One world – two stories

One world – two stories, By Joey Avniel

Prologue
Three years ago I met an American girl at a convention in Florida. With rage in her deep blue eyes, she could only say: “I’ve just come back from a trip to visit Palestinian villages in Israel. I’m so mad at the Israeli treatment of Palestinians, but I want to hear your side of the story as well.” For a few hours we shared our different perspectives, and I promised her that I would write a story that presents both sides. So, I interviewed people from the various positions within the conflict, trying to get the most authentic views I could. The dialogues in this semi-fictional story are based on these interviews.
This is the story of a conflict that has lasted for such a long time that a few generations have already been born into the middle of a fight they didn’t create.

Part I – A small kid, a small stone
Thursday, 09:35, Sukkoth (Jewish holiday), A few years ago.
Seconds before the shooting began, the deserted village alleys were still trying to catch some last rays of the afternoon sun. Across the street on an oak branch, a songbird twittered a serenade to her sweetheart, trying to overpower the cry of the muezzin.
I thought I heard Dan, my second in command, cursing a nagging Palestinian fly in Arabic, but I wasn’t sure as my senses were set to filtering mode. My whole nervous system was concentrated on what I might see through the crown-shaped sight in the middle of a metal black ring on the top of my M-16. My shooting finger gently petted the trigger, nurturing a friendship before the battle began. In cases like this a split second can make the difference between life and death. Blinking at the wrong time could cost a human life.
An invisible rustle of steps came out of the alley. Reflexively, my crew lined up, tightly drawn up like bows. I searched for the oncoming shadow of my dangerous enemy. If the shadow came out before its master, I might gain a priceless edge in the quest to identify his weapon. A long scary shadow exited the alley. “He’s holding something in his hand,” I whispered to Dan. “Maybe it’s a grenade,” he whispered back.
A bit more than a second later, the terrorist burst out of the alley. He was a thirteen year old kid, just six years younger than me. He was wearing a red Manchester United soccer t-shirt and holding what seemed to be a stone in his hand. I aimed my gun at the center of his body, held my breath and slowly pulled the trigger. As I did so, I thought vaguely to myself, I have already seen this shirt somewhere in this village.

Wednesday, 10:21, Sukkoth Eve (about 23 hours earlier)
The small light bulb at the center of the headquarters tent hardly provided enough light for reading. I turned a page in the sports section of yesterday’s newspaper, and absently stretched my arm to grope on the table behind the papers, looking for my coffee mug between the army phones. I don’t like the taste of coffee, but I cannot resist the smell. A sudden buzz from the military communicator on the table distracted me from the article for a moment.
“Kod-kod One this is Roof Three, do you copy? Over.” the metallic voice called my code name.
“Roof Three from Kod-kod One I copy. Over,” I answered.
“Kod-kod One, I need an immediate rescue, I’m under attack. I repeat, an immediate rescue, do you copy? Over.”
His words were like a shot of adrenalin; they made me jump from my chair so quickly that a wave of coffee from my now forgotten cup washed unexpectedly over the papers. I couldn’t have cared less. “Roof Three from Kod-kod One, we are on our way. Roger Out,” I screamed as I ran out of the tent.

Wednesday, 11:14, Sukkoth Eve
“In a few more minutes they would have lynched us!” mumbled Tom, lying on a stretcher as we carried him down from the roof. His wide shoulders were cramped and his yellow eyes, which had melted so many girls’ hearts, now looked dull. I could see that in addition to the physical pain, it was hard for him to bear his failure as a commander. He tried unsuccessfully to scratch the arm that was wrapped in a field cast.
“It was a well planned ambush, we didn’t have a chance,” sobbed Erick from below the big bandage that covered half of his head. Blood stains covered his cheeks and brownish goatee.
“Those bastards,” Tom held his head, “They use kids to check out how “bad” we are. If I hadn’t been such a nice guy, I wouldn’t be lying here now.”
“How do you want me to explain this to my commander?” asked Freddie, the six five foot platoon commander, his eyes shooting blaming looks at Tom and his crew like bullets from a machine gun. “I can’t understand how a bunch of tiny kids skipping school could paralyze a force from the best army in the world.” His words were wrapped in smoke rings, and he sucked in another dose of nicotine from his fifth cigarette in a row while combing back his thick black hair with his other hand.
We reached camp and carried our wounded platoon mates to the paramedic tent. They would stay there till the chopper could arrive to take them to the hospital.
Tom stood up, and picked up the infusion bag, holding it in his hand. He checked on his unit members and tried to cheer them up. I watched his progress as he moved through the tent.
“What exactly happened to you up there?” I softly asked him.
He took a seat in a chair next to me and touched the bruise on his forehead. “We expected everything to be quiet. In the briefing before we left the camp to take our positions, Freddie told us that the village is under curfew for the holiday, because terrorists from this village carried out a double attack in Tel Aviv last year during another holiday. Do you remember it?”
“How could anyone forget?” I said. “Twenty one people were killed outside of a mall; thirteen of them were kids who were out of school for the day. My whole body was shaking for at least two days after I watched the footage of that assault on TV. The place where the bomb exploded was just across the street from my regular coffee shop.”
“Yeah, I also found it hard to calm down after seeing the blood puddles on the road and the cries of the bereaved parents on TV,” he chewed his upper lip in grief. “Our job here is to make sure nothing like this will happen again!”
I looked at him as he took a break in his story and looked again at his crew. It was the first time ever that I had seen this much tension in him; his usually straight back was bent down like a tree loaded with heavy fruits. He moaned and continued, “It all started when Erick, who was covering the south side of the roof, reported to me that a little kid threw a small stone at him from the alley below us. I asked if the boy had posed a risk to his life, and Erick answered: Negative, sir.” Tom inhaled deeply and immediately twisted his face in pain and hugged his ribs. “A few minutes later, Erick reported to me that the kid in the alley had been replaced by a bigger kid with a bigger, more accurate stone. I signaled to Sean to cover my position and joined Erick, who was watching the activity in the street below. By the time I got there, an older kid showed up from the alley and threw a small rock that hit just below our position on the roof.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“The commands we received were very clear: You do not shoot unless you are in an immediate life-threatening situation.”
“I thought we should shoot anyway,” Sean joined the conversation. His freckled face was scratched and his shirt was torn. “You know, I didn’t choose to come here, but we are here to stop their terror, and we should defend ourselves as well.”
“They were just kids,” Erick said. “What were we supposed to do, spray them with bullets?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sean responded. “Of course we shouldn’t shoot every kid who throws a stone, but look at what happened this time due to our lack of an adequate response. Can you imagine a British or Egyptian soldier doing nothing when terrorists try to kill him with stones?”
“So what happened next?” I asked before they could start an argument about what they should or should not do.
“I asked Sean to call headquarters and get permission to shoot into the air above the next kid who show up, to scare him away,” Tom said, “and that was when a big gang of kids and teenagers came out of the alley, and they pelted us with a heavy volley of stones and rocks. I ordered my crew to hide, and asked Sean to call for the rescue.

Thursday, 07:00, Sukkoth
The need for revenge was burning in my bones. Those kids had attacked and hurt my buddies. Therefore I volunteered to go to ‘Tom’s Roof’. I armed my M-16 with a rubber bullet extension. The “rubber” in the name of this bullet is a bit misleading. It is a lead bullet covered with a tiny layer of rubber. However, when someone is hit by this kind of a bullet, he usually just gets injured and rarely is killed. In addition, the rules about using rubber bullets are much looser, and the duty of revenging my friends’ insult and pain rested on my shoulders. With a river of rage and righteousness rising inside me, it was easy to forget Gandhi’s words (Mahatma, not the late Israeli minister who was murdered by Palestinian terrorists), “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”
The first two and a half hours on the roof passed uneventfully, but when a small kid with a stone appeared out of the alley, I knew that their ambush was starting again. I ordered my crew to join me, choosing to bypass reporting to headquarters, and informed the guys that we were going to shoot in order to hit. “After we get those little bastards, you can shoot in the air for a warning or ask HQ for instructions as much as you want. However, first we are gonna teach the little terrorists a lesson they will never forget.”

Thursday, 09:36, Sukkoth
The boy with the red Manchester United shirt saw the enemy’s guns aiming at him and before we had a chance to react, he dropped his rock and disappeared back into the dark alley, as fast as a cheetah.
“Shit!” I said. “The small son of a bitch terrorist escaped.”
“Sir, at least they won’t come back today,” Dan tried to cheer me up.
“Yes. Right,” I said squeezing my forehead.
“It’s a shame we couldn’t take our revenge,” he said. “I can’t understand those fucking parents, sending their kids to fight their wars.”
I shook my head, rising to my feet. “Chop chop, back to your positions, nothing happened,” I ordered, urging my crew to get moving by clapping my hands. I returned back to my own position and leaned on the roof ledge. I closed my eyes for a short moment and rested my head in my palm, massaging my forehead nervously. How had I turned so easily into a war machine, willing to hurt a boy with no hesitation? I asked myself. On the one hand, he truly did deserve it, for what he did to Tom and his crew. He would also not hesitate to shoot me if he had a gun. He hated me. On the other hand, I’m part of the army who is most careful not to hurt civilians. No other army in the world has such high moral standards. I was also raised to value the life of any human being no matter what. When I thought about it, I felt I could reasonably aim to hit his legs, but not aim at his chest. I guess whoever said, “When you fight the dragon you become a dragon,” was right.
I sadly smiled while recalling the late Prime Minister Golda Meir’s quote, “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our children. We cannot forgive them for forcing us to kill their children. We will only have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.”
As it turned out, this was my second and last visit to this village. I spent most of my service defending the border with Syria, defending my country against enemy soldiers. Fortunately, I never again had to fight kids.

Part 2 – The next David Beckham
The way from the airport to the village seemed to Rafik longer than the flight from London to Tel Aviv. Three times soldiers stopped them and made them get out of the taxi. The soldiers searched their luggage, checked their documents and asked lots of questions. What’s their problem? We are just returning home, Rafik thought. He remembered them as being much nicer in the past, when he had lived here before. As the village master’s son, he was used to having soldiers visit his home, discussing local issues with his father, debating politics, and even coming to watch the Euro-League games on Thursday nights. This was four years ago, when he was seven, before he was relocated to London with his uncle. His uncle was the unofficial Palestinian ambassador to England. His role was to promote the idea of establishing a Palestinian country.
The taxi passed a soccer field at the edge of one of the villages. Rafik watched the children playing there, and he could not wait till the moment his feet could touch the new grass field, so he could show his old pals in the village what a great a player he had become. He had spent most of the first seven years of his life on his village soccer field. “When he was still kicking in my womb, I already knew he was going to be a soccer player,” his mother used to say. He was quick in his mind and body, and the ball would just stick to his feet. Even kids much older than him could not stop the “Village’s Beckham.”
While living in England, Rafik had spent most of his free time at the soccer field as well. He kept his quickness and built mountainous muscles over time, becoming the optimal unstoppable player.
Less than one hour after they arrived home, he put on his new soccer sneakers, a gift from his uncle for his eleventh birthday, and wore the number ten Manchester United shirt. The big hill between his house and the field was not as tall as he remembered. He ran down and then up the steep alleys, surprising himself that he remembered the way. The new grass soccer field that he was looking for had been opened for play only on the very day he left.
* * *
“Hey Beckham, where are you going?” On guard duty that morning, I stopped him at the gate to our camp. It was a few months after I finished my basic training. It was my first visit to this village.
“Soccer… Playing… Grass…” he stuttered, blinking as his eyes slowly adjusted to the sunlight attacking them after coming out of the dark alleys.
“Soccer? Where did you land from, Beckham? England?” I asked him because of his shirt, not knowing how right I was. “As far as I know, this field was expropriated by the army after your terrorists launched rockets from here on a nearby Israeli town. Now it’s an army camp. From here, you can see your buddies playing down there on the sand field.” I pointed at the old field downhill.
“Yes, from England…” He mumbled with his face down. “Why is the grass field now reserved for the army?” He asked in English with British accent. At first I thought he was asking me, but then I saw that he raised his face toward the sky. He did not wait for an answer and disappeared as fast as a cheetah back into the alley.
I felt sorry when I saw the desperate face of the young boy that had looked so optimistic just a minute ago. “Don’t worry Beckham!” I called after him, “One day soon, we’ll have peace and you’ll get your field back.”
My young nephew was just a bit younger than that boy. He was a big Manchester fan as well. Crazy world, I thought, while walking back to the soccer field - camp gate. When would we see creative, brave leaders who can take responsibility instead of blame others, and can forget the past and focus on building a better future for both of us? Only then these kids will be able to run after the ball on the green grass field, and I would be able to stop playing a soldier and go to the beach and play matkot (paddle ball) instead with the cute red head I met on my last vacation.
* * *
Rafik did not go to the old field. Pissed off, he returned home instead. He took off his shoes, peeled off his shirt and threw it against the wall with a short, “Fuck!” The TV screen in his room was playing a talk show on one of the Arab channels. The subject was the Jihad. A five-year-old girl was talking to a satisfied host. “I'm not afraid to die for Allah, life in heaven is much better than the hell down here. I want to blow myself up in the middle of an Israeli mall, killing all those pigs,” she repeated with her cute little girl’s smile, regurgitating the ideas that had been injected to her brain, like jelly into a donut.
Rafik turned off the TV, and threw the remote control on his bed. Why did I have to come back to this awful country? He asked himself. Who needs to see all this war and witness the brainwashing of kids, raising them to become freedom fighters, who will give their lives to feed this meaningless hatred? He sighed with frustration and dried a sneaky tear from his left eye. If he were still in London, he would be able to run to the greenest soccer field in the world. There, he could make fun of his friends Rooney and Michael on his way to another amazing goal. Why can’t they finish this stupid war with a soccer match? One game for the jackpot, whoever wins takes it all. Only then will peace exist.
* * *
A few months later, Rafik’s older brother was arrested with no trial by the Israeli army after he was accused of participating in planning a terrorist attack. “Maybe he was guilty, maybe innocent, but it doesn’t seem that the Israelis really care,” his mother told a neighbor when she came back from visiting him in jail. “We have had thousands of our people held prisoner for many years, but our enemies, the Israelis, behave like a crying baby about one kidnapped soldier, that we only kidnapped so they would release our prisoners.”
Just a few weeks later, an Israeli air force chopper struck three gunmen who were on their way to launch rockets against an Israeli town. They were killed together with ten other innocent passers-by, among them three kids and one of Rafik’s aunts. Whose fault was this war? Rafik was not sure. Every Friday in the mosque, the preacher called for Jihad against the infidels. “The devil Zionists came to our country, stole our land, and expelled or killed our parents. It is our duty to make justice and push them to the sea!”
Someone_who_knows5, a virtual friend that Rafik met online drew a totally different picture. “The Jewish people returned to Israel as survivors from the biggest genocide in history,” he wrote in a chat. “No country was willing to shelter their brothers, before they were slaughtered in the millions. Risking their lives, the survivors crowded together in rickety ships on their way to the land they had dreamed of returning to for two thousand years.”
“Why to our land?” Rafik asked.
“It wasn’t your land at the time. The British who conquered the land from the Turks, promised to establish a Jewish homeland there.”
“Who gave the British the right to promise you a land they conquered themselves?” Rafik did not understand.
“That’s the way it used to work in the world, and later, after the Second World War, the UN also voted to give the Jewish people part of the land.”
“If you got your own country, why did you occupy ours as well?” Rafik typed in bold.
“We didn’t have a choice. The day that the tiny Israeli country was announced, strong Arab armies invaded from every possible direction. The brave holocaust survivors defended their only shelter in the whole hostile world and in doing that occupied new lands. Some of your ancestors joined the war against us, some ran away, some were exiled for security reasons during the war, and some have stayed on their land till this day. Whoever starts a war needs to consider its eventual price in the event of loosing. If the Arabs had won the war, they would have murdered and exiled all the Jews, returning them from their new young country back to the countries that had tried to exterminate them.”
This story sounded to Rafik totally unreasonable, but he was afraid to check it with his father. He would answer with his belt on Rafik’s back if he only knew he was having a dialogue with a Zionist enemy. The times when soldiers had visited his house had passed, together with the peace process itself, a long time ago. If that wasn’t enough, Someone_who_knows 5 was a settler. He lived in a town that was built on the ruins of an Arab village, which once used to be the home of some of Rafik’s relatives.
One of his uncles once told him the story of losing their family home. “The evil Zionist soldiers surrounded us and spread bullets among us aimlessly. Whoever wasn’t killed was expelled. Even now, the Jews won’t let us return to our homes and unite with the families that were left behind.” What could it mean? Two so very different versions of the same story, Rafik thought. This uncle was known as someone who tended to exaggerate in his stories, and he did not mention any Arab armies that started a war against the Jews, but still, no one could argue with the demolished village and the persistent refugee problem.
“How would the British react,” his uncle once asked one of his friends in London, “if foreign religious people were to show up suddenly in England, kill and expel the locals and steal their lands, claiming that they had instructions written in a two thousand year old book, in which God, the ultimate real estate broker, has promised them the land of England?” This question was enough to convince the friend to support the Palestinians. Rafik wrote it to his virtual friend in order to see his reaction.
“Both Christianity and Islam recognize the Bible’s holiness. It says there that God promised the land of Israel to the Jews. In addition, the Arabs have more than twenty countries to go to, but we don’t have anywhere else in the world to go. Your refugees could have been moved to towns and cities a long time ago, but your leaders prefer to leave them in camps in order to put persistent pressure on Israel. They use you as token victims. They use the money they get from around the world to buy more weapons and let you starve. Most Israelis want peace, but we don’t have a partner to talk to from your side of the conflict. Your leaders don’t hide the fact that they want to destroy Israel, and whenever we make some small progress in the peace talks, terrorists kill innocent Israeli civilians in order to sabotage the process. I think that while we love life, your people love death, and while they try to look like the victims, they are instead victimizing us with their terror.”
Rafik concluded that even if his uncle and his virtual friend talked for months, they would not get to an agreement. It was like one of them stood behind a donkey and the other one in front of it. One would describe long head and ears, and smelly teeth, while the other one would protest the filthy lies and the twisting of the truth. In his description the donkey would have a round smelly butt and a short tail, and this would be that observer’s only real truth.
This imaginary argument between them continued in Rafik’s head for months. On the one hand were the Israeli friend and his people who loved life and wanted peace, but in the meantime, and in spite of declaring their best intentions to make peace with their neighbors, occupied land and killed Palestinians with airplanes and tanks. On the other hand were his uncle and his own people, who felt like victims of the evil Zionists, and there were those among them who tried to break free of their Israeli neighbors by shooting homemade rockets at the towns around them, and by sending people with bombs strapped to their bodies to commit suicide on busy busses.
Eventually just one sentence his friend wrote on the chat made the difference. “Tell me the truth Rafik, if you were born a Jewish Israeli instead of a Muslim Palestinian, wouldn’t you join the army and fight the terrorists who murder civilians?” On that very afternoon, Rafik went to the old sand soccer field and gathered a group of young as well as older kids. From that day on they had a new game. They sent a small kid with a small stone to throw it at the soldiers. If the soldiers failed to react, they sent a bigger kid and stone. If the soldiers still restrained themselves, they sent the whole gang to blast them with a rain of stones and rocks. This was his small Jihad, until the conquerors would leave his land, until he would get the grass field back, until he would become the next David Beckham.

Part 3 – When you speak about liberation I hear occupation
A few years have passed since I last visited that Arab village. I finished my army service and learned journalism. A few months ago I was sent by the sports editor at the newspaper I’m working with to cover a special exhibition soccer game in Spain. An Israeli team played against Real in the Bernabeu Stadium in Madrid. It was not a top Israeli team, nor was it the Israeli national team. It was the “Peres Center for Peace” team, a team comprised of both Israelis and Palestinians, boys and girls.
At the end of the game I left my journalist’s seat and walked toward the kids. They crowded in the center of the field around Raul, the star player on the Real team to ask for autographs. Looking around nearby, I spotted a dark skinned man, tall and muscular. He was the Palestinian coaching assistant for the Palestinian - Israeli team, so I decided to interview him.
“I still can’t believe I’m standing on this legendary grass,” I said, and reached out my hand.
“It’s not greener than any other grass,” he answered with a smile and shook my hand.
“What is the importance of this team?” I asked.
“It might sound like a cliché, but soccer connects people, even enemies.”
“How so?”
“Our kids are used to seeing you only as the people who stole their fathers’ land. Suddenly they can see that your kids also love soccer, exactly like they do. And some of your kids, the ones that believe that we are all terrorists, see that we can actually cooperate with them on the same team. Look how happy they are.” He stopped for a second and looked at the joyful group. “In other circumstances, they could be enemies.”
“Why is it that in sports we can bridge the conflict much better than in the broader political negotiations?” I asked.
“It’s much easier to have an Israeli midfielder pass the ball to a Palestinian striker for the goal, or to coordinate Palestinians and Israelis defenders to put the other team’s striker in offside position, than it is to agree on dividing Jerusalem and the Right of Return.”
“If everyone were so logical and nice like you, the negotiation would be much easier,” I said. I could be friends with this guy, I thought.
“I think some would argue with you about that,” He said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was released from the Israeli jail just three years ago. I started my war against your occupation when I was about the age of these kids,” he pointed at his team. “But today I’m a retired warrior.”
“What made you giving up fighting?” I unconsciously took a half step back.
“Don’t worry,” he said patting my shoulder. “Today ‘battle’ on the soccer field is my only ‘fighting.’ As a kid I saw you all as devils who stole my freedom to go and play where I wanted. You were all soldiers for me. Surprisingly, jail was the first place where I really talked to Israelis face to face. Some were nice, and some were not as nice, but we all had one thing in common - lots of time with nothing to do. So chatting over backgammon games and Turkish coffee, I realized you are people exactly like me. We all like the same food and music and we are connected to this country in our blood. The only difference is that we are carrying on our shoulders a different version of our country’s history.”
“I’m glad to hear that you learned to know us as we are. I know that the brainwashing that you must have taken as a kid was horrible,” I said.
“Not more than what you had to take.”
“What do you mean? No one brainwashed me, we don’t believe in brainwashing in Israel,” I raised my voice a bit defensively.
“Really?” he said. “I sometimes read the responses on your news websites – ‘the only good Palestinian is a dead Palestinian’, ‘all Palestinians are terrorists’, ‘the IDF (Israeli Defense Force) is the most ethical army in the world’, and many other ideas that I don’t think that you were born with.”
“First of all, the IDF actually is the most ethical army and secondly, if you hadn’t been terrorizing us for almost ninety years, maybe we wouldn’t see you this way.”
“Did you ever ask yourself why it is that we engage in terror? My family has lived on this land for many generations. One day the Jews started to come here, and suddenly a Jewish country materialized on our land. Did you ever ask yourself whether that’s fair to us?” He asked, and his body grew tense.
“I don’t think fairness has anything to do with it,” I tried to explain. “Lands have changed hands all over history, either by the power of blood or by the power of agreements. If your people were stronger, the way you would treat us would be much worse.”
“Maybe you are right, but you have to understand that if you try to control with the sword, the other side will try to free itself with the sword, and that’s why we are still fighting. As the strong side, I would expect you to show more restraint and flexibility.”
“When we used restraint, released prisoners, and disengaged out of Gaza, did you stop the terror? What we have done in the interest of your side has never been enough. You want us all to pack our suitcases and disappear. Our country is also a part of this nation, and we have no other country even if our land is aflame. And as for wars, you were the ones to start them, even before Israel was established as a country.” My voice was climbing in pitch again with each syllable I uttered.
“Relax Habibi,” he said. “Let’s go and sit on the bench over there,” he pointed at the edge of the field. “It’s too noisy here with all the players on the field. It looks like a team’s soccer practice has just beg---“
A fast ball that lost its way flew toward us.
“Look out!” I cried, ducking quickly. “Wow, that ball was so close, like on a battle field, huh?” The look on his face showed me that this comment was not appreciated. “Forget about it, let’s take a seat,” I said.
“I had conversations like this in jail with the guards all the time,” he said as we sat. “The Israelis and Palestinians have many things in common; one of them is that we both have all the reasons and facts in the world to believe that we are right. The same way we were brainwashed to accuse you of everything, you were brain washed to accuse us. This is exactly why I’m here, to contribute to a peaceful coexistence, and make sure those kids will not be trained to hate each other.
“I still don’t agree that I was ever brainwashed like you,” I said and rolled my eyes.
“I know, you are not the only one. I had a conversation about that with one of the guards in jail, a good man from Be’er-Sheva. He told me: ‘In your kids’ math books you have questions like, if there are five Israelis and you shoot three, how many are left. This is a cynical brainwashing of children.’ Do you know how I answered him?”
“No, but I’m dying to hear…” I crossed my legs and leaned forward.
“I told him that at least for us the brainwashing is obvious, anyone can see it if they are willing to look. Yours is much more sophisticated and hidden. For example, the fact that every Israeli kid knows what is written in our textbooks is the brainwashing you went through to close your hearts to our pain, and to send your best boys to kill and die for their homeland.”
“I don’t agree at all,” I said and stood up. “Telling the truth is not brainwashing!”
“You don’t have to agree, this is my opinion and you have the right to hold a different one,” he said quietly and pulled his gaze from me to the bench.
“I guess I can agree with that,” I smiled and sat down again.
“Great, at last we have an agreement on one thing,” he said, also smiling, revealing two lines of white teeth. “By the way, about what you said earlier, about the most ethical army in the world. One of your commanders was lately put on trial for abusing his soldiers. I can promise you that your army is treating us a little bit worse than it treats its own soldiers. But an army is an army; coming from an organization whose only purpose is to manage wars, only a fool would expect something else.”
“In any herd you have some black sheep,” I said. “As opposed to your people, we try to avoid killing civilians as much as possible even when there is a cost that falls on our own heads. I can see though, why it is that you don’t like our army. Its purpose is to defend us, I don’t need to apologize for that, it’s not a shame. For too many generations we suffered and were murdered passively. It’s about time we helped ourselves.”
“Eli, I’ll be right back with you, just let me finish here with the reporter,” he called to a boy who ran toward us waving an autograph high in the air. “Get back to you friends, alright?” The kid shrugged his shoulders and u-turned, running back to his friends. “I agree with you that you have the right to defend yourself,” he straightened, and turned his deep green eyes back toward me, “exactly like we have the right to fight to get our land back from you. You also did the same thing against the British.”
“It’s not exactly the same,” I responded. “The British had nothing to do with us being here, and we, as I said before, have no other home. Can you see that for every force you would use against us we would use more force in return? Your terror virtually guarantees endless conflict. Every bereaved father, mother and child is fixated on the situation and escalating it all the more, one corpse at a time.”
“We also have many bereaved families. The fact that we are your enemies does not mean our bereavement is not as painful. You and I did not choose this war; we did not choose which family and nation to be born into. You were born Israeli and I was born Palestinian, this is our only sin. Is this a good reason to ignore each other’s pains, fears and ambitions? Do we always need to give the prize of precedence to those on both sides who prefer war over a justified peace?”
“Which is more important for you--to be justified or to have peace?” I asked, “Many times, it's more important for each of us to be right and receive our version of justice than it is to live in peace.”
“You’ve got a point. Justice is relative. My definition of justice is not the same as yours, and yours is not the same as someone from your side who holds a more left- or right-wing position than you do. Last week I read an article on the internet by an Israeli Professor. He said: The country that was supposed to be the escape land for oppressed Jews, has turned into a country that now persecutes its own enemy, the enemy that refuses to give up the fight for its homeland. An enemy that now feels as victimized as the Jews used to feel for many generations, away from their lost homeland. We cannot see the ironic parallel, since we are busy blaming and fearing our enemy. Meanwhile, our bleeding country has lost its innocence, values, respect and faith in a path of justice, and has become a country who eats its inhabitants and deprives its sons.”
“I can’t agree with some of what he wrote. For example, the Jews in other countries didn’t terrorize their neighbors; they were purely victims of the people’s rage. So he cannot compare us to them,” I said.
“That is exactly what I meant; the number of possible opinions is the same as the number of people in the world. I’m just asking you to think about us as though we were people, like you. How would you feel if you were born a Palestinian refugee instead of a Jewish Israeli?”
“Believe me, as a grandson of holocaust survivors, I know what it feels like to be a refugee,” I stopped for a few seconds and unconsciously covered the back of my right arm, as though it were tattooed with a number. My grandfather used to do that whenever he told one of his stories about his childhood in a concentration camp. How can someone compare an attempt to destroy a whole nation to two nations who fight over the same land? These conflicts are so different in degree, I thought. “I would love to find a fair solution to your problem and stop your suffering,” I said, “Even though you feel that you are the victims, and there are some people in the world who see us as an apartheid country, we are also victims of the situation. Whoever sees you as the only victims forgets how much blood we have paid out for our land, from before the country was established until today, just for wanting to return to a safe homeland. He forgets your bombs and rockets, and sees only our transgressions.”
“We can argue for years about who is right and who is wrong, who is the victim and who is the monster. For every bus that was blasted in Tel Aviv we have a story of a one ton bomb that destroyed families. For every rocket that fell on one of your cities we have too many dead and injured children to count. Facts may be very convincing at one point of the conflict and seem irrelevant at another. Therefore facts will not take us one inch closer to peace. Only working together, as equals, respecting each other, appreciating each other, will help to create peace. You asked me earlier why it works in soccer. This is why; the defender doesn’t ask the striker if he has the right to have the ball or not. He just passes the ball to him, because they have the same interest.
“You are right,” I agreed. “Only common interest will bring peace, but both sides need to agree on what that common interest entails. This is why even if you and I were to reach an agreement today, it would still not resolve the conflict. This conflict is not between me and you, but between politicians and people who are convinced they have brought the words of the Lord down to earth. When such people are involved, everything becomes more complicated. That’s why every time we think we see the light at the end of the tunnel, we find out it’s the light of a train racing straight for us.”
“I agree,” he said, and his face melted into a sad expression. “But I don’t think even we could reach an authentic agreement. I have already talked to many Israelis, and one thing I learned is that we will not achieve anything with words. When you speak about ‘liberation’ I hear ‘occupation’, when you speak about ‘terrorists’ I hear ‘freedom fighters’ and when I speak about ‘the right of return’ you hear ‘demographical disaster’.”
“It sounds like we cannot bridge our differences,” I said sadly, crushing a mosquito that had landed on my knee.
“I hope you are wrong,” He said, smiling sorrowfully. “The main difference between us is our beliefs. You believe that this land belongs to you and we are here to terrorize you like the mosquito you just crushed. We believe it’s ours and you stole it from us. The kids on my team believe that we are just a bunch of pigheaded neighbors who are too arrogant to compromise.”
“What do you believe?” I asked.
“I believe that the great God is one and he created us all. We can call him Allah or Elokim, but he would still look at us fighting and see his right hand hurting its left.”
“Why doesn’t he do anything?”
“It’s our world; it’s up to us to act. Only the majority, who don’t like to fight, but so far have done nothing to resolve this conflict, can bring about a change.”
“We agree again,” I smiled. “Do you know what else is the same between us? One day not so far from now we will all die, and we will be buried in this land. It will laugh at us, that we once dared to call it ours. If I go back to what you said a moment ago, if we would only change our beliefs about each other, we could build trust and mutual caring and solve the conflict.”
“Exactly. All it takes to change the world is to change the way we perceive it. I used to believe that fighting you would change something, but I found out that fighting caused only more fighting. Now I try to change the world by showing these kids that they are not as different from each other as we, the adults, want them to think. Inshala, one child after another, we will create a new, wiser generation. Ok, any more questions before I rejoin the kids?” he asked and was already standing up.
“Nope, I’m not going to delay you, you probably also want the star’s autograph.” I winked.
“Who? Raul? A star? If I had been born in Spain instead of in a Palestinian village, he would be the one asking for my autograph today,” he answered. “There is only one player in the world that I would ask for an autograph.”
“Who?” I raised an eyebrow.
“David Beckham, of course. I’m a huge fan of his since the days that he played for Manchester United.”
“Beckham, huh?” I said and was not sure why I felt a déjà vu.

Epilogue
When I first wrote this story, I just meant to present the two perspectives of the conflict. I felt that people in the Middle East and in the rest of the world should see that there are real people, just like them, on both sides of this disagreement. In order to write the story, I talked to both Palestinians and Israelis, watched videos on YouTube, read blogs on the internet and followed the endless discussions between surfers with opposite point of views. I came to realize that without a change in our mindset it is impossible for us to see that the enemy is exactly like us.
Both sides believe that they are right and the other side is completely wrong. They also have mountains of facts to prove that, and they cannot understand how anyone could not agree with them. The problem is that they are both right, from inside their own perspective.
The average person in Gaza doesn’t care if buses are blown up in Tel Aviv. It is after all a reasonable revenge for the Israeli’s killing Palestinians. He doesn’t care if thousands of rockets are launched on nearby Israeli towns, because they are waging a war against imprisonment. He doesn’t care about a kidnapped soldier that hasn’t talked to his family for more than 3 years, since there are thousands of Palestinian prisoners. He doesn’t care who started the war and when; he is suffering now. He wants the borders of Gaza to be opened so he can have his freedom back, and he doesn’t care that terrorists will use that freedom to attack Israel. He wants to get his grandfather’s home back, but doesn’t care that there is now an Israeli town there. He wants his idea of justice and doesn’t care if it means injustice for the Israelis.
The average person in Tel Aviv doesn’t care if the Gaza Strip is imprisoned, he just doesn’t want terrorists from there to come and blow up his coffee shop. He doesn’t care how many Palestinians are thrown in jail, since most of them are killers or supporters of the killers anyway. He doesn’t care if one ton bombs are dropped on Gaza, as long as the rockets will stop falling in his own country. He doesn’t care that the Palestinians lost their homes during the war, since he didn’t start it. He doesn’t care that the Arabs see him as an invader in their country, since his people dreamed for 2000 years to return there. He doesn’t care what the Palestinian sees as justice, he just wants to live his life.

Why should any of the sides care? They have “great” justifications for every action they take. They wish the other side would care that they are being victimized, but unfortunately the other side is a heartless monster. The other side understands only force, and they should use more force to crush it. Probably no one ever suggested to them that force never leads to peace and security, just to escalation. They bring up all their history to prove they are right and justified and miss seeing that conflicts around the world end not by being right, but by being willing to compromise.
Is there a solution? Yes, and a very simple one. Every Kindergarten teacher will tell you that if you have two people and only one land you need two countries. If you cannot agree on the borders, have some mutually controlled international land. It is very simple. It is what the UN voted for in 1947. So why can’t we achieve it?
I think this is the wrong question. The right question is why do we need this conflict? What does it come to serve or teach us? Answer these questions and it might be easier to solve the conflict.
The Palestinian nation is relatively new. Most Palestinians immigrated to Israel/Palestine during the 19th century or after. They lived there under the Turkish Empire and didn’t have anything to unite them but the common land. The story changed when the Jews started to immigrate to Israel and the British Empire which occupied the area promised to give the Jewish people their own country on the very same land. That was when the Palestinians began to become a nation. They had something to unite them, a common enemy. When they took a break from fighting the common enemy they fought each other with guns and bombs. We saw it again just lately in Gaza.
The Israeli nation is also new. What connected the Jewish people for 2000 landless years was their religion. Then, because of hatred mostly in Europe, the Jewish people decided to have their own country and naturally chose their Bible land. Most of the people in the new nation weren’t religious anymore. They had lost the one thing that connected them for so long and now needed something new to unite them. Unfortunately they found a unifying idea in a new enemy.
In the Middle East you can find lots of chaotic feelings like fear, grief, separation, frustration, anger, guilt, blame, pride and apathy. At this level of consciousness you need enemies, so if you cannot find any, you need to make them up. Trying to talk about peace at this level is like sitting in a movie theatre and wanting to change the movie you are watching. The world is a reflection of our consciousness. Enemies in this case are a wakeup call for a needed action, a wakeup call for raising the consciousness level and creating unity without needing an enemy.
Some believe we can end this conflict with force and wars, others believe we can end it with a peace process. I believe that neither way will work. Only if we invest our energy in creating trust, understanding, flexibility, hope, integrity, harmony, compassion and tolerance among the people within our own group, we won't need enemies to reflect our lack of unity. We have no enemy but the one inside.

How can there be peace between countries while there is still no peace between fellow countrymen?
How can there be peace between nations while people speak hate?
How can there be peace in this world while people get rich by war on a green country?
How can there be peace while there is no love? - Sheva (an Israeli band), Peace and another Day.

And two of mine:
How can there be peace when in our eyes the conflict is entirely the other side’s fault?
How can there be peace when we are imprisoned inside our victimhood feelings?
What can we do to improve the situation?
One of the best tools I have learned to use in order to solve conflicts in my own life is compassion.
Can you feel compassion toward your friends? Your family? Strangers? Your enemy?
If you could feel compassion toward your enemies, you might see fewer of them around; what you see out there in other people is many times what you fail to see in yourself.
This is one of thirty exercises that can be found in ReSurfacing®: Techniques for Exploring Consciousness, by Harry Palmer. ©Copyright 1998.Honesty with one’s self leads to compassion for others.OBJECTIVE: To increase the amount of compassion in the world.EXPECTED RESULT: A personal sense of peace.INSTRUCTIONS: This exercise can be done anywhere that people congregate (airports, malls, parks, beaches, etc). It should be done on strangers, unobtrusively, from some distance. Try to do all five steps on the same person.

Step 1 -With attention on the person, repeat to yourself:"Just like me, this person is seeking some happiness for his/her life"
Step 2 - With attention on the person, repeat to yourself:"Just like me, this person is trying to avoid suffering in his/her life."
Step 3 - With attention on the person, repeat to yourself:"Just like me, this person has known sadness, loneliness and despair."
Step 4 - With attention on the person, repeat to yourself:"Just like me, this person is seeking to fulfill his/her needs."
Step 5 - With attention on the person, repeat to yourself:"Just like me, this person is learning about life."

I know this is a very charged area. If you are emotionally involved in this conflict you can probably agree with everything I say about one side, but totally disagree with the other position. So let me share a lesson about conflicts I learned from my friends Ronny and Esther. A few years ago they had problems in their relationship. Who doesn’t?

“Poor Ronny,” I told my wife over dinner, his wife was making him so miserable.
“You mean poor Esther,” She answered and raised a blaming eyebrow. “If Ronny was my husband I would have divorced him a long time ago.”
“Of course you are on her side,” I said raising my voice, “You never heard his side of the story.”
“What is there to hear? The son of a bitch cheated on her? I know he is your best friend, but I can’t believe you are defending him.”
“It’s easy to judge someone else,” I said, “Did you know she wasn’t willing to have sex with him for almost a year before he cheated on her?”
“You are telling me that I didn’t listen to him, and you have done exactly the same thing – you didn’t listen to her side. Did you know she stopped having sex with him because he used to come home drunk every night from the bar where he hung out with his friends?” Now it was her turn to raise her voice.
We decided to that in order to see whose fault it really was, I would talk to Esther and my wife would talk to Ronny.
My wife went to talk to Ronny and when she reported back to me about him, her head hung down.“I think you were right,” my wife said. “He explained to me how his drinking problem started because of the hell she put him through. She could be very annoying sometimes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. “She is a sweet angel compared to what this monster did to her.”
It looked like once we really listened to the other side we switched our positions. So we decided to listen to both of them at the same time. We went to visit and offered our help to bridge the gap between them. They weren’t very happy, but accepted our help anyway. While we talked to them, they never looked at each other.
“I can’t stand that she goes shopping and wastes all the money I earn,” Ronny said, shaking.
“Talk about big spenders! What are a few new pair of shoes and a dress compared to a 70” TV screen,” she shouted and, I spotted some tears on her cheek.
We continued to dig into their relationship, and found there an endless circle of blaming and intolerance. There was also a story about Ronny’s Mom poisoning him with some bad ideas about Esther just before the wedding, and a friend of Esther saying she shouldn’t trust Ronny when he went to his bachelor party. There was such a lack of communication, understanding and appreciation between those two people who had at one time at least loved each other.
“Can you see the story through his eyes?” I asked Esther.
“You want me to have an arrogant selfish macho man’s eyes?” She answered.
“I want you to see his perspective,” I said and sighed. “What about you buddy, can you see the story from her eyes?” I asked Ronny.
“Do you want me to have lazy, spoilt, shopaholic princess’s eyes?” He asked.
Clearly, there was no compassion as well.
After a few more meetings, they started to talk to each other, saw each other’s needs and improved their relationship somewhat. Then three months later I divorced my wife.

What I learned from this story is that in any conflict, you need two to tango, it’s never one side’s fault. In any conflict there are always three stories: my side, his side and what really happened. I also learned that it’s easier to give others suggestions than to practice them yourself. But the most important thing I learned was that you cannot judge without walking in the shoes of people from both sides. Just hearing about both sides is absolutely not enough.

It doesn’t matter if you are Israeli, Palestinian, American or Swedish, believe me, you don’t know anything about this conflict. Where did you get your information? From local news? From CNN? From a friend who happened to belong to one of the conflicted sides? Have you ever lived as both sides? Walked in their shoes? Do you know why the conflict has started in the first place? Do you know what the gap in perspectives between both sides is? Even if you did your research, talked to both sides, read articles written by Palestinians, Israelis and third party folks and observers, at one point during the process, before getting all the facts, your brain probably made a decision and chose one side. Since that point you were biased. Any new piece of information that didn’t match what you already knew was labeled as false or not relevant information. I know I have done it a couple of times. I had to “reset” what I know more than once in order to complete this story.

Since I don’t have all the answers I want you to ask yourself some questions:
Have you ever been part of a conflict? Did you feel like a victim? Did you blame someone? Were you afraid?
Did you really listen to the other side? Did you take responsibility for your part in the conflict?
Can you see that those on the other side also have similar needs and fears?
Did anyone ever judge you and find you guilty without knowing all the facts? Did you ever do that to another?
Did anyone ever hate you without even knowing you, just because you belonged to a different group?
What is the worst thing you have done to someone because you hated or feared him? How did your retaliation feel? Were you willing to kill him? Did it matter to you if he was wrong or right?

A friend of mine who is not part of the conflict wrote me:
‘People would need a new mind to give up their complaining, their whining that they have been hurt, their attack stories and self - justification. But it's my feel that they cannot do this until someone really, really cares about them--actually loves them, each as they are. So I feel the solution for the Middle East is to love each soul living there in consciousness, not expecting any of them to 'get it', to 'snap out of it', to ‘take the high road’. I feel they will heal when they feel loved, really and truly loved so purely, and for no reason. Something happens to a heart when it experiences love. As long as we feel that we have to drag ourselves around, empty inside from lack of being loved, how can we not see enemies around us? We blame others when we are sure they do not love us.’

I know many of you on either side of the question would say: our enemies don’t deserve our love, they hate us, and they hurt us. But do we deserve peace, security and prosperity? If we do deserve that, we should do whatever it takes to create it, shouldn’t we? We cannot talk to each other’s minds, so if we want a change we need to talk to each other’s hearts, not with words but with a prayer.

Each one of us sees the world differently. The world is a reflection/mirror of us. We see there what we are. The best way to change the world is to change the way we perceive it. We actually should not try to change the world, but to change ourselves, the one who creates our perception. Every enemy is a messenger to inform me about my weaknesses. He is here to help me grow.
According to the Bible, the Jews have been pledged by the covenant which God concluded with the entire
Jewish nation at Mount Sinai. The Jews took the Torah, which according to Rabbi Akiva was summarized to its core message: "You shall love your neighbor as you love yourself.” One can do that only if he sees no separation between him and his neighbor. They are one. They are like cells in one body. In order for the body to be healthy, each cell needs to work for the whole body and not for himself. This is many times the opposite of what we see today, which is 'Gratuitous Hatred' (Sinat Hinam). The Sages (Hazal) taught us that this 'Gratuitous Hatred' is the reason that the Second Temple was destroyed.
Many religious have stories about the total war at the end of the days (Gog and Magog - It appears in the Book of Genesis, the Book of Ezekiel, in the Book of Revelation and in the Qur'an.). It looks like this is a real possibility for us in the near future. According to the mystics, if we win the internal war with our ego about our need to be right, and we could love our neighbor as we love ourselves, we could skip the external war. It’s up to us individually and not our leaders to win this war.

This is my way to win this war internally, bring love to the world and shift my enemies:
Do the compassion exercise above on your friends, family, strangers and enemies.
Then use on them this healing prayer:
I love you, Thank you for taking the role of being my mirror, I forgive you and myself, please forgive yourself and me as well, I'm sorry and promise to love more.
Let the leaders continue to buy weapons while attempting to negotiate peace. But we cannot count on them, since they have mostly failed us because they have the wrong perspective. Each one of us needs to light a small candle so that together we can have a strong light.
I know that for many of you, this solution might look too unworkable and idealistic – we were all indoctrinated to believe that. It’s easier to control and manipulate us when we believe in separation and direct our anger toward the “bad guys.” The solution is in a self de-indoctrination – an exploration of our own believes and different point of views. When you do that it suddenly makes much more sense to look for future goals that will benefit all sides rather than digging in the past looking for reasons to be right.
Unfortunately when everything is good, we do not look to improve things. We only look for a change when it gets tough. Therefore this conflict is an opportunity to grow and bring more love to our world. You don’t believe me? Ask the woman from Haiti who was rescued after a few days under the ruins of a building following the big earthquake there. She looked at her saviors – Israeli soldiers, and asked in surprise: “What made you come here for me?” But soldiers are not bad; it’s war that makes them look bad.

“When we perceive that the only difference between us is our beliefs and that beliefs can be created or dis-created with ease, the right and wrong game will wind down, a co-create game will unfold, and world peace will ensue.” Harry Palmer.

The Little Orchid - A Poem

There I was, floating in an endless field of orchids.
Their symphony of colors harmonized their exotic smells,
contributing peace and serenity to the world.
Suddenly I felt alone.
Is there no special orchid just for me in this entire field?
I intensified my attention on this feeling, trying to find my one and only orchid.
Slowly the wind started to blow, making the orchids bowing with respect.
Only one little orchid remained, standing tall, watching me with its humble eyes.
I danced toward it, trying to meld with its being.
Its unique smell intoxicated me, its matchless colors caressed my eyes,
and its whole being gifted me with the feeling of being wildly alive.
I extended my hand to pick it up; I wanted it to be only mine.
The little orchid gazed into my eyes and whispered in my ears:
“I'm a free spirit; I'm not for you to have. You might forget,
but we met before and we will meet again.”
I stood up and my heart filled with its pure love.
“It was nice meeting you one more time and till we meet again,
you have my love, gratitude and appreciation,” I said.
I waved goodbye and continued my journey,
knowing that somewhere out there in an amazing field,
there will always be one little orchid cherishing me.

Why should you read me?

My goal is to write stories that will help people make the change they want in their life.
It's easy to give advises but harder to follow them, and that's why even though there are so many "self help books" out there, people find it hard to change.
What I believe is missing in these books, is the feel.
One of my favorite quotes is: "They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel." By Carl W. Buechner.
So in my stories I try to give you a self-help book, which is built into the story.
I try to make you feel the tools that can help you change.

I remember an interview with my favorite Children books' author. She has been asked what was her first great moment as an author. The answer was that right after her first book was published, she went to a bookstore and waited for the first reader to buy her book. Soon enough, a young kid bought the book. She followed him out and saw that he has started to read it while walking in the street. He was so into the reading that he did not see a bus stop in his way and bumped into it. That was her moment.

My moment was when the first person that ever read my first story told me few months later: “You know Joey, I took this sentence from your story and it is accompanying me ever since I read it, and I use it whenever it gets rough on me.” Then another reader told me that about a different line from the story, and another reader took another line… . This is when I knew I achieved my goal. They could feel the message, and each one took the feel she/he needed for her/his life. That’s what I hope you can do to. So enjoy and don’t forget to share your feedback.

Yours,
Joey Avniel.