I have written a lot about the permanent tests and tragedies of the Palestinians for a long time.
I have treated each word from each column that appeared on this page, devoted to the precarious fate of Palestine and to the unsure souls who refuse to abandon it, as an obligation and a duty.
It is the obligation and the duty of writers – who have the privilege of reaching so many people in so many places – to expose injustice and to give a sharp expression to free suffering.
I did it clearly everywhere: here I stand. Not because I am the omniscient referee of the good of evil – any honest writer is aware of the way it can be exhausting and stupid – but because I am forced to tell the truth clearly and, if necessary, on several occasions.
I plan to put an end to what happened and continue to arrive at Palestinians as the moral imperative of this horrible hour and disfiguring.
This requires an answer because silence often translates – consciously or negligence – in consent and in complicity.
Each of us who shares this feeling of obligation and owe in our own way.
Some make speeches in parliaments. Some locking arms in demonstrations. Some go to Gaza and the occupied West Bank to facilitate the best they can, misery and omnipresent despair.
I write.
The writing in defense of the Palestinians – of their humanity, their dignity and their rights – is not signified, nor cannot be rejected as a controversial provocation.
For me, it is an act of conscience.
I don’t write to Molfy. I refuse to qualify what happened and arrive at the Palestinians as “complexes” to provide readers with a practical and comfortable ethics outing ramp.
The occupation is not complex. Oppression is not complex. Apartheid is not complex. The genocide is not complex. It’s cruel. That’s wrong. He must give in to decency.
The writing on the Palestinians in this frank and without compromise invites all kinds of answers of all kinds of neighborhoods.
Some readers praise your “courage”. Some thank you for having “spoken” for them, not having cut, for having named names. Some readers urge you to continue writing, despite the risks and the recriminations.
Much less charitable, some readers call you ugly names. Some wish you and your family, misfortune and evil. Some readers try and fail to make you turn.
Everything you can do as a writer is to continue writing, whatever the reaction – whether kind or mean, thoughtful or thoughtless – or the consequences, planned or not.
However, one of the victims of writing on the Palestinians can be the loss of reassuring constancy and the tender pleasure of appreciated friendships.
I guess I am not alone on this sad point.
Students, teachers, academics, artists and so many others have been exiled, charged or even imprisoned for refusing to ignore or disinfect the horror that we see the light of day after a terrible day.
In this context, my work, all in tingling and disconcerting, is modest in comparison. Deceased friends, so expensive, it seems, the price of the franchise that disturbs.
These friendships, knotted for decades through sometimes happy, sometimes sad experiences and shared secrets, were evaporated in an instant.
I understood that this rupture could occur. I didn’t fear that. I accepted it.
However, when it happened, he stung.
It was abrupt. Telephone calls have gone to voicemail. The emails remained unanswered. Inevitably, the absence and calm have grown up until they become an unmistakable verdict.
So, I did not ask for any explanations. It would be, in my opinion, futile. A door had been closed and bolted.
Friends I admired and respected. Friends with whom I laughed, I trusted, from which I was looking for the lawyer and who was looking for mine.
Disappeared.
I wish them and their loved ones. I will miss their wise ear and, from time to time, their helping hand.
Some of them are Jews, some are not. I do not regret their choice. They exercised their prerogative to decide who can and cannot be called a friend.
I met their decisive test once – the one we all have. Now I failed it.
I know that some of my old friends have deep ties with Israel. Some have a family who live there. Some may also be in mourning worried about what comes next.
I am not aware of their fear or uncertainty. I do not deny their right to security.
This is where I suspect, we will face the tacit cause of the irreversible fracture.
The security of Israel cannot be carried out at the expense of freedom and sovereignty of Palestine.
It is not peace, not to mention the elusive “coexistence”. It is domination – brutal and ruthless.
This type of loss, deep and lasting, gives way to clarity born from rejection. This sharpens your appreciation of loyalty and authenticity in relationships.
Maybe the people I thought I know, I didn’t know at all. And maybe the people who thought they knew me did not know me at all.
There is a calculation in progress. Like most calculations, large or small, close or distant, it can be messy and painful.
We try to sail in a ruthless world which, on the unpleasant whole, punishes dissent and rewards conformity.
To these friends who have opted for the distance, I say this: I am convinced that you believe that what you are doing is fair and fair. Me too.
I write not to hurt. I write to insist.
I insist that Palestinian life counts.
I insist that Palestinians cannot be erased by edict, strength and intimidation.
I insist that mourning should not be a daily ritual for people.
I insist on the fact that justice cannot be selective and that humanity must be universal.
I insist that Palestinian children rediscover the fullness of life beyond occupation, terror and sorrow.
I insist that Palestinian children, like our children, have the opportunity, once again, to play, learn and prosper.
I insist that lust kills which has grasped a nation like a fever that will not break must be broken.
Too much damage has been caused.
Can we hear ourselves about it?
When I stopped writing, the account will show that in this obscene moment of massacre and famine, I was not among the silencer.
He will find me – for better or for worse – on the file.
The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.