Despite being extremely busy at the moment, I couldn't let today's events pass without a brief comment. The so-called 'prisoner exchange' between Israel and Lebanon is, in fact, no such thing: the term 'prisoner exchange' implies some degree of reciprocity, prisoners exchanged for prisoners, whereas what has actually taken place today is the exchange of five Lebanese prisoners for the corpses of Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev, two Israeli soldiers kidnapped and murdered during Hezbollah's illegal incursion into, and assault upon, sovereign Israeli territory in July 2006.
The images of Samir Kuntar, the most infamous of the five Lebanese prisoners released today, being welcomed as a hero in Beirut are more sickening and disheartening than I can possibly put into words. Indeed, these words - 'sickening' and 'disheartening' - really are inadequate, for they entirely fail to communicate the absolute rage and indignation filling not only my stomach, but the collective stomach of the entire Israeli nation. To briefly recap Kuntar's crime:
In 1979 Kuntar and his small band of PLF terrorists landed on the beach at Nahariya, a small coastal town in the north of Israel. After murdering a policeman, they proceeded to break into the home of an Israeli family, the Harans. Kuntar and another member of the group dragged the father of the family, 31-year-old Danny Haran, and four-year-old Einat, down to the beach. After shooting Danny in the back of the head at point blank range in front of his daughter - and after drowning Danny's body to ensure that he really was dead - Kuntar smashed Einat's head open with rocks, stamped on her body, and crushed her skull with the butt of his assault rifle. Meanwhile, the mother of the family, Smadar, hid in the house with her two-year-old daughter Yael. After throwing grenades into the house and starting a fire in the hope of flushing out Smadar and Yael, Yael began to whimper. Fearing that her cries would alert the terrorists, Smadar covered her mouth, in the process accidentally smothering and killing her daughter.
Kuntar never expressed any remorse for his crimes. He should have died in prison for his crimes. The idea of him living free and healthy in Lebanon - much less welcomed as a hero, a "resistance fighter returning from the prisons of the occupier", to quote Lebanese President Michel Suleiman (how long, one wonders, until Hezbollah and Syria conspire to have Suleiman murdered as they did Rafik Hariri? Statements like this will do nothing to save him from his inevitable fate) - is one that is, I'm sure, too much for many Israelis to bear.
Understandably, some people might be a little perplexed as to why Israel would agree to such a disproportionate exchange in the first place. Indeed, this is not the first time that Israel has acquiesced to such an exchange: in 2003 Israel released over 400 Lebanese and Palestinian prisoners in exchange for one Israeli (drug dealer) who had been captured by Hezbollah and the corpses of three other Israels. Part of the answer is to be found in Jewish law, which requires that every possible effort must be made to bury Jewish bodies as intact as possible, i.e. with all of their body parts. Hence the uniquely Israeli figure of those Orthodox Jewish medics who, after a suicide bombing, scour the surrounding area looking for any limbs, digits, organs - in fact any body part at all, no matter how small - which have been scattered by the impact of the explosion, and then match them up to the relevant corpse, ready for burial.
For too long now Israel's enemies have taken advantage of this requirement, and Jewish law more generally. The Arabs launched the Yom Kippur War in 1973 in the full knowledge that - in fact, precisely because - the overwhelming majority of Israelis, including their military, were observing the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, a day on which all eating and drinking is prohibited. If Israel attempted something similar during Ramadan, the world would be in uproar. Three years ago, Shin Bet (Israel's internal security service, a bit like MI5 in Britain) foiled a Hamas plot to infiltrate an Israeli army outpost (in Israel). Hamas intended to kidnap a number of soldiers in order to use them as bargaining chips for the release of Palestinian prisoners. Knowing that they wouldn't be able to kidnap so many soldiers, the leaders of Hamas hit upon another idea: rather than kidnap the soldiers, they would instead kill them, decapitate them, and, after displaying their severed heads on television, hold them to ransom.
How long will Israel continue to be humiliated in this way? What happened to the policy of never negotiating with terrorists? Israel used to be the one country which actually stuck to that policy, recognising, correctly, that if they started to negotiate no Israeli would ever be safe anywhere in the world. And, indeed, this is the case today. Although quoting Yitzhak Rabin is one of those habits that Israel must learn to overcome, I think that it is worth recalling his maxim that Israel must fight for peace as if there were no terror, and fight terror as if there was no peace. There is cautious optimism that Israel and her enemies are, finally, making progress with the former. But this process cannot take place at the expense of the latter. Israel cannot allow itself to be humiliated in this way. There is a difference between making necessary concessions and sacrifices to attain a genuine peace with legitimate partners in the Arab world and capitulation. Israel must rediscover its backbone, its pride, its sense of fighting spirit. It must understand that the fight for peace ought to be carried out with an absolutely ruthless determination, but that the fight against those who would kidnap, torture, bomb, decapitate, and murder its citizens must be pursued with the same degree of ruthless vigour.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Saturday, 5 July 2008
1776 And All That
Yesterday I experienced my first Fourth of July. It was really great, both as a day off spent with friends, and as a holiday. People seemed to be genuinely happy and excited to be celebrating Independence Day, although it might have something to be with the fact that, including me, four of the people I spent last night with were non-Americans for whom all of this was new.
A few days ago I went to Rucker Park, known locally as 'The Ruck'. Rucker Park is probably the most famous basketball/streetball court in the US, the breeding ground for dozens of NBA players including Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Dr. J, and Wilt Chamberlain. Two summers ago Kobe Bryant played a few games there, as did Keven Garnett. The Ruck has also just been the subject of a new documentary made by Beastie Boy Adam Yauch. The game was fantastic, really entertaining and fun to watch, and there was also a very local feel to the place; one had the impression that everyone knew everyone else, and the MC/commentator was constantly interacting with the crowd.
155th is a pretty poor area, not to mention quite unsafe (although, as usual, everyone I spoke to was very friendly, and I didn't feel at all unsafe, in spite/because of being searched for weapons and drugs before entering the park) and I wondered how the people living here perceived or thought of July 4th. As my friend and I left the subway stop we were handed 'Anti-Fourth of July' leaflets, which didn't surprise me much. But what was surprising was the disdain with which the protesters were met by the vast majority of locals. It seemed like even here, in one of the most deprived areas of the city, July 4th meant something. Exactly what it meant wasn't clear; I can't imagine that it meant a holiday for most people in the area: those with jobs probably had to work, and for those without it's a moot point anyway. Maybe it was just apathy or tradition or the need to conform to social norms - Bourdieu's 'habitus' - which caused the reaction to the protesters, but I get the impression that, in spite of the disasters of the last eight years, Americans are generally proud to be American. Not academics, of course, but that's because academics don't actually like or support anything (tangible) and, besides, academia as a whole must maintain its position of being out of step with everyone and everything around it.
Yesterday's festivities began in the afternoon (the morning was spent reading/finishing The Dialectic of Enlightenment - as Adam and I observed whilst watching the fireworks, it is difficult - not to mention amusing - to imagine Adorno's reaction to all of this) when my friends and I went down to Battery Park to see a free Sonic Youth show. Despite being very overcast, the rain was brief and the big storm we feared never came to pass. Sonic Youth were excellent, closing their 90-minute set with Schizophrenia and, much to my glee, a brutal version of 100%. Realizing that we were all very hungry, we took the subway and went for that most quintessentially patriotic of American foods, Korean BBQ (at the hilariously-monikered KumGang BBQ), followed by Pinkberry. After a debate about our next move, we chose dancing over karaoke and, after bidding farewell to Frank and his friend Raul, took a cab to Alphabet City. As we were driving down 12th the fireworks suddenly began, so we all jumped out and went to find a good viewing spot. We ended up on 12th and Avenue C, the huge factory in front of us imbuing the whole scene with a paradoxically Soviet feel. The fireworks were spectacular and, even after Sonic Youth, incredibly loud. At one point, following a brief lull, two enormous fireworks went off like thunderclaps, causing every car alarm in a two block radius to suddenly wail into life, much to the amusement of everyone, even the police.
Following the fireworks, we headed off to find the bar/club I'd heard about. Unfortunately, I had failed to make a note of either a) the name of the place, or b) its actual address. Nor had I really made any kind of effort to memorise these pieces of information. So, unable to find it (it was actually on 3rd and C), we headed to a different bar. Because I was looking for the other place, I arrived a few minutes later than everyone else, at which point Mary promptly chucked her drink all over me, her, and the floor. After finding out that they didn't have any milk for a White Russian (a recurring problem...) and that the jukebox was broken, we left and went to a bar on Houston. Therein Mary, Adam, and I picked 26 songs on the jukebox (highlights included Sonic Youth's Teenage Riot, Adam's dissection of the lyrics to TV on the Radio's Wolf Like Me, and the VU's Waiting for the Man. Also the misunderstanding between me and Mary regarding her query about the band X) before we all proceeded to get very thoroughly drunk. Then we headed back up to Morningside and, on walking into 1020, we ran straight into Frank and Raul. We left at about 3:30. I woke up this morning feeling shockingly grim but, happily, my usual equilibrium has quickly reasserted itself.
Now begins my movie marathon: Sword of Doom was, sadly, scrapped as a result of my hangover, but later today I'll be seeing Samurai Rebellion followed by Wall-E, and tomorrow it's Kurosawa's Kagemusha followed by La Regle du Jeu.
Other things I've done since last posting: went to see Sigur Ros at the MoMA; had my sister to stay for a very happy week; went to see Pearl Jam (twice!); went on the world's fastest and tallest (not to mention uncomfortable) rollercoaster; saw Kurosawa's 'High and Low' and Herzog's fantastic 'Encounters at the End of the World'; played a lot of basketball; babysat for Matt and Kendra; read.
Songs for the Deaf: 'Ante Up' - M.O.P. feat. Busta Rhymes; 'Discipline' - Nine Inch Nails; 'W.M.A.' - Pearl Jam; 'Dies Irae' - Verdi
Quotation of the Day: when I inexplicably and in all seriousness referred to the Capra-Stewart classic 'Mr Smith Goes To Washington' as 'Mr Chips Goes To Hollywood'.
A few days ago I went to Rucker Park, known locally as 'The Ruck'. Rucker Park is probably the most famous basketball/streetball court in the US, the breeding ground for dozens of NBA players including Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Dr. J, and Wilt Chamberlain. Two summers ago Kobe Bryant played a few games there, as did Keven Garnett. The Ruck has also just been the subject of a new documentary made by Beastie Boy Adam Yauch. The game was fantastic, really entertaining and fun to watch, and there was also a very local feel to the place; one had the impression that everyone knew everyone else, and the MC/commentator was constantly interacting with the crowd.
155th is a pretty poor area, not to mention quite unsafe (although, as usual, everyone I spoke to was very friendly, and I didn't feel at all unsafe, in spite/because of being searched for weapons and drugs before entering the park) and I wondered how the people living here perceived or thought of July 4th. As my friend and I left the subway stop we were handed 'Anti-Fourth of July' leaflets, which didn't surprise me much. But what was surprising was the disdain with which the protesters were met by the vast majority of locals. It seemed like even here, in one of the most deprived areas of the city, July 4th meant something. Exactly what it meant wasn't clear; I can't imagine that it meant a holiday for most people in the area: those with jobs probably had to work, and for those without it's a moot point anyway. Maybe it was just apathy or tradition or the need to conform to social norms - Bourdieu's 'habitus' - which caused the reaction to the protesters, but I get the impression that, in spite of the disasters of the last eight years, Americans are generally proud to be American. Not academics, of course, but that's because academics don't actually like or support anything (tangible) and, besides, academia as a whole must maintain its position of being out of step with everyone and everything around it.
Yesterday's festivities began in the afternoon (the morning was spent reading/finishing The Dialectic of Enlightenment - as Adam and I observed whilst watching the fireworks, it is difficult - not to mention amusing - to imagine Adorno's reaction to all of this) when my friends and I went down to Battery Park to see a free Sonic Youth show. Despite being very overcast, the rain was brief and the big storm we feared never came to pass. Sonic Youth were excellent, closing their 90-minute set with Schizophrenia and, much to my glee, a brutal version of 100%. Realizing that we were all very hungry, we took the subway and went for that most quintessentially patriotic of American foods, Korean BBQ (at the hilariously-monikered KumGang BBQ), followed by Pinkberry. After a debate about our next move, we chose dancing over karaoke and, after bidding farewell to Frank and his friend Raul, took a cab to Alphabet City. As we were driving down 12th the fireworks suddenly began, so we all jumped out and went to find a good viewing spot. We ended up on 12th and Avenue C, the huge factory in front of us imbuing the whole scene with a paradoxically Soviet feel. The fireworks were spectacular and, even after Sonic Youth, incredibly loud. At one point, following a brief lull, two enormous fireworks went off like thunderclaps, causing every car alarm in a two block radius to suddenly wail into life, much to the amusement of everyone, even the police.
Following the fireworks, we headed off to find the bar/club I'd heard about. Unfortunately, I had failed to make a note of either a) the name of the place, or b) its actual address. Nor had I really made any kind of effort to memorise these pieces of information. So, unable to find it (it was actually on 3rd and C), we headed to a different bar. Because I was looking for the other place, I arrived a few minutes later than everyone else, at which point Mary promptly chucked her drink all over me, her, and the floor. After finding out that they didn't have any milk for a White Russian (a recurring problem...) and that the jukebox was broken, we left and went to a bar on Houston. Therein Mary, Adam, and I picked 26 songs on the jukebox (highlights included Sonic Youth's Teenage Riot, Adam's dissection of the lyrics to TV on the Radio's Wolf Like Me, and the VU's Waiting for the Man. Also the misunderstanding between me and Mary regarding her query about the band X) before we all proceeded to get very thoroughly drunk. Then we headed back up to Morningside and, on walking into 1020, we ran straight into Frank and Raul. We left at about 3:30. I woke up this morning feeling shockingly grim but, happily, my usual equilibrium has quickly reasserted itself.
Now begins my movie marathon: Sword of Doom was, sadly, scrapped as a result of my hangover, but later today I'll be seeing Samurai Rebellion followed by Wall-E, and tomorrow it's Kurosawa's Kagemusha followed by La Regle du Jeu.
Other things I've done since last posting: went to see Sigur Ros at the MoMA; had my sister to stay for a very happy week; went to see Pearl Jam (twice!); went on the world's fastest and tallest (not to mention uncomfortable) rollercoaster; saw Kurosawa's 'High and Low' and Herzog's fantastic 'Encounters at the End of the World'; played a lot of basketball; babysat for Matt and Kendra; read.
Songs for the Deaf: 'Ante Up' - M.O.P. feat. Busta Rhymes; 'Discipline' - Nine Inch Nails; 'W.M.A.' - Pearl Jam; 'Dies Irae' - Verdi
Quotation of the Day: when I inexplicably and in all seriousness referred to the Capra-Stewart classic 'Mr Smith Goes To Washington' as 'Mr Chips Goes To Hollywood'.
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