Growing up, Israel was present. In our conversation. In our art. In our bookshelves. In our food. In our family holidays. My family are not Jewish. Not by bloodline, anyway. My step-father, attracted by the concept of communal living, spent time post-university living and working on a kibbutz in the north of the country. And in the long-running 'conflict' with the Palestinians, there was no hiding the fact that the sympathy of my parents lay with the Israelis; friends who lived in fear of their teenage children boarding buses and being the next victims of a suicide bomber.
But now, years later I see Gaza. Fear-stricken-faces running through rubble. Bodies of children stretched out on hospital trolleys, tortured eyes, broken limbs, bullet holes. Head-scarved old women, covering their eyes. Wailing. Brothers and Uncles, angry. Fists punching air. My heart pounds and my stomach twists and turns. Two hospitals hit by Israeli fire in two weeks. Families killed sheltering in UN buildings.
I was 21 years old, on the other side of the world when I met A. Palestinian born and raised, but he looked like he could have been my brother. Same pale skin, freckles, slightly red-toned hair. Immediately the conversation turned to this homeland. His manner was mild, gentle and kind. But he spoke with conviction and his tone was firm. Looking back, the patience he had with my utter ignorance of the plight of his people astounds me.
He spoke to me of his grandparents, dispossessed of their land after World War II. He told me about his life, a medical student in East Jerusalem. The struggles getting to and from University via unpredictable road blocks. He told me about The Wall. About Palestinians trying to reach medical facilities dying whilst Israeli soldiers looked on. About Israeli soldiers throwing grenades at Palestinian children on their way to school. About what he lacked growing up as a refugee.
I was no longer able to defend the actions of the country I loved. But I continued to love its people. And part of love is to let the other party know when you know they are wrong.
So I have often found myself on the pro-Palestinian side of the lines during violent uprisings and incursions. And I did yesterday. I won't agree with everything the protesters chant. But I will stand up for the weakest in the face of a stronger aggressor. My son, aged 4, asked why we were going. I explained to him frankly that in a country quite far away, there were people who were hurting each other. That lots of children were getting hurt. I explained that God loved all these people, and that we loved them too. We were going to ask them to stop the fighting. But I let him draw Palestinian flags and buy himself a 'Free Palestine' badge.
Arriving at Piccadilly Gardens, I was impressed by the diverse turnout. Especially with the presence of Jews For Justice For Palestinians. The rhetoric from the microphone was peaceful. We were to demonstrate without violence, without hatred, without antisemitism, without racism. We were to let businesses investing in Israel know that we would be boycotting them whilst this action against Gaza continued. After about an hour and a half, my family broke away from our side of the protest. Manchester was sending it's best downpour. My husband had no jacket. The baby had woken up and was not pleased about being strapped into a pushchair. We left the protest as it snaked from Barclays to Marks and Spencers.Suddenly, we turned a corner and were face to face with blue and white, Stars of David. We were outside Kedem, an Israeli-owned business selling goods from the Dead Sea. I'd heard tales from the pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathering there daily to encourage shoppers to boycott. Pro-Israeli protesters gathered to oppose them, cheering as the names of dead Palestinian children killed int he military action that week were read aloud. My Muslim friend had racist abuse yelled at her as she stood peacefully and silently holding signs outside the shop. This was not somewhere I wanted to be with a small boy waving his hand-crayoned Palestinian flag. We hurried through. I noted a policewoman in her uniform embracing a man wrapped in the Israeli flag.
We stood on the other side of the road, watching. Bitterness, anger, hate afflicted their faces. My son asked what they were shouting. I was at a loss. It had seemed easier when I hadn't had two opposing sides to explain. He kept asking as I gazed at the 4-5 pro-Palestinian protesters being swallowed by the sea of white and blue. Their banner had shown a premature baby on a ventilator who had been delivered from a dead mother, killed in the fighting. She disappeared. I shuddered to think what would happen here later when the black, red and green arrived. I wondered what hope there was for peace where the bombs fell, when we so far removed from the violence could not even speak kindly, act peacefully.
Some men held banners proclaiming their reason for supporting Israel today was their Christianity.
I wondered. Where would Jesus stand today? I know he wouldn't be muttering about 'complex issues' and changing the subject. I know He wouldn't be rolling into Gaza on a tank. I know He wouldn't be firing rockets into Israel for Hamas.
He of immeasurable love and justice, where would He be found? I imagine Him standing in the middle, between these two groups. I imagine He would see straight to the fear, the insecurity, the generations of hurt on each side. I imagine Him open his arms to Muslim, Jew, Christian, saddened by the disrespect and hatred expressed one for the other.
