The night Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was shot, I was with friends. Like all Israelis, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when I learned that Rabin had been shot.
It is the kind of moment that you never forget. Something in our identity as Israelis was shaken and will never return to how it was before that fateful evening on Nov. 4, 1995.
I didn’t go to the peace rally where Rabin was killed because I’ve always had a hard time with massive political events. For me, politics is complicated. I grew up with a right-wing father who used to loudly comment while watching the news. For him, Israeli leftists were ready to sell our country. My dad didn’t like Rabin’s political views and he didn’t like Rabin.
On the other hand, most of my friends were leftists. I felt more comfortable with their language of peace than with my dad’s language of fear and power.
The first thought that crossed my mind when I heard of the murder was “I have to know that my father understands that something horrible has just happened. I have to know that he, as well, is shocked.”
How could I ever think that my dad, the moral person who raised me to love Israel and its people, wouldn’t scream in repulsion from such a murder?
To understand my irrational reaction, one must understand how charged Israeli politics are. When you live in Israel, you cannot be indifferent to politics. We breathe politics, eat politics and in every social event, there will be the one who will finally speak politics. Everything is crucial; everything is essential and it touches us all.
Israeli politics have a tight hold on our emotions. A conversation about politics many times slides into an argument. We’re mad, we’re furious, we get hurt and we don’t understand how the other side could see the things in such a twisted way. To be sure, Israelis who do not vote in elections are acting (or not acting) out of despair, not indifference.
Even before the country was established, the Israeli society was very split on politics. Kibbutzim were divided into two because of different political viewpoints. (This is why we have a kibbutz called Ein Harod Meuhad and Ein Harod Ihud.).
The split in Israeli society along political lines continues and, some say, is worse than ever before. During the process of the Oslo Peace Agreement the political divide grew wider than ever. The strongest expression of this segregation was Rabin’s murder.
Rabin’s murder brought us to the peak of the desecration of Israeli democracy. The significance of the event led the Israeli government to legislate a law to honor the date of the murder with a national memorial day.
On the memorial of his assassination, we stop for a while to look at ourselves, Israeli society, and ask ourselves again: How could this happen? How have we arrived at a moment in history when one Jew kills another Jew because of political disagreements?
It’s increasingly difficult for me to be introspective about Israeli society. For more than 100 years, Israelis have lived in struggle. We, the citizens of this conflict, were born in to this war and have grown accustomed to it. At first, the struggle gave us meaning. It reminded us who we are and united us as we fought for our existence. We stood at the front lines in the noble struggle of the Jewish nation for its right to a country.
But living in struggle has left us exhausted. Living in a climate of violence, terror, occupation, anxiousness and hopelessness charge a heavy price, both in souls and in the character of the Israeli society, the morality and the leading values.
Some have responded by focusing on their own needs rather than the sense of mutual responsibility that defined our society. An increasing number of Israelis have adopted the Western focus on the individual rather than the collective.
This year, as I mark Rabin’s memorial day in Milwaukee, I note the great power that Diaspora Jews can have on the Jews in Israel. For Israelis, who can forget that their struggle is a Jewish struggle, a connection to Jews worldwide means a shot of inspiration and a dose of context.
It reminds us that we are much more than this ongoing conflict with our neighboring countries, that there’s a bigger significance to things. That global awareness helps us renew our commitment to build a society that can be a good example to the world —not only a homeland and a shelter but also a country that gives new meaning to Jewish life and, by building a culture on Jewish ethics, treats all its citizens with equality and respect.
In October, three Israeli teachers from the Sovev Kinneret, our Partnership 2000 region, visited Milwaukee. They spent a week teaching our children, meeting community members, learning about the variety of Jewish education programs in Milwaukee.
One of them told me that before the trip, she had started planning to quit teaching. It is hard to be a teacher in Israel; classes are big, salaries are low, benefits are few and, unfortunately, the profession doesn’t command great respect in Israeli society.
But being in Milwaukee reignited her passion for teaching. She saw how excited the pupils were to hear of their possible friends in Israel, she realized how powerful our Jewish connection is, and she felt proud to be part of the Jewish nation. The experience, she said, gave her hope for the next generation of Jews in Milwaukee and in Israel.
That model — of Diaspora Jews enriching the lives of Jews in Israel — turns on its head the old paradigm in which Diaspora Jews give money and Israeli Jews offer content and meaning. I believe that we have entered a new age of partnership in which the voices of Jews worldwide have an important place in Israeli life.
Perhaps that is part of Rabin’s legacy, that in his murder and the despair that followed, we find the roots of Israeli identity in our Jewish identity.
Paz Goldschmidt is the Israel emissary to Milwaukee and director of the Milwaukee Jewish Federation’s Israel Center.
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