Monday, Dec. 03, 2012
The Gaza Problem
By Karl Vick / Tel Aviv

Gaza is mostly sand, but things grow there, just as they do in Israel, the land the enclave's residents remember as their own. Back in 1956, Israeli military hero General Moshe Dayan urged his countrymen to keep that history in mind at the funeral of a young kibbutz commander killed by Arabs who had sneaked out of the coastal strip, already brimming with people and hard feelings. "For eight years now," said Dayan, "they have sat in the refugee camps of Gaza and have watched how, before their very eyes, we have turned their lands and villages, where they and their forefathers previously dwelled, into our home." He predicted the enmity would last for generations, and it has.

But half a century of history has allowed the cycle of violence to settle into a routine. In an Israel that has put down roots, some officials describe dealing with Gaza as "cutting the grass." The phrase refers to the business of launching military assaults into the Gaza Strip every so often, whacking away at the militants who have grown too bold, in their eyes, like weeds. What the rest of the world regards as war--Israeli officials prefer to call it an "operation"--has become a chore, more than a little dangerous but not to be avoided.

Except that the issues at its root have not gone away. And the missiles are flying farther and farther. More than a million Israelis live within range of the smaller rockets--homemade projectiles and Soviet-era Grads--that militants routinely launch from Gaza, and a million or two more reside within the Tel Aviv environs reached by a handful of longer-range missiles in the latest fighting. The sirens sound, and even if the country's Iron Dome antimissile system knocks 9 out of 10 rockets from the sky, there is that 10th one. You still have to run to the shelter or dive under a table. Schools close. Work is missed.

For Gazans, it's far worse. There are 1.6 million people crammed in a space twice the size of Washington, D.C., and the noise of Israel's mower is terrifying. In the first six days of Operation Pillar of Defense, the Israelis sent more than 1,500 shells and missiles into Gaza and exploded tons of ordnance, blackening an urban environment that already resembled Baghdad. Despite Israel's emphasis on surgical strikes, civilian casualties have jerked upward. A family of nine was crushed in a single searing blast. According to Gazan officials, more than 100 Palestinians have been killed in the operation thus far. (Five Israelis have died.) President Obama, who gave the Israeli air campaign his blessing, saying, "No country on earth ... would tolerate missiles raining down on its citizens," cautioned against a ground assault and sent Secretary of State Hillary Clinton to the region even as Egypt tried to negotiate a cease-fire.

The proposed terms, like everything else in the cycle of conflict, had the ring of familiarity. If Hamas ceased firing the rockets, Israel would stop targeting the group's leaders with missiles and drones, and the 45,000 Israeli reservists gathered just outside Gaza would return to their lives as clerks and fathers. Until next time.

Since 2005, Israel has done all sorts of landscaping in Gaza, ranging from routine air strikes on missile-launch crews to two full-scale operations, including Cast Lead in 2008--a campaign that cost the lives of 1,400 Palestinians and won Israel much opprobrium. It is all part of the essential problem of dealing with Gaza: there has always been a next time.

History's Stepchild
Gaza is a stepchild of history. It has been ruled by both Egypt and Israel and is beloved by neither, which is a problem for all. Gazans are emphatically Palestinian, a national identity forged from the trauma of losing their land to Jewish armies in 1948, the year Israel was established. Many defeated Arab landowners fled to Gaza, where 3 out of 4 residents are classified as refugees. Hamas' top official there, Ismail Haniya, lives in a Gaza City refugee settlement called Beach Camp. The Jews initially made no claim to Gaza, and the strip of coast became a holding pen administered by Egypt's military. The West Bank was annexed by Jordan.

So things stood until the Six-Day War in 1967, when Israel swept over both areas. It took control as an occupying power, and for almost four decades that arrangement remained in place. Palestinian residents of Gaza and the West Bank even went to work each day in Israel.

The process of setting Gaza apart was gradual. Until 1991, after the first intifadeh, or uprising, Palestinians could move freely between Gaza and the West Bank. Four years later, Israel began building a fence around Gaza. In 2000, when the far more violent second intifadeh began, Israel closed the gate. Hundreds of thousands of people who had traveled daily to work in Israel found themselves locked in the enclave.

In September 2005, Israel pulled out completely from the territory, gathering up 8,000 settlers and all its troops and leaving behind--so it says--all its obligations as an occupying power. It left the lights on (Gaza's sputtering electricity is attached to Israel's grid) and sends in food, but it has no intention of going back except to perform its grass cutting, which is invariably mediated by Egypt. After all, Gaza is on Egypt's doorstep too. "Most fundamentally," says Ofer Zalzberg, an analyst for the International Crisis Group, "the problem of Gaza is that it is a hot potato that Israel and Egypt basically try to throw to the other's lap."

This time the biggest surprise is how much it's like all the other times. The Arab Spring barely dented Gaza. The enclave remains under the rule of the Islamic Resistance Movement, better known as Hamas, which, after winning legislative elections in 2006, drove out the secular Fatah party once led by Yasser Arafat. Today, Fatah dominates in the West Bank, where about 2.3 million Palestinians reside, and Hamas governs Gaza, which has become such a haven for militants that even Israel regards Hamas as a moderating influence. Pillar of Defense was launched--with a missile strike on a car carrying the head of Hamas' military wing--to "restore deterrence," in Israeli parlance. It was pointed retaliation for Hamas' failing to prevent more-radical militants from launching missiles.

Egypt, of course, was altered by its revolution. The land of the pharaohs is now ostensibly a democracy. Egyptians forced a longtime dictator from power and replaced him, after a long electoral process that ended in June, with a member of the Muslim Brotherhood--which, by the way, is the same Islamist organization that spawned Hamas. But if Hamas' leaders expected Egypt's revolution to alter the Gaza Strip's dynamics with Israel, recent events have provided a lesson in the primacy of national interest and the stubborn depth of Gaza's dilemma. Under former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, Gaza's door to Egypt--the dusty border crossing at Rafah, on the strip's western edge--was mostly kept shut. The doors have not opened more than a few inches since the Brotherhood's Mohamed Morsy became President. The reason is simple enough: Egypt does not want to take responsibility for 1.6 million more people; it already has 80 million mostly impoverished citizens. Nor is Cairo keen to absorb Gaza's Islamic extremists. Egypt's largely lawless Sinai peninsula is riddled with jihadis, some inspired by al-Qaeda.

Israel would have fewer problems if Egypt annexed Gaza and Cairo became responsible for keeping the peace. "The irony here is that Israel and Hamas have the same objective: both Israel and Hamas want to see a more normalized border between the Gaza Strip and Egypt," says Mouin Rabbani, a senior fellow at the Institute for Palestine Studies. "The ones who have so far been dead set against this are the Egyptians."

Despite Morsy's proclamations of Islamist solidarity with Hamas, he's got domestic issues. Egyptians may care about the Palestinian cause--they fought four wars against Israel before the 1979 peace treaty--but like the people of almost every other Arab nation, they remain jealous of their nationhood. Gazans permitted into Egypt complain of bureaucratic harassment, especially at the Cairo airport. Among workaday Egyptians, the mistrust may be rooted in Mubarak-era caricatures of Gazans as extremists and thugs, but the coolness remains.

The Cage by the Sea
If visitors could pass through the long metal shed from Israel into Gaza--the tunnel that Gazans once used to get to and return from work--they would depart what feels like Europe and emerge, after a long walk in the dark, in what feels like the third world, only caged. Just past the wall, within range of automated machine guns, children scavenge concrete rubble to load onto donkey carts. In a tally kept by the Swiss advocacy group Defence for Children International, 30 times in the space of 19 months a child was shot by an Israeli sniper for straying too close to the wall. Aid became one of the few cash industries after Hamas took over and Israel sealed the area off entirely.

"The idea is to put the Palestinians on a diet but not to make them die of hunger," a senior Israeli official said in 2006, when Israel limited the amount of food going into Gaza. The formula allowed 2,784 daily calories for an adult man, 2,162 for an adult woman and 1,758 for a child up to age 10, according to a document unearthed by Gisha, a group that advocates for freedom of movement for Gazans. The policy was abandoned in the international uproar following a Turkish ship's effort to break the Israeli naval blockade in May 2010.

The siege transformed Gaza into a man-made ecosystem of outrage and despair. As in Baghdad, Gaza City's streets roar with the sound of Honda generators; downtown sidewalks are a snarl of extension cords. The beach is beautiful but parceled into sections by sewage drains and patrolled by Israeli gunboats. A U.N. report warns that without change, in eight years Gaza will cease to be "a livable place." Its economy depends significantly on tunnels from Egypt, through which come not just missiles and arms but also consumer goods and commodities. The tunnels became Israeli targets in the current fighting.

"I don't remember a good day," Lina al-Sharif told me last year on the waterfront. She was 22 and blogged about life in Gaza. "It makes you feel less deserving as a human being," she said. "The feeling of being trapped is becoming something from inside you. Because when you go outside your house, you know there is nothing for you. I believe the siege is becoming internalized."

The Arab Spring was fresh then, and al-Sharif had promoted a demonstration demanding that Hamas and Fatah bury their differences. But Hamas thugs broke up the protest, and an announced reconciliation fell apart. The latest violence is marginalizing Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas and his effort to win state status at the U.N. on Nov. 29. Palestinians were asking why he did not journey to Gaza during the fighting, as officials from Egypt, Tunisia and Turkey did.

Those pilgrimages were the one new element in the old story, signaling not only recognition of Hamas but also an important realignment flowing from the Arab Spring. Hamas is now separated from its old non-Sunni Muslim sponsors, Shi'ite Iran and Alawite-ruled Syria, and its most prominent backers have become Qatar, Turkey and, within limits, Egypt. All three are Sunni, and all three are allied with the U.S., as, of course, is Israel. In the lull that follows each cycle of fighting as reliably as spring follows winter, that new reality may hold the possibility of escaping the cycle, perhaps to plant a new idea. Before the soil is exhausted.

≪ ガザ問題 ≫






< 歴史の落し子 >








< 海に囲まれた監獄 >






Monday, Aug. 13, 2012
The Ultra-Holy City
By Karl Vick / Jerusalem
With their numbers and their political clout growing, the ultra-Orthodox aren't just changing the makeup of Jerusalem. They are altering Israel's national identity.

Elhanan Gibli found God. not just in the personal-salvation sense. There was an address.

God was last known to reside approximately 300 yards north of the minimart at the corner of Ma'ale HaShalom and Wadi Hilwa. There stood the Second Temple, built around the Ark of the Covenant containing the Holy of Holies. And two millennia after the temple's destruction, the power of the divine still radiated so potently from the remaining stones that Gibli recalls feeling it in his entire being the first time he entered Jerusalem's Old City, at age 13. The welling of awe affirmed a pair of decisions: One was to live his life as his parents had, wholly within a very conservative strain of Judaism known as ultra-Orthodox. The other was to live that life in Jerusalem. Both would play hell with the local real estate market.

Millions visit the Holy City each year. Most are pilgrims to the signal sites of Christianity, though Muslims gather at their own great shrine above the Western Wall. Neither, however, are terribly welcome as residents. Since 1967, Jerusalem has become a resolutely Jewish city, so much so that the central question preoccupying residents today is not how it might be divided with Palestinians--for they are widely ignored of late--but rather just how religiously conservative the city can become while remaining a place most Israeli Jews could imagine living.

Forty-five years after the last decisive contest for the city--the lightning push by Israeli forces who needed just two days of the Six-Day War to take the whole place--a new battle for Jerusalem is under way. This contest is a grinding war of attrition, fought from trench lines etched across leafy neighborhoods of a city divided between Jews like Gibli, who wear black fedoras and sit primly away from women on public buses, and Jews like Noam Pinchasi, who keeps a glossy of Marilyn Monroe next to the fridge.

Both men own apartments in a neighborhood called Kiryat Yovel, a seemingly serene urban glade that is sizing up as the Somme or perhaps Little Big Horn. In a city of almost 800,000 people, Kiryat Yovel may be the last stand for Jews like Pinchasi, seculars who for decades have been fleeing the city in droves. Some 20,000 have left in the past seven years alone, reducing the share of the population who wear their faith lightly from a 37% plurality to a 31% minority, the same percentage as the ultra-Orthodox, but the number of ultra-Orthodox is rising. (About 35% of Jerusalem is Muslim Palestinian, with the remainder Christian or undeclared.)

It's a flight much of Israel is watching with concern bordering on alarm. The ultra-Orthodox are the fastest growing population in a Jewish state long governed by seculars but lately grappling with just how Jewish it wants to be. Not three months after Benjamin Netanyahu assembled what was called a broad coalition of extraordinary stability, it flew apart over the question of what to do about the ultra-Orthodox. The centrist Kadima party returned to opposition after Netanyahu refused to alienate the religious parties by requiring their youth to serve in the military. Draft avoidance is just one privilege. The ultra-Orthodox, whose hermetic lifestyle may be based on preoccupation with the next world but whose political clout defines savvy in this one, also enjoy subsidies for child care, education and housing. The community's power only grows with its numbers. Uncontained, it stands to fundamentally alter Israel's identity.

"This is a war over territory," says Pinchasi, speaking without metaphor. On Friday nights, he leads commando raids with like-minded compatriots on enemy positions, dodging police and groups of angry "blacks"--as the ultra-Orthodox are sometimes called--to sow discomfort and mischief. He's been arrested; he's been roughed up. But each week he's back out, an urban guerrilla in a hoodie, slapping posters of classic nude paintings on synagogue doors. "They're afraid their children will see things they shouldn't see," he explains. "Our message is very strong and clear: This is not like Ramot, Ramot Eshkol, Neve Yaakov, Maalot Dafna," he says, naming Jerusalem neighborhoods that started out secular and are now solid black. "Here it is going to be war."

Men in Black
Three generations ago, the ultra-Orthodox were all but extinct. Their Lazarus-like comeback either threatens the fabric of Israel or, as they see it, points the way to the nation's salvation. Born in 18th century Eastern Europe--the inspiration for their wardrobe--the movement originated with rabbis who rejected the age of reason. Life was to be lived strictly by the Book--studying it and raising children in a tightly controlled environment to ensure that they would grow up to do the same. "We believe the way of life for us--to endeavor to keep the Bible, which we got from Moses--is difficult," says Yitzchak Pindrus, the ultra-Orthodox vice mayor of Jerusalem. "For a teenager, a youngster, the way to keep it is to stay in a certain, let's say, frame. That's why we want to live like our grandfathers. It's not about someone else," he says. "It helps us keep the Bible."

This means not only side locks on men and wigs or scarves on women but also separating girls from boys as early as nursery school. It means barring smart phones, which can access licentiousness on the Internet. It means a host of things far more easily assured if everyone in town is pulling in the same direction.

So when ultra-Orthodox Jews arrive in a neighborhood, they come in numbers. Three years ago, when Gibli moved to Kiryat Yovel, he was the first ultra-Orthodox in his building. Now ultra-Orthodox occupy four of the eight apartments. Like Gibli's, each is crowded with religious books and children: Gibli and his wife Rachel have produced five in six years of marriage. "Every child is a gift," he says.

The munificence is changing the complexion of the city. At city hall on the day of our interview, Pindrus had appointments with three ultra-Orthodox groups looking to open kindergartens--the bellwether of a neighborhood turning black. In Jerusalem, the children of the very religious account for 65% of elementary-school pupils. Across Israel, where ultra-Orthodox now account for 10% of the population, they make up 21% of elementary-school enrollment. Demographers calculate that with a birthrate three to four times that of seculars, they will account for 1 in 5 Israelis in 20 years.

"We'll give you a good price because we want you out of here," a man in a black hat told a woman named Etty Ohaion when he knocked at her door one recent day. A lot of people would have sold.

Almost wiped out by the Nazis, the ultra-Orthodox now unnerve others with their fecundity, overflowing districts built expressly for them, conquering neighborhoods designated for others. But something was afoot in Kiryat Yovel. Ohaion closed her door. And when a religious man made an offer to Pinchasi's neighbor, the urban guerrilla took things up a notch. "I have barbecues during Shabbat," Pinchasi told the man, keenly aware of the prohibition on fire on the Sabbath. "Pork. We're going to play music. We smoke." His eyes danced. "And we bring prostitutes here. "

The man bought anyway, perhaps driven by the housing market's law of supply and demand. One thousand religious couples wed in the city each year and start looking for a place of their own in the Holy City. Jerusalem is surrounded on its north, south and east by Palestinian territory, and they could move there. But Israel pays a political price every time it builds there. "Where am I supposed to go?" asks Gibli, on a park bench in Kiryat Yovel, which lies to the west.

Attacks and Counterattacks
Kiryat Yovel translates as "Jubilee Town." Named to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the organization that began purchasing land for a future state, its streets are named for countries that voted to affirm Israel's entry into the U.N. General Assembly and for the heroes of Zionism, the ideology that demanded the country's creation. The neighborhood was never homogeneous: professors can be found in the single-family homes with the commanding views. Lower down lies Stern Street, named for the fascist founder of the preindependence Stern Gang and the progenitor of a gang of its own: delinquents from the high-rises hastily built to shelter the poorest immigrants. Still, until the ultra-Orthodox began buying about eight years ago, the area was overwhelmingly secular.

Pinchasi qualifies as a prototype. "I'm not an atheist," he says. His family lights a candle and blesses the wine on Friday nights. Yet religion is an almost vestigial element of his primary identity, which is Israeli. Pinchasi personifies the New Jew, the muscular alternative early Zionist fashioned against the stereotype of the scrawny scholar of Eastern Europe's ghettos--precisely the type embraced by the ultra-Orthodox. First as a paratrooper, then as a sky marshal and finally as a bodyguard for Israel's President, Pinchasi devoted the first half of his life to protecting the state. When, in his 30s, he left the field to younger men, he decided to make a living with a driving school, only to find himself tooling around a city that looked less and less like him.

Jerusalem's holiness was reasserting itself. "The whole idea of the spiritual Jerusalem is becoming much stronger," says Rabbi Moshe Grylak, editor in chief of the ultra-Orthodox weekly Mishpacha. For decades, religious Jews, keen to remain near the Western Wall of the Second Temple, lived in the Old City or in a couple of neighborhoods outside. Today Jerusalem's entire north side teems with men in black and women in wigs pushing baby carriages.

Their numbers brought political power, which brought money. In Israel's parliamentary system, governments are formed by coalitions; since 1977, all but one have included ultra-Orthodox parties. They make great partners: religious parties deliver votes and in return ask only to continue to be left alone with their state subsidies for small children, housing and the religious schools that men attend most of their adult lives. "They're working in a world economy but not in this world," says Bar Ilan University professor Menachem Friedman, an expert on the ultra-Orthodox. "They're accumulating mitzvahs to get a good seat in the next world."

The arrangement began in 1948, when Israel's founders created just 400 slots to replenish the stock of Torah scholars wiped out in the Holocaust. Thirty years later, Menachem Begin saw votes in increasing the number, and today Torah study has become an entitlement. Not even half of ultra-Orthodox men work for wages. Fewer still serve in the military. The situation engenders resentment among taxpayers and veterans that is lately exploding into the political realm. One of the events that shattered Netanyahu's coalition was the "suckers protest," 20,000 people taking their objections to the ultra-Orthodox into the streets--the venue Pinchasi has been sneaking down to for two years, always under cover of darkness.

Pinchasi ghosts around the block in his wife's car, a white Subaru model called, nicely, a B4. The first lap is with headlights off. "I'm trying not to be paranoid," Pinchasi says, but it's a night operation in the new battle for Jerusalem, and he's been tailed before. More than once, he says, an unmarked car disturbed the stillness of a Sabbath night a moment after his own car passed, falling in a few lengths back.

Another Friday after midnight, a squad car pulled up just as he got behind the wheel. "Hi, Noam," the officer said. "Where are you going? I hope you're not out to make trouble." Pinchasi smiled. On the backseat lay a pot of glue and a roll of posters celebrating the unclothed female form. "I'm going here and there," Pinchasi said, only the truth.

His crusade began after a pair of neighborhood pools banned mixed swimming during daylight hours. It gained steam when unlicensed synagogues appeared in homes and storefronts. The city forced some to close. Others Pinchasi shut himself, squirting glue into the locks.

"Then there's the eruv thing," Pinchasi says. An eruv is a boundary, a wire stretched around a Jewish town. Inside it, observant Jews are permitted to carry things--a purse, a prayer book--that they would otherwise be barred from lifting during the enforced rest of the Sabbath. There's an eruv around the whole of Jerusalem, but newly arrived residents of Kiryat Yovel wanted their own. Without asking, they stuck poles on private property and strung wire between them.

Pinchasi got a saw. The racket drew witnesses, and he spent a night in custody. "We learned it was illegal to cut down even illegal poles," he says. After that he found a more discreet way to cut wood, a kind of lacerating rope--"very quiet," Pinchasi says--but the ultra-Orthodox answered his innovation with their own, girdling poles in steel sheaths. So Pinchasi went for the wire. To reach it, as high as a phone line, he first struggled with a Ginsu knife lashed to a stick. Then he discovered the Wolf-Garten professional tree trimmer. Made in Germany. It extends up to 4 m. 250 shekels (about $65). "The best of its kind," he says, flourishing the contraption like a saber.

The man is full on. Pinchasi parks in the shadows, pulls up the hoodie and runs in a crouch. He snips the wire at one, two, three poles, then leaves behind a sticker: pirate eruv over a skull and crossbones. One night, about 30 ultra-Orthodox youths caught him in the act and roughed up his crew, including a Hebrew University professor. "To Prof. Dan and Noam, the secular maniacs," reads graffiti on a utility box near their homes. "Stop. Get out of the neighborhood. You're in our sights," signed "The commando of the neighborhood."

Pinchasi drives to Gibli's neighborhood, parks and reaches for the posters. Botticelli's The Birth of Venus goes up on a synagogue door, then on a recycling bin directly across the street. "My basic assumption," Pinchasi says, "is if they feel uncomfortable, they won't come here."

Down but Not Out
The bookish ultra-Orthodox have their militants too, hard-eyed zealots whose extremism defines not only the public debate but increasingly the public spaces of Jerusalem. Downtown billboards in Israel's capital no longer feature women; advertisers fear defacement or, worse, boycotts. On public buses, ultra-Orthodox women sit in the back--a situation Hillary Clinton likened to the pre-segregation South when it bubbled up in the controversy that consumed Israel in December. In Bet Shemesh, a half-hour outside Jerusalem, ultra-Orthodox men spit on an 8-year-old girl who was on her way to school, calling her a "whore" for her long-sleeved clothes, which were not conservative enough for their standards.

In Kiryat Yovel, most of the new arrivals are gentler, even sly. The latest eruv countermove was to forgo wire and demarcate a boundary with an array of potted plants. Indeed, Pinchasi's victories may prove to be small battles in a larger war that he and those like him are losing. Religious Jews may account for less than 20% of the neighborhood's 21,000 residents, but they keep arriving. "Ten, 15 years from now, it's all going to be ultra-Orthodox," says a religious resident named Itzick, who moved in three years ago. "It's certain. It's clear. All the neighborhoods that are secular are old people. There are no young people coming."

But the fight's not quite over yet. In a mark of the neighborhood's strategic importance, secular families are organizing to buy property in Kiryat Yovel. The effort, dubbed New Spirit, began with a group of Hebrew University students who were unwilling to join the stream of young seculars exiting Jerusalem. "People do not feel together anymore. I think this is the major challenge in Israel today," says one of them, Nir Yanovsky Dagan. "For me, Jerusalem is the center of the story." The 10 fellow liberals in his self-made community banded together in something like one of the kibbutzim of early Israel. Dagan and his wife just signed to buy a flat in a building specifically swarmed by secular young families. It wasn't easy. The ultra-Orthodox get subsidies, as do many who buy on the Palestinian side of the Green Line (where Dagan says city officials urged him to go). "I want a pluralistic city again," he says.

There are signs it might be working. This year the number of secular students in Jerusalem schools actually increased, after 15 years of decline. On the other hand, Dagan says one community is thinking of moving together to Bet Shemesh because its members can't find affordable shelter in the capital.

At his desk in city hall, Pindrus smiles indulgently. "Be serious," he says. "These 20 families, nice youngsters, come out of college, they're going to change the area? Very nice." He has 50 of his people living unseen like sleeper cells in an ostensibly secular neighborhood at the city's southern border. "This is the reality in Jerusalem," says Grylak, the ultra-Orthodox magazine editor. "Demography is geography."

The Ultra-Holy City
≪ 超神聖なエルサレム ≫

マレ・ハシャロームとワディヒルワの角にあるミニマートの北約300ヤードの所に、最後に存在したと言われている。契約の箱(the Ark of the Covenant)を置いた至聖所を取り囲んで建設された第二神殿がそこに建っている。そして神殿が破壊されてから2千年たっても、神聖な力は非常に強烈に遺跡から放たれていて、初めてエルサレムの旧市街を訪れた時、自分の全存在で感じたその力を今でも思い起こす。ギブリはそのとき13歳だった。湧き起る畏怖で二つの決心をした。一つは、両親がそうしたように自分も、ユダヤ教の超正統派といわれる非常に保守的な戒律だけに従って生涯を送ることだ。もう一つは、そんな人生をエルサレムで生きることだ。二つとも、地元の不動産市場を混乱させるだろう。






< 黒衣の男 >







< 攻撃と逆襲 >











< 数が減っても、逃げ出さない >


しかし闘いはまだ決着していない。近隣での戦略的に重要な現れで、世俗派の家族が組織的にキルヤト・ヨベルの土地を購入しようとしている。新たな精神(New Spirit)と名付けられた活動は、エルサレムから出て行く若い世俗派の連中に加わりたくないヘブライ大学の学生グループが始めた。「人々の心はもう一つではありません。現在のイスラエルが抱える大きな困難だと思います」と学生グループの一人、ニール・ヤノフスキー・ダガンは言う。「私にとっては、エルサレムはすべての中心なのです」自分たちで作ったコミュニティーにいる自由主義的な10人の仲間は、どこか初期イスラエルのキブツの一つに似た場所で共同生活をしている。ダガン夫妻は、特に世俗派の若い家族が集まったアパートを購入する契約をした。容易ではなかった。超正統派には補助金が支給され、グリーンラインのパレスチナ側を購入した多くの人たちにも補助金がある(市の役人がそこを買えと勧めた)。「もう一度、様々な人が共に暮らせる街に戻ってほしいと思います」とダガンは言う。



inserted by FC2 system