Human Rights March in Tel Aviv.
The following is a report on a march that took place Friday, December 11 to commemorate International Human Rights Day in Tel Aviv:
When an invitation to an event called, Ain Matzav! ("No Way!"), appeared amongst my dozens of Facebook invitations, I chose "ignore."
I was immediately skeptical. This event, proclaiming to be Israel’s first ever human rights march (already insulting), included an overbroad and noncommittal list of "human rights violations," and we were all supposed to put our proverbial collective foot down and say "no way!" But why now? What will this accomplish? What is our message??
The list began with "the destruction of our democracy" and only further down the list finally mentioned "the prolonged occupation." The deportation of children, violence against women, the biometric database, and the "peak of the decline in the state of human rights in Israel" were all included, begging the question of what was not included. I mean, as long as we’re listing the plagues of Israeli society, why not mention: gentrification; inadequate recycling; the denial of basic services to unrecognized Bedouin villages; the problematic, oxymoronic definition of the State as Jewish (and democratic); the negation of Arabic as an official language and Arab-Palestinian heritage as a legitimate part of the public space; and more?
In the week leading up to the march, much of my activist community entered an internal dispute over whether to support the march, and if so, what form our presence should take. After all, we could not imagine being in the consensus at this march. There would be people there who oppose the deportation of Darfur refugees for all the right reasons, and yet cannot fathom the right of return for Palestinian refugees. There would be people there who devote their lives to stopping domestic violence, and yet would presume that if a soldier beats a Palestinian, he deserved it.
And yet, none of us was willing to skip the march altogether. Sure, there were those who went to Bil’in, Nialin, Ma’asara, or Sheikh Jarrah to support the popular Friday demonstrations that would be down in numbers because of what probably seemed to them the "Tel Aviv human rights love parade." And there were those who decided to do direct actions in parallel to the balloon-filled and kid-friendly march. But still, we were there. We had to be.
And in the end, it was one of the more impactful marches I’ve been to in my life – and one of the timeliest.
Feeling dubious and cynical, I was running late to the march. I was expecting (hoping) traffic to be blocked by thousands of people pouring out of the square, and when the square came into view and the crowds did not I momentarily panicked that I had missed the demonstration. Of course, I know my community and my country – from peace agreements to parades to parties, we never start anything on time. And yet, I had wanted this demonstration – if nothing else – to be massive.
I slowly made my way between friends, saddened by how few unfamiliar faces there were. I tried to find a single message amidst all the posters and t-shirts and banners, but to me the message of the demonstration had become so watered down by all the various causes that it no longer held any meaning.
But something changed when we began marching, drumming, chanting, and dancing like a gust of joy blowing through the streets of Tel Aviv. It suddenly dawned on me that we were not marching because now was the pivotal moment in Israeli or regional or world history to make change. We were not marching because we have a clear message and goal and a joint plan of how to reach it. Nor were we marching because the human rights and social justice movement has reached a critical mass – just the opposite.
We were marching because we need to. We were marching because we deserve to. We were marching because even if most of us could argue with each other for another 42 years of occupation about how to end it, we all have a similar vision of a better world. And we need to come together every so often and remind ourselves not only that we’re not alone, but also that we’re allowed to smile and enjoy each other’s company and laugh deep belly laughs – in fact it is the only way we can continue in our Sisyphean struggle.
And so on this one sunny December afternoon, the streets were our streets. No matter how few thousands we were, and despite the differences in our opinions, strategies and goals, we dominated those streets with our collective hope for justice. And recognizing our differences, we were still one united march of smiles and banners, bandanas and hijabs, holding hands, blowing kisses, holding our children on our shoulders, waving flags of all colors.
At the end of the march we all gathered in the square outside the Tel Aviv public library, the art museum and the trial court, just across the street from the national military compound. Reggae music put a beat in everyone’s step, as people fluttered around the giant square (now full the way I had wanted) like butterflies finding old friends and making new ones. One of the speakers reminded us that one of the greatest benefits of being in the Israeli left is that you are surrounded by the friendliest people in Israel! I felt lucky. Then longtime activist and founder of Israeli human rights NGO Yesh Din, Ruth Kedar, reminded us all, after her more than 80 golden years, that change is possible – in fact it is happening all the time – and we mustn’t despair. I felt inspired. And as we eventually dispersed from the square and went our separate ways, I felt rejuvenated.
And then it was clear. The march did have one, solid, clear message: The sum of this movement is far greater than its parts, and how fortunate are we that each of its parts is unique and powerful and beautiful.
Emily W. Schaeffer is an American-Israeli human rights lawyer and anti-occupation activist based in Tel Aviv.
