The limits of Zionism and government in Israel

Kfar Etzion, West Bank, from our correspondent. The more a word is repeated, the more it seems as though the signifier is swallowing up the meaning. It happens that the more it is repeated, the more it begins to sound like nothing more than a sound. The individual letters lose their definition, making the word vague and confused; it can mean everything and, far more often, nothing at all. When, in recent days, the Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, said he intended to form a coalition to which all Zionist parties are invited, and his main challenger, Gadi Eisenkot, promised to create a Zionist majority in support of compulsory military service, each letter tried to return to its place, one after the other, in an attempt to piece together the meaning of the word ‘Zionism’. In Kfar Etzion, in the West Bank – that stretch of land beyond the Green Line which Israel gained in the Six-Day War – the term has a very clear meaning, as can also be understood from the history of this kibbutz, which was massacred by the Arab League in 1948 and captured on the third day of the Six-Day War in 1967. Eliaz Cohen, a poet and professor at Bar-Ilan University, can recount the story behind every stone as he walks through Kfar Etzion. He then points to the surrounding hills, and it seems he knows every secret of those slopes too. He often repeats the term ‘Zionism’ and alludes to the fact that nothing is static, not even the meaning of words. ‘It is time for a second Zionist revolution.’ 

He says this with enthusiasm, emphasising how much he cares about words – as a poet and as a citizen – because in this country people have even killed themselves over words; they are both dangerous and redemptive. “We must start talking again about who we are, where we want to go and what story we want to tell about this country.” Cohen is well aware that, to the rest of the world, Kfar Etzion is not Israel, but he isn’t bothered by that. He knows that to the rest of the world he is a settler, that the kibbutz is a settlement, but he does not agonise over that either. He knows which side to be on; he knows how profound the difference is between himself and the now very famous ‘Youth of the Hills’ – the violent youths who go out to burn, destroy and beat up Palestinians, claiming to do so for the sake of Israel’s security. “No, that isn’t Zionism. Zionism has rules. They say they’re acting by doing what we did in the past; they say they’re doing it for Israel.” Kfar Etzion is situated within Gush Etzion, in the Judean Hills, and it was Yitzhak Rabin who, in a speech, said that the area was destined to be part of the State of Israel. “The principle of the violent ones is: we do what the army doesn’t do, and so we are justified because we are dealing with security. That’s not true; it’s an excuse. Our settlements were established with the consent of the majority, never by occupying other people’s private property, never by putting Israel at risk. They use the trauma of 7 October to justify their actions. It is simply violence; it does not defend the state, and it has happened in the past too.” This undulating landscape is a constant alternation of Israeli and Palestinian territories. Kfar Etzion sometimes finds itself in the middle: “The violent ones often take it out on the weak; they attack isolated houses rather than entire villages. Then it happens that the Palestinians, in retaliation, take it out on us.” For Cohen, this is not Zionism; it is the opposite – it undermines the very idea of Israel. “In Europe, you don’t understand that Zionism is not colonialism. You judge it by your own standards, through the lens of your own history. Zionism is a return; colonialism is not. But Zionism has rules; it is not practised through anarchy and violence. The violent ones have created a way of operating that invites confusion between the two.” Cohen shows a video of young men bearing the unmistakable hallmarks of the Hilltop Youth – very long, unkempt peyot, knitted kippahs, ritual strings dangling past the middle of their legs – dancing at a wedding whilst carrying rifles. “Do you know what they’re singing?” asks the poet, urging us to listen to the lyrics. “They’re singing a song usually heard at gatherings of Neturei Karta, the anti-Zionist ultra-Orthodox group. The footage was filmed in this area, in Gush Etzion. If you sing anti-Zionist songs, you cannot claim that your violent actions are in defence of the State of Israel. You’re not doing what the army doesn’t do, but what it mustn’t do. You’re not keeping us or Tel Aviv itself safe; you’re doing the opposite – you’re putting us in danger. And you’re doing it in the name of anti-Zionism. So against the country. You’re wearing a mask.” Cohen is a settler; he feels that part of the political establishment has betrayed his movement.

Travelling from Jerusalem, on the Judean hills leading to Kfar Etzion, the election posters mainly feature the faces of Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich, the Ministers of National Security and Finance respectively, whom a government of national unity should exclude. The two have invested heavily in the West Bank, but according to Cohen, there is an underlying abuse: “Smotrich appropriated the name of our movement, Religious Zionism, and applied it to his party. It was natural that it would arouse interest amongst us, but now, after these years in government, we feel that it has instead been an assault on our values. Smotrich has stolen the identity of a movement founded 140 years ago. Many were attracted to it at first, but then we saw him in government.” 7 October divided Israel between those who took responsibility and those who did not; Smotrich is among those who did not, and “fare chuva – which means taking responsibility for one’s actions; if you make a mistake, you answer for it – is one of the principles of Zionism and Judaism. It applies to everything. To everyone.”

Israel has been portrayed through its divisions, says Cohen, who argues that the country is immune to civil war – “it is our own personal pandemic”, the poet maintains. But the divisions amongst the settlers are not shown; a single label has been applied to them all. “I have never believed that violence can be used to persuade the Palestinians to leave. That would mean failing to understand them, failing to take into account their attachment to the land. I remain convinced that coexistence is possible, even though trust on both sides has now collapsed. All moral boundaries have been breached. We must all – both them and us – move away from this victim mentality. The Palestinians must do everything in their power to ensure that Israelis no longer perceive them as a threat, to remove any sense of danger, to dispel any doubts; and we Israelis must curb this collective pressure which leads nowhere.”

Israel is a country that today feels ready for any external upheaval but unprepared for internal ones. Amidst divisions, the election and plans for the future, part of society is paralysed. Cohen believes that a city like Tel Aviv, for example, is in fact paralysed by Rabin’s assassination and has never recovered. “We have remained divided into tribes and, rather than taking pride in this, we have now turned it into a problem.” In this sense, the poet feels the urgency of a second Zionist revolution, not least to explain what it means, to tell the story of a country that lives every day as if it were afraid it might be its last. “Israel was not born to be Sparta; it is not meant for autarky. It must live by shouldering its responsibilities; it exists only if it is democratic. Even a vote and its outcome are a responsibility. You cannot choose when to be a Zionist and when not to be; if you are one, you stay here,” says Cohen, referring to all those who threaten to leave the country because of an election result that did not satisfy them – namely, the re-election of Likud as the leading party. “You cannot be a Zionist only under certain conditions,” he says, not out of anger, but to clarify, to return to the meaning of a word repeated so obsessively that it has become a shriek rather than a sound.