Fishman wrote, “it can be argued that Israel has adopted Turkey’s stance of denial as a model toward the Palestinian Nakba.”
Such denial does more than add insult to injury — it also houses the even more profound issue of the delegitimization of grief. Israel, like Turkey, has taken legislative steps against the mention or memorializing of the historical injustices it is responsible for. In appointing itself the gatekeeper of historical memory here, Israel has shackled the promotion of its own narrative to the suppression of that of Palestinians.
This is a hefty toll to exact on a population. As painful as grief is, having that grief unacknowledged, rejected or undermined cuts even deeper. Grief is an urgent and unwieldy human emotion, and we need its active expression, mourning, as a platform on which to shoulder the unbearable heaviness of loss.
When that platform is denied us, we can make no sense nor structure of our grief. It just remains there: thick, amorphous, and impossible to outrun. And just as grief that isn’t acknowledged or accommodated cannot dissipate, so an injustice that is not accounted for remains an open wound for those who have borne it. As a Palestinian friend told me recently, the length of time that has passed has done nothing to make the sense of loss any less acute.
Yet for the last 68 years, Israel has placed this burden on Palestinians, as well as continuing to extract the price of ongoing displacement and dispossession. Moreover, Palestinians are not only ridiculed, harassed and have their public institutions threatened for mourning what was lost when the State of Israel was founded, they are demanded to actively forget what once was, and dismantle the hope that any of it may be recovered.
So all those abandoned Palestinian homes, and piles of rubble, and fruit trees and cactuses, must be seen through the lens of Zionism — with their recent history scraped away, and with it the memories and stories attached to them. Yet that was always both the luxury and quest of a colonizing power: to pick and choose narratives and work to instill them, both retroactively and in the present, in order to determine the future.
But what kind of future can there be when it is based on a foundation as brittle and unjust as denial and obstruction of the truth? As Ayman Odeh said at the March of Return in the Negev on Thursday, without recognition of the Nakba there can be no reconciliation. And indeed, it is difficult to see how there can be meaningful change here until Israel acknowledges the loss that forms the cornerstone of the state.
——————-
At the end of our week-long study program in Toronto, all the students and faculty gathered for a farewell dinner. There were the usual speeches, warmth and applause. And then something happened which I believe no one in the room will ever forget: One of the Armenian students, E., got up and started speaking about how moving and memorable the week had been. Then she walked over to our seated Turkish classmate, A., who had been so distraught during our earlier class.
Taking A. by the hand and bringing her to stand in the center of the room with her, E. put her arm around her, turned to everyone and said, simply: “This is what is possible.” Then the two hugged each other tightly, and the room erupted.
Thousands of Palestinian citizens of Israel take part in March of Return, to the landsof the destroyed village of Hadatha, near Tiberias, April 23, 2015. (Activestills.org)
Three of the Armenian students were sitting opposite me during the seminar. Within about 15 minutes of the lecturer beginning to speak, they broke down crying, one by one. Seeing their distress, one of our Turkish classmates, A., also began to weep. It was a stark visual lesson about how close to the surface grief remains when it is boxed in over decades, and when the perpetrator of that grief refuses to accept responsibility for the pain it has caused, as is the case with Turkey.
Without drawing parallels between the nature of the two events, there is a meaningful comparison to be made regarding their position as defining national traumas. Additionally, as Fishman wrote, “it can be argued that Israel has adopted Turkey’s stance of denial as a model toward the Palestinian Nakba.”
Such denial does more than add insult to injury — it also houses the even more profound issue of the delegitimization of grief. Israel, like Turkey, has taken legislative steps against the mention or memorializing of the historical injustices it is responsible for. In appointing itself the gatekeeper of historical memory here, Israel has shackled the promotion of its own narrative to the suppression of that of Palestinians.
This is a hefty toll to exact on a population. As painful as grief is, having that grief unacknowledged, rejected or undermined cuts even deeper. Grief is an urgent and unwieldy human emotion, and we need its active expression, mourning, as a platform on which to shoulder the unbearable heaviness of loss.
When that platform is denied us, we can make no sense nor structure of our grief. It just remains there: thick, amorphous, and impossible to outrun. And just as grief that isn’t acknowledged or accommodated cannot dissipate, so an injustice that is not accounted for remains an open wound for those who have borne it. As a Palestinian friend told me recently, the length of time that has passed has done nothing to make the sense of loss any less acute.
Yet for the last 68 years, Israel has placed this burden on Palestinians, as well as continuing to extract the price of ongoing displacement and dispossession. Moreover, Palestinians are not only ridiculed, harassed and have their public institutions threatened for mourning what was lost when the State of Israel was founded, they are demanded to actively forget what once was, and dismantle the hope that any of it may be recovered.
So all those abandoned Palestinian homes, and piles of rubble, and fruit trees and cactuses, must be seen through the lens of Zionism — with their recent history scraped away, and with it the memories and stories attached to them. Yet that was always both the luxury and quest of a colonizing power: to pick and choose narratives and work to instill them, both retroactively and in the present, in order to determine the future.
But what kind of future can there be when it is based on a foundation as brittle and unjust as denial and obstruction of the truth? As Ayman Odeh said at the March of Return in the Negev on Thursday, without recognition of the Nakba there can be no reconciliation. And indeed, it is difficult to see how there can be meaningful change here until Israel acknowledges the loss that forms the cornerstone of the state.
——————-
At the end of our week-long study program in Toronto, all the students and faculty gathered for a farewell dinner. There were the usual speeches, warmth and applause. And then something happened which I believe no one in the room will ever forget: One of the Armenian students, E., got up and started speaking about how moving and memorable the week had been. Then she walked over to our seated Turkish classmate, A., who had been so distraught during our earlier class.
Taking A. by the hand and bringing her to stand in the center of the room with her, E. put her arm around her, turned to everyone and said, simply: “This is what is possible.” Then the two hugged each other tightly, and the room erupted.
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