It’s Not About the Peace Process, but About Peace as a Value

It’s Not About the Peace Process, but About Peace as a Value

By Rabbi DONNIEL HARTMAN

The peace process has returned to our public and political discourse. With President Obama's visit, coupled with Secretary of State Kerry's fresh enthusiasm, Israeli and Palestinian leaders are being challenged to dust the cobwebs off their negotiation strategies and find ways to renew the conversation about our common future.

Is peace, however, a process or a value? Over the years, under the belief that the other side no longer sees it as a value, Israeli society has followed suit. In a deep way we have relinquished the aspiration for peace, relegating it to the back shelf of messianic dreams and the prayer book. Since we have perceived it as unattainable, instead of living with the pain of unfulfillable yearnings, we have realigned our expectations. And so, peace has become a "process," to be managed, to be spoken about at appropriate times, in particular, when it serves our public relations interests. The maintenance of the process has become an end unto itself.

The beauty of a process lies not only in the immunity it provides from disappointment but also in the lowering of demands that are required of us. We merely have to show that we are negotiating in good faith and are willing to show up and talk at any time and at any place, with no preconditions. The latter is of particular value, as it enhances the chances that the process will continue, God willingly, indefinitely. As long as everything is on the table, the peace process is guaranteed an inexhaustible supply of issues to talk about. As long as we are talking, we are fulfilling our duties to the process.

Truth be told, there is a value underlying the "process," and that is the survival of the State and the security of our citizens. As long as one is committed to the peace process, war is off the table and acts of violence which exceed what is perceived as a tolerable level are condemned. Those who are committed to the process are by definition committed to doing everything in their power to limit such acts. And so, we are committed to the process, for in the unpredictable and volatile Middle East, it provides some comfort and stability and maintenance of a status quo which is an improvement on the alternative.

The Israel whose 65th birthday we are about to celebrate, the Israel which I love, however, never saw the status quo as a goal. While survival and security are certainly values of tremendous worth, they never exhausted the hopes of our people. We come from a tradition in which peace is not a process but a value, a value which far transcends the absence of bloodshed. When our rabbis teach us that all of Torah was given for the sake of peace, they are asking us to reorient our consciousness of ourselves and of our reality.

Peace as a value challenges us to think of the possibilities of what life would be like when we live in harmony with ourselves, others, and our surroundings. It is a life not defined by a zero-sum game consciousness but by the possibilities of win-win. It is when a sum total far exceeds the value of its parts. When we see the other and are open to being enriched by the lessons they can teach us. It is when we enable ourselves to transcend self-interest and to experience the joy and completeness which come from giving. It is when justice for all truly reigns within the land.

Like all values, peace is difficult to attain. The world of realpolitik does not merely question it but attempts to erode its place within our system of values. In a harsh world in which naivete is often dangerous, the value of peace is often undermined. And thus, we give birth to the peace "process."

However, when something is a value, truly a value of such significance that it can be spoken of as the goal of all of Torah, one does not let the exigencies of reality destroy it. The meaning of holding something to be a value is that I shape my world in its light and do not allow the world to shape it. Now, to hold peace as a value does not mean that one is naively innocent and childish. It does not mean that I expect "peace now." It does mean, however, that I want peace now.

As a value whose implementation never ceases to obligate me, I think about it, speak about it, dream about it and constantly ask myself one simple question: What do I have to do today to bring peace closer? The attainment of peace, like a process, requires two sides. However, while a process is by definition a negotiation among parties, peace as a value obligates everyone independently. While the fulfillment of peace is not only dependent on me, the actions of others do not absolve me of my responsibilities. These responsibilities include the ongoing education of my fellow citizens to ensure the immunization of our values in the face of the cynicism potentially promulgated by the "realists." It requires the education of our citizens to prefer the pain of unattained hopes over the short-term comfort of lower expectations and the self-righteous aggrandizement of arguing, "It's not our fault."

It obligates us at the very least to assess all of our actions and ensure that there is nothing that we are doing to hinder its implementation. Only when peace is truly a central value within our national culture, can such an honest assessment occur.

Finally, embedded within the notion of a value is the willingness to reprioritize, to take risks, and to be willing to pay a price not merely for its implementation but also to enhance the chances of its implementation. As a value it is more valuable than other things, and our politics must give expression to this not only in words but in actions.

When peace is a process, acquiescing beforehand to preconditions, confidence-building measures, and pre-commitment to a particular outcome or framework for resolution is unnecessary. The goal of the process itself is precisely to work these things out, hopefully indefinitely or at the very least until blame is placed on the other side, at which time we can freeze the process, to be resumed at an as yet to be determined later date.

When peace is a value, however, we must do a tremendous amount of work first and foremost among ourselves, assessing how it can best be achieved and co-exist with our other values. We are engaged in a never-ending process among ourselves to determine the principles which will shape our policy, a policy founded on the yearning to implement the value. As such, we neither fear confidence-building measures nor preconditions, as long as they are in sync with our principles. To negotiate in good faith is not to come to an empty table but to one in which both sides have done extensive work and can show how their values get translated into policy. These are not concessions that we make to the other but strategies which we are willing to execute to enhance the possibility of implementation of the values which are ours.

We are now 65 years old and can celebrate the gifts of Jewish sovereignty, power, and success. What do we want to celebrate when we are 66? Will we want to give thanks to one more year in which we were able to maintain the status quo, or will we be able to celebrate a year in which our national identity reconnected with its noblest values and aspirations? Will we dare to emerge out of the "process" and embrace the value? It may not make any difference in the status of our relationship with our neighbors, but it will at the very least change who we are and what we do. As for the rest, who knows?

Sayed Kashua complains he can't complain about seder night

What is the proper Arab reaction to the strange prohibitions against eating bread on Passover and driving on Yom Kippur?

By Sayed Kashua | 

I'm so happy that I’m once again stuck in the morning traffic jams. I’m so happy that I’m once again driving my kids to school, that an irritable driver is cursing me out because he isn’t willing to slow down for a split second when I turn right. I’m happy that once again there’s escalation in the south and tension in the north, and that Limor Livnat is still the culture and sports minister. Finally back to routine.

I was very happy to return home after a long and difficult trip of several weeks abroad. I missed the children so much, and was so much looking forward to seeing them that it was very moving when I entered the house that evening. After 10 minutes of hugs, kisses and giving out presents, I took a sleeping pill that my wife bought for overcoming jet lag. It worked wonders and I decided to adopt the method on my future trips.
I slept for an entire night and when I woke up the next morning the kids were at home. “Passover vacation,” said my wife, “did you forget?”

The truth is I had.

“So, what are we doing?” she added. “The children are bored.”

The children are bored is the sentence I heard every morning from the time I landed until the day I went back to the office. The kids are bored, and when they’re bored the older ones can kill each other, and the little one will continue his attempts to commit suicide by jumping off the sofa head first, or by sending his plastic bicycle down the stairs while riding it.

So, on Passover, because the children are bored, we drove to my parents on seder night, and ate stuffed vine leaves. Kids in Tira are also bored. The schools have closed for a vacation of over two weeks, which is called “spring vacation.” What else should they call it? Forced Passover vacation for Arabs?

I know that Passover, or any school vacation, can be very problematic for parents, both Jewish and Arab. But it becomes intolerable when you’re not part of the holiday, and you don’t enjoy any rituals, as boring as they may be, related to the holiday. So for us, instead of Sukkot there is the “winter vacation,” and in the Arab sector it definitely doesn’t mean ski vacations. Plus, as mentioned, there’s spring holiday, during which we don’t exactly frolick on green hills and chase colorful butterflies.

We’re just stuck in a Jewish holiday without the slightest idea of what we’re supposed to do. We don’t even have the right to complain about seder night, or about the annoying aunties. And when it comes to people like us, who live in a Jewish city, we’re stuck with a spring vacation, without bread.

Sometimes I think about the country during Jewish holidays and it strikes me as a place that’s clearly insane. Mainly on Yom Kippur and Passover, when an entire country adopts religious prohibitions. An entire country that can stop traffic because of a divine commandment, an entire country in which supermarkets cover banned foods with plastic sheeting. I might have understood this behavior when it comes to Jews living as a minority in foreign countries, where they try to maintain some kind of identity, a shared destiny and a unique character. There are week-long rituals during which they refrain from eating hametz, and by doing so feel like a chosen − or oppressed − people. Take your pick. But when it comes to an entire country, to a law, to people who have already become the majority, it starts to be somewhat worrisome.

Come to think of it, it is actually the Arabs, as a minority, who should adopt some kind of secret rules to distinguish them from other people a few days a year.
“Listen,” I said to my wife as we sat down to eat hummus in Abu Ghosh, like all the Jews. “We have to find Passover rules for ourselves.”

“What does that mean?” she said, perusing the menu.

“We won’t survive this without certain rules, without special rituals − it’s a nightmare that’s liable to continue for many years to come, and we have to prepare accordingly.”
“By doing what?” asked my wife, when one of the waiters in a blue shirt approached with a notebook to take our order.

“Hummus with ful,” said my daughter.

“With an egg?” asked the waiter.

“We don’t eat eggs during the spring holiday,” I answered the waiter in Arabic, and the children were actually pleased with the idea, smiled, and only my wife made a face and ordered kebab.

“Rules like that,” I said to my wife, “small but meaningful rules in the process of consolidating a people and building a nation.”

The children and I hadn’t eaten eggs for an entire week, and the Passover vacation was not yet over. Before the final day of the holiday, we drove to a Dead Sea hotel that cost us NIS 3,000 for a single night. In the evening we stood in line with Israeli, French and American vacationers; there was no bread, and we didn’t touch any dish containing eggs. The children were even willing to tolerate the idea that they couldn’t eat schnitzel.

In the morning, we tried to find empty seats next to the pool. Although the pool was empty, the seats had been taken by guests who left towels and other items on them and beneath the umbrellas. Despite the oppressive heat the water was freezing, and the air was filled with sand. Aside from the pool or the beach there’s nothing to do at the Dead Sea, so the pool gradually filled up with tourists.

“What’s that? The one with the area code 059,” shouted a short, fat guy next to me to his wife, as he looked at the screen of the cellphone ringing in his hand. “It’s an Arabush [pejorative term for Arab] area code, isn’t it?” he giggled out loud, and I continued to smear the children with sunscreen.

“Dad,” my son whispered to me, glancing at the short, fat guy, and back at me, waiting for me to react.

“Because of that,” I said to my son, as I took a deep breath, “because of people like him, we don’t eat eggs during the spring holiday.”