You have the right to feel offended
A conference organized by the Jewish People Policy Planning Institute in Jerusalem last month dealt with anti-Israel attacks in the United States that constitute, according to organizers, a “long-term threat” to Israel’s standing.
Brandeis University President Jehuda Reinharz told Ha’aretz that American academics are at the forefront of those denying Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state and admitted: “I see no combined effort to fight this by the Jewish organizations, and, in truth, I myself don’t know how this could be done.”
I doubt whether organizational efforts could stop anti-Israel attacks, but two incidents in the past few weeks have suggested for me a grassroots approach that, if pursued vigorously, might well slow down their growth.
The approach calls for exercising honesty, moral assertiveness and personal indignation against attacks on Israel’s legitimacy.
The incidents I am talking about started with a rather routine scenario. In fact, it has probably happened to you so many times that it did not leave a memorable mark.
Like many of us, I am on the e-mail lists of friends and colleagues who occasionally call my attention to an article worth reading.
So it was that on one of these bright California mornings, I received a message from a colleague with an article and a comment: “Palestinians, with all their suffering under the Israeli apartheid regime, have never been Holocaust deniers.”
It is, by today’s standards, a rather commonplace remark — one that could have been written by any of my friends from the far left or the Muslim community. I would normally either brush it off with a head shake: “There he goes again, the same old rhetoric,” or start an argument on whether the comparison to apartheid South Africa is appropriate.
I do not exactly know what it was that morning that compelled me to do neither of the two but resort, instead, to what I normally refuse to do — take offense. It may have been the recent vote in the U.N. Human Rights Commission, calling for a ban on “religious insults” or it may have been the latest press blitz on the moral ills of Islamophobia.
Whatever the cause, somehow an invisible force jolted me into writing my colleague thus: “The word ‘apartheid’ is offensive to me. In fact, it is very, very offensive. And, since I am not situated on the extreme end of the political spectrum, I venture to suspect that there are others on your e-mail list who were offended by it and who may wish to tell you that this word is not conducive to peace and understanding. It conveys anger, carelessness and a desire to hurt and defame. Hence, it shuts off the ears of the very people you are attempting to reach.”
After a short exchange of polite messages, in which my colleague explained that, echoing his idols, President Jimmy Carter and journalist Amira Haas, he used this word not to offend but to evoke a sense of justice among his Jewish friends, I realized that I handled it correctly.
I realized that taking offense is a statement of conscience that shifts attention from the accused to the legitimacy of the accusation. It calls into question the accuser’s choice of words, his assumptions, his worldview, as well as his intentions, and, thus, turns the accuser into a defendant, at least for a short moment of reflection.
For a split second, I even ventured to imagine how powerful it could be if each one of us were to implant a moment of reflection into the mind of an anti-Israel colleague, but I soon forgot about the incident, and I received no further messages from this colleague. Evidently, he had either deleted my name from his mailing list or had taken note of our exchange and become more conscientious of what he sent and to whom.
A few weeks later, a similar incident occurred. This time, harsh anti-Zionist slurs were scattered throughout an essay authored by the sender — a history professor at an American university. Essentially, the author blamed Zionism for being the evil force that drives Bernard Lewis’ “anti-Muslim diatribes.”
Emboldened by my previous experience, I sat down and wrote this man — let’s call him Mahmoud — a message, this time a little longer. I explained that I had found his contempt of Zionism deeply offensive and that given that I consider myself progressive and open-minded, others may share my feeling but were too polite to say so.
“I hope,” I said, “that as a writer who spends pages describing how offensive Orientalism and Islamophobia are to Muslims and Arabs, that you will be able to understand other people’s sensitivities and accommodate them in the future.”
I then went further and explained to Mahmoud that, for me, Zionism is the realization of a millennium-old belief in the right of the Jewish people to a national home in the birthplace of their history, a right that is no less sacred than that of the Palestinians or the Saudis. Additionally, I wrote, it pains me to see my hopes for peace being spat upon. Such hopes require that all sides accept a two-state arrangement as a historically just solution, and anti-Zionist rhetoric, by negating the legitimacy of this solution, acts as an oppressor of peace.
Mahmoud explained that he did not mean to delegitimize Zionism or the two-state solution. His portrayal of Lewis’ Zionism as the mother of all evils was apparently triggered by a speech delivered at the American Enterprise Institute (AEI) in March of 2007, in which Lewis pitted Europe and Islam against each other, coupled with AEI (and Lewis’) one-sided support of Israel. Personally, I have never understood why a one-sided support of Israel, which to me is tantamount to a one-sided support of a quest for coexistence, would be considered a crime, but this takes us away from our main story.
The point of my story is that, again, I felt invigorated by exercising an almost forgotten right — the right to be offended.