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A Passover Message Re: Slavery

Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote an article entitled “A Passover Message Re: Freedom.” This article had three main goals. 1) It reflected upon the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in light of my recent trip to Jordan. 2) It drew parallels from the situation to the story of Passover. 3) It wished for “L’shana ha’baa — next year in Jerusalem. But, with qualifications. Mr. Olmert, Mr. Abbas and you the reader, may we see next year an internationally-zoned Jerusalem whose holiness is protected and accessible to all.”

Being as this article was so successful, having drawn criticisms from across the political spectrum at Cornell, I decided to write a second installment. I wished last year for “next year in Jerusalem,” but this year have decided to spend it at home—current home being Cairo, Egypt. I suppose my narration, therefore, harkens the reverse of the Exodus story.

Although my arguments have changed slightly since last year (and are still impossible to reach any conclusions from), the sentiment remains very much the same: I simply cannot celebrate Passover without comparing it to Israel/Palestine. One line that we read from our haggadahs in particular resonates this year: “Avadim hayinu, hayinu. Ata b'nei chorin, b'nei chorin.” We were slaves in Egypt, and now we are free.

Enslavement! We think of the Hebrews in Egypt, we think of the Romans, we think of Africans in America. Maybe it is simply too hard to think of slavery existing today, or if we do, it seems incredibly far away. We also tend to define slavery as being directly related to ownership, that to be a slave you have to belong to somebody. I tend to think of the concept of slavery much more broadly: I define slavery as a fundamental denial of one’s human rights as a result of an extreme power mismatch. Slavery is not necessarily confined by its physical dimension; in fact, it rarely is. Slavery also connotes an ideological slavery, a psychological slavery. In my opinion, this describes precisely the situation in Gaza right now.

Last week, I had the extraordinary opportunity to hear Jimmy Carter speak at the American University in Cairo as part of his historic Middle East tour. There are two parts of his speech, and his visit in general, that I want to highlight.

The first you might have read about in the New York Times or another mainstream American news source. This is Carter’s reception in Israel.

After living in Egypt for three months it is clear as crystal that if it weren’t for Jimmy Carter, his friendship with Anwar Sadat and his untiring peace efforts starting within his first months in office (not his last few days in office, unlike some other American presidents I know) Israel would likely have remained in a perpetual state of war with Egypt. In order to not romanticize the situation, I must mention that the peace here is arguably, as a friend has deemed it, a “cold peace,” and is likely to remain thus until a final status agreement is signed by Israel and her neighbors. But it is a peace nonetheless- a peace that awarded me the opportunity to literally walk across the Taba border from Egypt to Israel two weeks ago, as well as the opportunity to celebrate Purim with workers from the Israeli Embassy here a month ago and to eat a Passover meal in the center of downtown Cairo this past weekend. For Israel’s government to have snubbed Carter in such a fundamental way (not providing him with any sort of welcome, guards, or even access to Gaza) is, to me, a perfect demonstration of its unfortunate inability to handle criticism or to attempt to understand how the world outside of America views its history and current policies. At the very least, Carter’s book explains the narrative that has been embedded in the soul of the Palestinian people for the last half-century--via his firsthand experiences of over thirty years worth of mediation in the Middle East. Israel’s response to Carter’s visit reflects its provincial notion that security is only attained by exerting its power, its ability to forget the historical help of others (though the Israeli mantra is “zachor,” “remember,”) and its desperate clinging on to its own “I’m right, you’re wrong” convictions despite the authority and experience of the other source.

Secondly, President Carter opened up the floor for questions at the end of his speech. A professor at a university in Gaza plainly explained to the audience that twelve of her brightest students had been awarded full scholarships to study in America and Europe, “to receive the education that they deserve.” She then appealed directly and humbly to Carter for help: these students have still, after several months, not received Israeli permission to leave.

Imagine having been born in a place- and simply by virtue of having been born there, without having done anything individually to deserve it- being denied the fundamental human right to leave and return to your own home at will. As American University in Cairo is on Spring Break right now (I am enjoying the freedom of leaving Egypt and returning to it in a few days), it is haunting, horrific and necessary to turn towards those that are imprisoned in their own land. What could possibly represent a stripping of human dignity more?

Indeed, I agree with Jimmy Carter’s assessment that the situation in Gaza is “an atrocity, an abomination perpetrated as punishment” for the Gazans electing Hamas. I am not as concerned with the mismatched numbers which reflect the mismatched military power. I will not engage, here, in “comparative martyrology.” I am more concerned with the mistmatched mentalities. I am more concerned with the fact that two weeks ago, I sat in a park watching innumerable Israeli families ride their bicycles in beautiful Tel Aviv, while right next door Gazans are receiving less calories a day than the poorest Sub-Saharan African countries. And more than anything, I am concerned with the ideologies which have perpetuated such a power-relational situation. I am concerned with the fact that when human beings believe that we “own” land, that one group has more of a right to it than another, we become slaves. We become slaves to the oversimplifying dichotomies of “mine” and “yours;” “right” and “wrong;” “just” and “unjust.”

Indeed, the Passover narrative tells of the Hebrews shedding their mental shackles as well as their physical ones; it is a story of human potentiality, of human rights realizations. Until Israel can broaden its provincial concept of security so that every “defensive” act is not disproportionate-bordering-on-cruel, understand that the full freedoms of its own citizens are inextricably linked with the mental, psychological, and physical freedoms of its neighbors, and accept that it must immediately take steps to cease its inhumane shirking of responsibilities as the occupying power, the Gazans, to me, are physically and psychologically enslaved.

Last Passover, I urged fellow Cornellians to look around and appreciate their freedoms. This Passover, I want to declare that I, as all of us, am surely a subconscious slave to various ideologies. But the one poison I refuse to be enslaved by is the one which tells us that it is a hypocrisy to say the following: I am a proud Jew and my heart is with Gaza.

Ariela Rutkin-Becker, a former Sun columnist, is abroad this semester in Cairo. Send letters for publication to letters@cornellsun.com. Ariela can be contacted at arutbeck@gmail.com. Guest Room appears periodically.

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