Tag Archives: Jewish-Arab

Self-hating Jewish-Arabs, and a short AJ+ interview

Last week I gave an interview to AJ+, in which I talked a bit about the dehumanization of Palestinians and its progress over the years in Israel, to its terminal current phase (see some more on this topic here). Below you’ll find some thoughts on the Arab-Jewish aspect of things, and how self-hate relates to them.

One very important thing I have to say about all the videos and images of IDF soldiers mocking Palestinians and making all those displays of shaming and humiliation that we saw – mimicking Arab women crying and mourning their dead children, and showcasing their underwear like a collector of art shows their cherished items.

If you zoom out of the “conflict” as propagandized by Israel and its wacky supporters in the West, you realize many of those IDF soldiers are actually ethnic Arabs. Their grandmothers, or grand-grandmothers, looked and sounded exactly like those mourning women they deride (do you start to get the levels of self-hate, and self-denial?).

By making such a huge deal of public humiliation of Arab stereotypes, those soldiers are really declaring to us, to the world: I have rejected all in the name of Zionism. Look at me humiliate my own sister, my own mother, my own grandmother, my own language, my own heritage, in the name of my new, fabricated identity (“Judaism as told by Zionism”). ‘

This is a major part of the psychological dynamics at play here. In recent decades, being an Arab Jew has become very popular in Israel. Everybody adores Arab food and constantly flaunts the little Arabic they know (in the form of curse words or some very short idioms).

This process is part of the cultural rehabilitation of Mizrahi Jews, who have been brutalized, sidelined, and exploited immensely by the historically Ashkenazi Israeli establishments. But this process of restoring a place for the Arab Jew on the popular Israeli stage was hysterically apolitical: you are allowed to love Arab food and Arab music, but god forbid you will love Arabs. God forbid you will see them as human, and equally.

Arabs have been reduced to representing folklore only (Mizrahi Jews, being the political idiots they always have been in Zionism, not getting that this prejudicial view deflects heavily on them, and reduces their identity to empty performance, to a depoliticized, simulated native, fake as everything else in the colonizer’s world).

So this phenomenon of public shaming and humiliation can be seen as a cleansing ritual: young Israeli men, who would be considered Arabs if they were born in any other time in the past millennium, show the world that they are not. That they are, in fact, nothing but empty vessels filled exclusively by content created and approved by the Zionist state.

For me, the opposite process was precipitated in this genocide. As my country and my society took on a monstrous aspect, and as the West completely failed on the most basic form of morality (dying, starving, mutilated children, for god’s sake, how can anyone fail this test?), I was left with nowhere to turn to but my Arabness. I was left with nothing but memories of the kindness and gentleness of my Jewish-Arab father, and the disestablishmentarian wit of my Oud-playing Jewish-Arab uncle, and their families, and the humanity of Palestinians and Arabs I have seen and met over the years. For me, nothing else is left.

The life of (my) life, soul of my soul

I have been calling my daughter what translates from Hebrew as “the life of life” or “love of love” for some years now; this is a modern, Israeli take of an Arabic use of language.

I grew up in a very Zionist place and time. But I was lucky enough to grow up among Mizrahi, Arab Jews; both my father and my beloved uncle spoke Arabic as their first language, and the two, childhood friends, married two sisters, my mom and aunt, born in Morocco to Jewish parents.

Arab music was part of the soundtrack of my childhood, and from a young age I knew the names and would recognize the voices of legends such as Farid al-Atrash, Abdel Halim Hafez, Warda, Umm Kulthum, Fairuz and others.

My father would also take me to work occasionally (he was an aluminum worker in construction), and his teammate Isaa, a Palestinian from Nazareth, was a family friend’ really, as were all his teammates. We all knew him and loved and welcomed him whoever we met.

I never forgot how, one cold winter morning, when I tagged along with my father on a work day, Issa’s wife made us coffee and tea, accompanied by sweet, delicious sugar powder-covered cookies, as they wouldn’t let us just pick Issa up and go (I certainly can’t speak for all Arabs homes but I know enough to say with confidence that you don’t just pass through an Arab home: you sit and have coffee and eat something and have some small talk. Arabs Jews are also similar in that regard).

Like many 2nd and 3rd generation Mizrahi Jews, I can’t speak Arabic, but I pick up quite a lot of it, and the musicality of the language always sounds a little like home to me. Fortunate to have been around Arabs, Jews and just Arabs, from a young age, I was never intimidated by anything Arab. On the contrary: I grew immensely fond of the gentleness, the warmth of heart, the humor, and the special sweetness of an Arab street, store or home.

In later years, I was lamenting the forced disconnect between me and my Arab roots created by Israel’s paranoid mentality. Like many other Arab Jews of my generation, I was not an Arab anymore, but not really an Israeli as well (to this day I am not sure what being Israeli means, really, apart from a negation of Jewish experiences and denial of current realities).

Israeli, just like American or English, connotes whiteness. And white we Mizrahi Jews are not, nor will we ever be. Unlike many Mizrahi Jews, I refused to become an empty shell, filled only with the ideological content of the state: A de-Arabized Arab Jew. That I wouldn’t be. I chose to be free instead.

When I heard of the way Khaled, Reem’s grandfather, called her, and how similar it was to the way I call my daughter, and when I see the suffering, wounds, burns, pain and death of Gaza’s children, the memory and consciousness of me and my roots, both known and simply genetic, springs to life immediately, undeniable and bare.

These kids are not foreign or alien to me. They are me and mine, too. I feel their pain and fear, I understand the terms of endearment and the farewells of their grief-stricken parents, even as I really understand but a few words here and there. My soul understands Arabic is the way I’d put it.

Zionism’s message of fear, hate and suspicion towards Arabs and Palestinians is totally and forever lost on me, and I consider it a personal triumph. I will never hate Arab people. And I ache the terrible dehumanization of Arab people, societies and communities that have so much beauty, gentleness and love in them. The world will know the truth. I am sure of that, and I will do whatever I can to help bring this day about, which is why I write this.

(And that’s me and my daughter)

(This text was my real inaugural Twitter post in English)