Living in this democratic country called Canada, we are all guaranteed governmental protection, public health care, access to free education and a little thing we like to call civil and political rights. Of course, these are considered privileges - privileges we are able to keep if we pay our dues to the government, by paying taxes and upholding Canadian law. Included in these civil and political rights are the right to freedom of speech, of thought, of religion and many more. We can speak out against our government due to the very nature of the country's democratic character.
I've always wondered where these rights end. When does my right to speak and be free in Canada triumph other rights I may have, if that's possible? My right to freedom does not allow me to negate others' rights to protection. There is a limit, and it's easy to hit it.
When I visited the Israeli consulate last Friday to get a student visa so I can study in Israel this semester, I was told that I did not qualify for a visa - after all, how could they give me a visa to a country I was already a citizen of? Apparently, since my dad left Lebanon during the Muslim-Christian civil war in 1975, fleeing to Israel, he had made aliyah. He stayed for only a short period of time and immigrated to Canada where he now lives. Despite being born and raised in Canada, and never having lived in Israel for more than a month, I am considered Israeli by the sheer virtue of my father's decision (although truthfully, he really did not even know he was making aliyah. He only intended to leave a war and start a new life and never really planned to stay in Israel that long). I was a little shocked when they handed me army exemption papers and told me I had to settle my army status right away. Would they even be allowed to draft me into the army - a girl who has never even lived in Israel but is considered an Israeli citizen born abroad?
I tried to refuse my Israeli citizenship. I told them I had no desire to be an Israeli citizen at this point in my life but apparently, that doesn't matter. I am Israeli, whether I like it or not, according to Israeli citizenship laws. My kids, however, won't be Israeli - this rule only applies to the first generation, my dad's next of kin.
It's not that I'm not proud of Israel. Israel has done many wonderful things for the world and the majority of technology that we spend our days using were probably developed in Israel. However, I don't want the hassles that come with Israeli citizenship. I want to travel to Arab countries without worrying they will find out I am also Israeli. I want to work in politics without being immediately labeled as biased because of my half-citizenship. And I don't want to worry about figuring out my military status.
I believe I have the right to choose my own citizenship. Had I been born in Israel, I wouldn't be able to claim this right. But I wasn't. I have lived at the same address for the past twenty years of my life and my father has only lived in Israel for maybe a maximum of two years. These details should automatically render my 'citizenship' meaningless. How can they claim I'm a citizen for a country I've only visited twice?
It's an interesting aspect of Israeli law and I'm personally curious as to why it is so. Why is it that Israel wishes to claim people like me are citizens of Israel? Is there some benefit for them to increase the number of citizens they can claim to have?
So as of now, I'm not signing up for an Israeli passport. They can claim to force it on me, but I'm pretty sure they need my signature to process that document. I'll let you know what happens when I get to customs.
Thoughts about the everyday events going on today and what we can do to make a difference
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Opening up a book can be harder than you think...
I thought I could do it. I mean, I really had belief in my abilities. I guess I figured the more I read, the more I learned, the more I became educated, the more I would be able to put aside my emotions and learn from a more objective perspective.
But today, I finally cracked open the book I bought from the 9/11 Memorial Site in New York: "The 9/11 Commission Report." It is a detailed, 643 page book, that goes through the entire events of 9/11, the communication failures, the plans, the responses and then discusses the aftermath of 9/11: terrorism, counter-terrorism, wars and new policies.
I only arrived at page 14 before I had to close the book for a few minutes, close my eyes and will myself not to be angry. Because is it truly possible not to hate those who destroyed so many lives? Is it possible to read the details of that horrifying day, learning about how our security and state leaders failed us, without feeling any pain? Can I really promise myself that I won't discriminate against an entire religion based on the actions of these ten individuals?
And all these feelings are coming from a girl who does not personally know anyone hurt in these attacks.
I'm not sure if it is possible. But I do know I have to continue reading that book. The Chair of the Commission wrote that they are evaluating the past in order to understand the present and work towards a better future. That's all we can ever hope to do.
But today, I finally cracked open the book I bought from the 9/11 Memorial Site in New York: "The 9/11 Commission Report." It is a detailed, 643 page book, that goes through the entire events of 9/11, the communication failures, the plans, the responses and then discusses the aftermath of 9/11: terrorism, counter-terrorism, wars and new policies.
I only arrived at page 14 before I had to close the book for a few minutes, close my eyes and will myself not to be angry. Because is it truly possible not to hate those who destroyed so many lives? Is it possible to read the details of that horrifying day, learning about how our security and state leaders failed us, without feeling any pain? Can I really promise myself that I won't discriminate against an entire religion based on the actions of these ten individuals?
And all these feelings are coming from a girl who does not personally know anyone hurt in these attacks.
I'm not sure if it is possible. But I do know I have to continue reading that book. The Chair of the Commission wrote that they are evaluating the past in order to understand the present and work towards a better future. That's all we can ever hope to do.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Talk about Discussing Anti-Semitism
My letter to the editor was published Dec 7 2009 in Ottawa's The Hill Times.
Re: "Israel and the new McCarthyism," (The Hill Times, Nov. 23, Murray Dobbin, p. 24).
Murray Dobbin's doubts of rising anti-Semitism and his refutes of growing anti-Israel criticism disguised as anti-Semitism could hardly be more invalid. Contrary to Dobbin's views, anti-Semitism increased 11.4 per cent from 2006 to 2007, according to B'nai Brith Canada. This number increased last year to include an additional thousand reported events of anti-Semitism in 2009. There is no strategy to label criticism of Israel as anti-Semitism; however, more often than not, this seems to be the case.
Anti-Semitism is an old phenomenon that is always being reinvented to suit new purposes. For example, while accusations of blood libels are still being made against the Jewish people, instead they are being directed against the state of Israel, so that anti-Zionism is being used as a cover for anti-Semitism. Criticism of Israel certainly does not make one an anti-Semite, yet we must ask ourselves if people unnecessarily target the Jewish state for its actions, while completely refusing to criticize any other state in the Middle East who commit the worst crimes known to mankind (martyrdom, abuse of human rights in Iran and Saudi Arabia, etc.), can those people truly claim they do not have some sort of bias against Israel, the Jewish state, and therefore against Jews?
In this new left-wing intellectual climate, belittling any race or religion per se is off limits. The new tactic is to disparage the allegedly colonial, imperialist, racist nature of their actions. Targeting Jews' right to live peacefully, under the mantra of social justice, although critics of Israel only care about the need for equality of Arabs in Israel, but not in the rest of the Middle East, is indeed a new manifestation of this old phenomenon. How else can we explain the over 100 resolutions condemning Israel and the lack of any resolution condemning states who actually are committing genocide, like the situation in Iran and Darfur?
I don't believe criticizing Israel makes one an anti-Semite, but I do have to think twice when I see that these so-called 'social activists' unnecessarily focus exclusively on Israel, refusing to condemn any other state for its actions.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Waiting on a Tuesday
On Tuesday it will all be over. On Tuesday, I will finally have written my final exam for my "Arab Israeli Conflict" course. Three hundred plus pages of reading later, I will finally be free. Done. Conflict solved.
Not.
On Tuesday, my academic study of the Arab Israeli conflict will be over (for now). On Tuesday, I will now be responsible for studying this conflict out of my own free will. No longer will I need to learn about the domestic determinants of the Israeli-Syrian peace process (or lack thereof) to achieve a good grade in the course. It will now be my own initiative. And I'm ready to take it. If this course has taught me anything, it's that I know nothing (and that's often the case - the more we learn, the more we realize we have so much more to learn). From every one hour of lecture, I've left with thirty questions that I want answers to. But I think the main thing I've learned is that I want to learn those answers by myself - I want to figure them out on my own. I want to open up history and start learning facts and I'm confident that I can do it.
I almost teared at our last class this past week, because it meant that the knowledge I gain about this conflict is now mine to discover - I cannot rely on others to teach me what I want to know. Of course, I love to study and discuss academia with other students, professors and colleagues. But in order to even discuss, or to form an opinion, I must first have a basic knowledge of what it is I am discussing. And that is what I'm off to discover.
Who knows, maybe in a week I will have already forgotten this thirst for knowledge. But maybe not. Because as I've continued down the path of my university education, I've learned that the thirst for knowledge can rarely be satiated.
Not.
On Tuesday, my academic study of the Arab Israeli conflict will be over (for now). On Tuesday, I will now be responsible for studying this conflict out of my own free will. No longer will I need to learn about the domestic determinants of the Israeli-Syrian peace process (or lack thereof) to achieve a good grade in the course. It will now be my own initiative. And I'm ready to take it. If this course has taught me anything, it's that I know nothing (and that's often the case - the more we learn, the more we realize we have so much more to learn). From every one hour of lecture, I've left with thirty questions that I want answers to. But I think the main thing I've learned is that I want to learn those answers by myself - I want to figure them out on my own. I want to open up history and start learning facts and I'm confident that I can do it.
I almost teared at our last class this past week, because it meant that the knowledge I gain about this conflict is now mine to discover - I cannot rely on others to teach me what I want to know. Of course, I love to study and discuss academia with other students, professors and colleagues. But in order to even discuss, or to form an opinion, I must first have a basic knowledge of what it is I am discussing. And that is what I'm off to discover.
Who knows, maybe in a week I will have already forgotten this thirst for knowledge. But maybe not. Because as I've continued down the path of my university education, I've learned that the thirst for knowledge can rarely be satiated.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Tale of Two Identities
I’ve never questioned my Jewish identity. I’ve gone to Jewish schools and summer camps. I have been to Israel and spent my whole life learning about the Holocaust. Observant or not, my life has been surrounded with Judaism. My Jewish identity, like an arm or a leg, was always present, never questioned.
There is another aspect of my identity – which could put my Jewish identity into question. My parents were born in Beirut, Lebanon. They too went to Jewish schools and camps, but in addition to learning about the Holocaust, they learned about Jewish refugees from Arab countries. That is, until they became ones.
In the mid-1950s, approximately 7,000 Jews lived in Beirut. My parents stayed until the 1975 Muslim-Christian civil war. Although the Jews were not directly involved, the tension from the war damaged relations between them and other Lebanese citizens. Much of the fighting occurred in the Jewish quarter in Beirut, damaging homes and synagogues. The street my parents lived on no longer exists. My father’s sister stayed in Lebanon, and he has not seen her or heard from her since.
Being raised in Toronto as a Lebanese Jew did not strike me as odd. Still, I spoke Hebrew, Arabic, and French and my friends only spoke English. Once when I was eight, I was at my friend’s house and she ordered pizza and when she asked what I wanted on my pizza, I replied “zeitoune,” not realizing that it was the Arabic word for olives, and not an English one.
During the Second Lebanon war with Israel in 2006, one of my Jewish friends jokingly asked me, whose side I was on. I was shocked by the question – I supported the Israeli army’s desire to eliminate their terrorist threat, even though it sadly meant that civilians were killed. But it forced me to delve into the question – did being Lebanese mean anything to me?
I cannot reject my Lebanese roots, nor do I want to: they’re an inherent part of who I am. Arabic is more frequently spoken in my house than Hebrew, and we cook Lebanese foods more often than Jewish dishes. But to me, being Lebanese is part of my cultural identity, not my religious one: I will always be Jewish.
These identities were never contradictory. As part of my Jewish upbringing, I was taught to show compassion toward other cultures; to avoid discriminating others just as I never would want to be discriminated against due to an aspect of my identity. I was raised to care, not just about Jews, but about everyone.
My high school taught me to always have a social conscience – we must always remain aware of the plight of others and work to fight it. Instead of the standard 40 hours of required community service, as public high schools demand, we completed 72 hours. Our educators spent countless hours teaching us about the persecution of Jews in the past and present. Through this, we learned to foster our own identities, to strengthen them so they can never be destroyed.
I was never taught to try and separate Zionism and Judaism because my school saw Israel as a their homeland, and a necessary part of the Jewish religion. Many of my teachers were Israelis – they lived in Israel, risking their lives to ensure that Jews around the world were safe and always had a home to go to. It does not bother me that these two identities are so linked, because my Judaism cannot exist without my Zionism.
I’ve always dreamed of going to Beirut one day. I want to see the graves of my great-grandparents. I want to see the store my father used to go to every day after school, where he says they sold the “best ice-cream in the world.” Unfortunately, it looks like this may never happen. Until Lebanon’s conflict with Israel is resolved, I will never be allowed to enter the country of my parents’ birth.
I wonder what it would be like to be Jewish and not Lebanese. It’s a world I cannot imagine, for both are dear to me. But I’ve begun to choose which one is more important to me, and I believe that’s okay – we all have different identities in our lives, and we must choose which ones construct the core of our identity.
There is another aspect of my identity – which could put my Jewish identity into question. My parents were born in Beirut, Lebanon. They too went to Jewish schools and camps, but in addition to learning about the Holocaust, they learned about Jewish refugees from Arab countries. That is, until they became ones.
In the mid-1950s, approximately 7,000 Jews lived in Beirut. My parents stayed until the 1975 Muslim-Christian civil war. Although the Jews were not directly involved, the tension from the war damaged relations between them and other Lebanese citizens. Much of the fighting occurred in the Jewish quarter in Beirut, damaging homes and synagogues. The street my parents lived on no longer exists. My father’s sister stayed in Lebanon, and he has not seen her or heard from her since.
Being raised in Toronto as a Lebanese Jew did not strike me as odd. Still, I spoke Hebrew, Arabic, and French and my friends only spoke English. Once when I was eight, I was at my friend’s house and she ordered pizza and when she asked what I wanted on my pizza, I replied “zeitoune,” not realizing that it was the Arabic word for olives, and not an English one.
During the Second Lebanon war with Israel in 2006, one of my Jewish friends jokingly asked me, whose side I was on. I was shocked by the question – I supported the Israeli army’s desire to eliminate their terrorist threat, even though it sadly meant that civilians were killed. But it forced me to delve into the question – did being Lebanese mean anything to me?
I cannot reject my Lebanese roots, nor do I want to: they’re an inherent part of who I am. Arabic is more frequently spoken in my house than Hebrew, and we cook Lebanese foods more often than Jewish dishes. But to me, being Lebanese is part of my cultural identity, not my religious one: I will always be Jewish.
These identities were never contradictory. As part of my Jewish upbringing, I was taught to show compassion toward other cultures; to avoid discriminating others just as I never would want to be discriminated against due to an aspect of my identity. I was raised to care, not just about Jews, but about everyone.
My high school taught me to always have a social conscience – we must always remain aware of the plight of others and work to fight it. Instead of the standard 40 hours of required community service, as public high schools demand, we completed 72 hours. Our educators spent countless hours teaching us about the persecution of Jews in the past and present. Through this, we learned to foster our own identities, to strengthen them so they can never be destroyed.
I was never taught to try and separate Zionism and Judaism because my school saw Israel as a their homeland, and a necessary part of the Jewish religion. Many of my teachers were Israelis – they lived in Israel, risking their lives to ensure that Jews around the world were safe and always had a home to go to. It does not bother me that these two identities are so linked, because my Judaism cannot exist without my Zionism.
I’ve always dreamed of going to Beirut one day. I want to see the graves of my great-grandparents. I want to see the store my father used to go to every day after school, where he says they sold the “best ice-cream in the world.” Unfortunately, it looks like this may never happen. Until Lebanon’s conflict with Israel is resolved, I will never be allowed to enter the country of my parents’ birth.
I wonder what it would be like to be Jewish and not Lebanese. It’s a world I cannot imagine, for both are dear to me. But I’ve begun to choose which one is more important to me, and I believe that’s okay – we all have different identities in our lives, and we must choose which ones construct the core of our identity.
Friday, November 13, 2009
How I Feng Shui-ed McGill
In my mind, university is one big IKEA showroom. When you walk in, you’re nervous you won’t be able to find a parking spot or that if you do, it will be a ten minute walk away. When you finally enter, you choose a bare cart that you will fill with meaningful objects. At the first glance, you feel like you’re steeping into someone else’s living room - should I be taking off my shoes? Can I sit on that couch? But if you walk around again, you realize you can use these objects to make yourself a home, a new home.
When I first walked onto my university campus, I was filled with nerves. I’m not really great at changes - I lasted three days at sleepover camp before I called my mom crying to pick me up and before you picture a little girl with pigtails, let me tell you that I was fourteen.
When I graduated high school two years ago, taking a year “on” was very much in. We were encouraging to take a year abroad before we embark on our next school experience. I got swept up in this phase and started yelling at my parents to let me “experience new things” and “become more independent” which no doubt my year abroad would provide me with. Wasn’t the price of knowledge worth the $20,000 tuition program?
Thankfully, I realized I could probably live without this year “on” and still survive (and this realization obviously had nothing to do with my summer love interest, of course). The only problem was that university was starting in just four weeks and I did not have a place at school. The teeny tiny problem was that although McGill had accepted me in April, it was now August and they didn’t really care about some 18 year old girl hysterically complaining she “had to get into McGill because she couldn’t leave her boyfriend.” After five emails to the McGill admissions department to which I was told “it was impossible to reinstate my offer,” and a few frantic phone calls, I got the email that I would always remember - “Should you be interested in the Faculty of Management for September 2007 you must e-mail Admissions within the next two days…” I promise this is a true story - I have copies of these emails!
When I entered my first year at McGill, I had no idea what I wanted to study. I took anything and everything that interested me. The anonymity here intrigued me - I could trip down the stairs and no one would even notice (probably - I haven’t yet tested this theory).
The thing is, professors do care (if you visit them during office hours). And those friends you meet? They’ll stay with you forever, no matter which end of the earth they’re from. It took awhile to get adjusted to the different schedules and intensive courses but now I look forward to every class I have (even Canadian Politics). I love learning from professors who have years of research in their fields.
McGill is a school with over 30,000 students and that can be pretty intimidating. But I’ve already made that first walk around the showroom and I like what I see. And with every step, it feels more and more like home (decorated with IKEA furniture of course).
When I first walked onto my university campus, I was filled with nerves. I’m not really great at changes - I lasted three days at sleepover camp before I called my mom crying to pick me up and before you picture a little girl with pigtails, let me tell you that I was fourteen.
When I graduated high school two years ago, taking a year “on” was very much in. We were encouraging to take a year abroad before we embark on our next school experience. I got swept up in this phase and started yelling at my parents to let me “experience new things” and “become more independent” which no doubt my year abroad would provide me with. Wasn’t the price of knowledge worth the $20,000 tuition program?
Thankfully, I realized I could probably live without this year “on” and still survive (and this realization obviously had nothing to do with my summer love interest, of course). The only problem was that university was starting in just four weeks and I did not have a place at school. The teeny tiny problem was that although McGill had accepted me in April, it was now August and they didn’t really care about some 18 year old girl hysterically complaining she “had to get into McGill because she couldn’t leave her boyfriend.” After five emails to the McGill admissions department to which I was told “it was impossible to reinstate my offer,” and a few frantic phone calls, I got the email that I would always remember - “Should you be interested in the Faculty of Management for September 2007 you must e-mail Admissions within the next two days…” I promise this is a true story - I have copies of these emails!
When I entered my first year at McGill, I had no idea what I wanted to study. I took anything and everything that interested me. The anonymity here intrigued me - I could trip down the stairs and no one would even notice (probably - I haven’t yet tested this theory).
The thing is, professors do care (if you visit them during office hours). And those friends you meet? They’ll stay with you forever, no matter which end of the earth they’re from. It took awhile to get adjusted to the different schedules and intensive courses but now I look forward to every class I have (even Canadian Politics). I love learning from professors who have years of research in their fields.
McGill is a school with over 30,000 students and that can be pretty intimidating. But I’ve already made that first walk around the showroom and I like what I see. And with every step, it feels more and more like home (decorated with IKEA furniture of course).
Friday, September 11, 2009
Removing all biases
Apparently, we are all biased.
I assumed I had biases, sure, but I was positive with the right education, I could overcome them. Four years at the best university in Canada would surely erase my pre-conceived notions and leave me with a blank slate, right?
One of the readings assigned to my "Arab-Israeli Conflict" course is called "Socio-psychological Foundations of Intractable Conflicts" and discuses how our social identities are constructed in such a way to prolong the current conflict. Our historians write history books with these self-focused views, enabling younger generations to maintain this conflicted identity (conflicted in two senses: a. unable to recognize other views of the conflict and b. adapting your past experiences to the version of the conflict you are supposed to believe in). It would be ignorant to claim that I have come without biases as I study this conflict - my education has ensured that I see the conflict in certain manners and my relationship to those involved in the conflict have altered my vision. But as a child, instead of dreaming of barbies and pet horses, I wanted to be an educated individual who would be able to separate her own feelings and emotions to study a conflict entirely based on feelings and emotions. Enrolling at McGill was an attempt to begin this process.
Unfortunately, according to "Bar Tal., et al..." it is nearly impossible to separate your identity from the one you have been taught to have. Our media, our history books, our modes of communication have ensured that we think a certain way, that we understand the conflict in terms of "us versus them" and these ideas are so deeply rooted in our societal nature that we cannot truly hope to separate ourselves from it. Well, there goes my childhood dream.
If my notions about the conflict were constructed because of my past, can I re-construct my identity because of my present? If I change my surroundings, my experiences, does that mean I am finally free to erase my own biases - or will I merely see what I wish to see?
I'm not sure if we can erase our notions of what this crisis is about - and I'm not sure we should. If I could give up my past in favor of a impartial future, would I trade in all my feelings for this knowledge? Perhaps that was my childhood dream, but as I enter new phases in my life, I would rather remember the lessons I have learned from childhood and adapt it to my future. Maybe "Bar Tal" couldn't imagine a world without these permanent identities, but I can. Erasing my beliefs and feelings would only make myself immune to the conflict, rather than enable me to understand it. These past experiences are what make us desire to end this conflict, to see a resolution. In fact, this goes for any historical lesson. We remember the Holocaust to help us recognize that the morality of the world is not a given and we remember 9/11 to make us realize that we have a duty to inflict morality upon the world. It may be the more difficult path, but it is the path that we cannot part from.
Because our social identities are tied to the conflict we cannot ever give up hope of solving it. After all, why would I fight for a conflict that is not, intrinsically, mine?
I assumed I had biases, sure, but I was positive with the right education, I could overcome them. Four years at the best university in Canada would surely erase my pre-conceived notions and leave me with a blank slate, right?
One of the readings assigned to my "Arab-Israeli Conflict" course is called "Socio-psychological Foundations of Intractable Conflicts" and discuses how our social identities are constructed in such a way to prolong the current conflict. Our historians write history books with these self-focused views, enabling younger generations to maintain this conflicted identity (conflicted in two senses: a. unable to recognize other views of the conflict and b. adapting your past experiences to the version of the conflict you are supposed to believe in). It would be ignorant to claim that I have come without biases as I study this conflict - my education has ensured that I see the conflict in certain manners and my relationship to those involved in the conflict have altered my vision. But as a child, instead of dreaming of barbies and pet horses, I wanted to be an educated individual who would be able to separate her own feelings and emotions to study a conflict entirely based on feelings and emotions. Enrolling at McGill was an attempt to begin this process.
Unfortunately, according to "Bar Tal., et al..." it is nearly impossible to separate your identity from the one you have been taught to have. Our media, our history books, our modes of communication have ensured that we think a certain way, that we understand the conflict in terms of "us versus them" and these ideas are so deeply rooted in our societal nature that we cannot truly hope to separate ourselves from it. Well, there goes my childhood dream.
If my notions about the conflict were constructed because of my past, can I re-construct my identity because of my present? If I change my surroundings, my experiences, does that mean I am finally free to erase my own biases - or will I merely see what I wish to see?
I'm not sure if we can erase our notions of what this crisis is about - and I'm not sure we should. If I could give up my past in favor of a impartial future, would I trade in all my feelings for this knowledge? Perhaps that was my childhood dream, but as I enter new phases in my life, I would rather remember the lessons I have learned from childhood and adapt it to my future. Maybe "Bar Tal" couldn't imagine a world without these permanent identities, but I can. Erasing my beliefs and feelings would only make myself immune to the conflict, rather than enable me to understand it. These past experiences are what make us desire to end this conflict, to see a resolution. In fact, this goes for any historical lesson. We remember the Holocaust to help us recognize that the morality of the world is not a given and we remember 9/11 to make us realize that we have a duty to inflict morality upon the world. It may be the more difficult path, but it is the path that we cannot part from.
Because our social identities are tied to the conflict we cannot ever give up hope of solving it. After all, why would I fight for a conflict that is not, intrinsically, mine?
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