“Shame on you,” he told her. “I didn’t take your phone.”
The women became unhinged.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” she said before storming off. “Shame on you, you dirty Arab. You thief.”
Khaled was shaken by the confrontation. He looked around for some sympathy or support, but he found none. A Jewish-Israeli acquaintance at the post office scolded Khaled for talking back.
“I’m not upset with that woman,” she said, “I’m upset with you. I don’t want you to defend yourself. I know your situation is difficult. But it only makes things worse.”
As if to prove her point, the customer came back in and started lecturing the Jewish customers about the silent dangers they all faced from people like Khaled.
“Your naïveté is what encourages these people to commit terrorist acts,” she said to everyone who would listen.
Khaled wrapped up his errand and returned to the Y. He was angry and upset. But he found some solace being back at the Y, a small oasis in Jerusalem. The building was designed in the 1920s by Arthur Loomis Harmon, the man who helped create what was at the time the world’s tallest building: the Empire State Building in New York.
The Y was built to be a sanctuary for Jerusalem’s three major religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The architects and builders injected symbolism into the smallest details. Some call it a “sermon in stone.”
The foundation stones came from the same quarries that the Jews of Jerusalem used to build the second temple in 500 BC. The builders planted 12 cypress trees, said to represent the 12 tribes of Israel, the 12 disciples of Jesus Christ and the 12 followers of Muhammad. They courtyard contains 40 pillars to commemorate the 40 years Jews spent in the desert and the 40 days Jesus fasted.
The bell tower features a bas-relief sculpture of a six-winged angel, a seraphim, that flew around the throne of God crying “holy, holy, holy” in the Book of Isaiah. The sprawling lobby, with its vaulted ceilings and stone pillars, is home to a mosaic replica of the Madaba Map, an iconic sixth-century Byzantine map at a church in Jordan that depicts the ancient Middle East, including Jerusalem.
Part of the ceiling features painted panels from Damascus that were dismantled in Syria and brought to Jerusalem. The courtyard walls are engraved with three phrases honoring the city’s Muslim, Christian and Jewish faiths.
In Hebrew, one phrase from the Old Testament reads: “The Lord our God the Lord is One.” In the middle, in Aramaic, are the words of Jesus Christ: “I am the way.” On the left, in Arabic, is the Quranic profession of faith: “There is No God but God.”
The entrance also features a quote from Lord Edmund Allenby, the British military officer who captured Jerusalem from the Turks during World War I.
“Here is a place whose atmosphere is peace, where political and religious jealousies can be forgotten, and international unity fostered and developed,” Allenby said at the opening ceremony for the YMCA in 1933.1
Over the years, it has served as home for the International Red Cross, the UN Consulate General and UN mediator Count Folke Bernadotte, who was assassinated in 1948 by the Jewish Stern Gang while he was trying to broker peace in the region.
The arched courtyard colonnades are pockmarked with blasts of shrapnel from the 1948 war—a visible scar meant to serve as a reminder that preventing war requires actively working for peace.
On that afternoon, Khaled was feeling little of the peace and tranquility that the Y was meant to offer. When he got back to work he ran into Rena Sered, the Y’s health and fitness manager, an energetic, Chicago-born American-Israeli who had been working with Khaled for seven years.
“What’s wrong?” Rena asked Khaled, who was unusually distraught. Khaled felt comfortable talking to some colleagues at the Y about personal problems, but he was hesitant to tell Rena about the post office. The two of them would talk about the Jewish Torah and they’d both been to each other’s houses to offer condolences for the loss of their mothers. But Khaled didn’t think he could talk to Rena about what happened.
“Our relationship isn’t made for me to talk to you about anything like this,” Khaled told her.
But Rena wanted to offer a sympathetic ear. She got him some water and a towel to dry his sweating face. Rena seemed to be genuinely concerned, so Khaled decided to tell her the whole story.
“In my opinion,” Khaled said later, “this was one of my life mistakes.”
Khaled was wound up. He took a slug of water and told her what happened, in Hebrew. He told her about the missing phone and the woman’s accusations. He told her about the conspicuous silence from his so-called friends at the post office. He told her about the scolding he’d gotten for speaking up for himself. It was too much for Khaled.
“Israelis say they are for coexistence, but they’re all terrible,” he told her.
“Wait a minute,” Rena said. “It’s not all Israelis. Don’t say all Israelis are bad. The people in the post office might be bad people, but that’s not all Israelis.”
“As a nation,” Khaled said. “Israel is terrible.”
Rena was shocked by what Khaled was saying. This wasn’t the man she’d worked with for years. This wasn’t the man she’d come to call a friend.
“Do you want me to go back to the post office with you?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “What good will that do?”
“Well,” she replied. “You can’t generalize about all Israelis or all Jews. It’s like me saying that all Arabs cut people’s heads off, that all Arabs are ISIS.”
Khaled couldn’t believe what he was hearing. All Arabs are ISIS? All Arabs are savages?
“What are you saying?” Khaled told her. “Shame on you. You’re a racist.”
“You’re the racist,” she replied. “You’re very hostile towards the Jews.”
“I’m wasting time with someone like you,” Khaled said as he considered walking out.
They argued for an hour. Rena couldn’t believe Khaled seemed to be demonizing all Jews. Khaled couldn’t believe Rena seemed to be stereotyping all Arabs. While they were arguing, the Y’s executive director heard the bickering and stepped into the membership office to find out what was going on.
Though he was only 36, Forsan Hussein held the distinction of serving as the only Muslim CEO of any YMCA in the world. Born in a small Arab village in Israel’s Lower Galilee, Forsan went from being a construction worker to becoming a respected advocate for Israeli-Palestinian coexistence.
Forsan had all the natural qualities of a leader. He received a full scholarship from Israel’s Abraham Fund to study at the predominantly Jewish Brandeis University, a small liberal arts college outside Boston, Massachusetts. When he arrived as the only Arab student on campus, he dove into campus life and teamed up with a Jewish-Israeli student to start a weekly student talk radio show.
Forsan got a master’s degree in international relations from Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies in Baltimore, Maryland, and an MBA from Harvard Business School. He was fluent in English, Arabic and Hebrew. His voice was soothing, his cadence lyrical. It could sound almost seductive, even in meetings. To top it off, Forsan’s lean figure, square jaw and slight five o’clock shadow made him look like he walked off a Tommy Hilfiger fashion shoot. He married the daughter of Israel’s first Arab ambassador and dreamed of following in his father-in-law’s footsteps. His supporters dubbed him the “Israeli Obama.”
As Arab-Israelis, Khaled and Forsan had lots in common. Language. History. And a belief in their identities as Palestinians living in Israel.
Like Khaled, Forsan saw his life as a reflection of his philosophy. And serving as the first Muslim head of any Y in the world, not to mention the first Palestinian Muslim to serve as head of the Y in West Jerusalem, was a testament to his ideology.
&
nbsp; “Jerusalem is a place of many divides: social, political, religious, cultural and in education,” Forsan wrote in his vision statement for the YMCA. “On every level, Jerusalem is a place of tension.”
Forsan wanted “to contribute to the wellbeing of our society through bringing people together, bringing these conflicting narratives and sects together to a place where they can actually realize the humanity in the other,” he wrote. “What I have done throughout my life has taught me that hopelessness and helplessness are not options. They simply aren’t.”2
Forsan was firmly rooted in Israel: a Palestinian whose conversations would meander back and forth between Hebrew, Arabic and English, much the way a conversation in Toronto would seamlessly shift from French to English and back. Forsan saw himself as someone who could transcend those ethnic, social, cultural, religious and political divides in Jerusalem.
“The YMCA was created to set an example of what Jerusalem can, and should be,” he said in a video promoting coexistence made for his American alma mater, Brandeis University. “I take my life as an example of a successful co-existence story. I’m an Israeli-Arab, and not [just] any type of Arab, I am a Palestinian—with pride.”3
“I feel that I am that bridge,” he continued. “Not just me, but the entire Palestinian-Israelis, or the Israeli-Arabs, a million and a half people, that could completely serve as a bridge between Israel and the rest of the Arab world.”4
“We aspire to bring a new generation of Palestinians and Israelis who understand the values of shared society and shared citizenship,” he said. “We need a new leadership that emerges out of a different narrative, a different psyche. Not the psyche of fear. Not the psyche of occupation. Not the psyche of injustice.”5
Forsan tried to cultivate those ideals at the YMCA. But on that afternoon, he could see that the psyche of fear and injustice was winning the day.
Forsan tried to defuse the situation. He knew Khaled and Rena were both well-intentioned. They both played important roles at the Y. When Forsan had to lay people off, he’d made sure that both of them were taken off the list. Rena was a great people person who helped keep the Y running. Khaled was a jack-of-all-trades who knew how to do just about anything at the Y. He sympathized with both of them.
“Khaled was hurt because, to them, he’s one of the ‘good Arabs,’” Forsan said. “He feels like he’s an ambassador and, for that to happen to him, it’s unfair.”
“Rena,” he said, “Rena is American-Jewish. She is completely PC. She would never say anything that hurts people. Nothing racist would come out of her mouth. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with what she said, but Khaled did perceive what she said as racist.”
If Khaled had a particular flaw, Forsan thought, it was his emotions. Khaled let them get away from him too often.
“I don’t think Khaled has processed things,” he said. “There’s a lot inside him. There’s anger. There’s resentment. He’s a wonderful representative of Arabs to the Jews. But it’s hard for me to see Khaled as a bridge. I know Khaled very well. Khaled is a great guy. He’s a good family man. But I think Khaled would explode if you pressure him and, if you push, he might actually do damage when it comes to Israeli-Palestinian relations.”
While Forsan valued Khaled’s work at the Y, he thought his friend and employee was more effective as a Palestinian goodwill ambassador to Israel in the work he did as a medic.
“I don’t see him as a symbol,” he said. “I think he’s much more effective doing United Hatzalah. The work of United Hatzalah is the most human thing you can do. And that’s already a symbol.”
Khaled and Rena’s argument blew over and the two got back to work.
Rena, who spent most of her life working in fitness, still turns to Khaled as a confidante. Khaled may unfairly lash out at Jewish-Israelis sometimes, she said, but he can be even more critical of Arab Muslims. His emotional disdain for Palestinians can be just as cutting, if not more.
“I don’t think he’s one-dimensional,” Rena said. “I think he’s frustrated with his people as well.”
Khaled knew his emotions got the better of him that afternoon when he got back from the post office and lashed out at Rena, and the two of them later commiserated over their passionate discussion. Things blew over and they moved on. That’s how it went at the Y.
“They Live Their Lies in Their Cocoon”
While Forsan didn’t see Khaled as a bridge-builder, Micah Hendler did. Forsan hired Micah to set up his Arab-Jewish youth choir at the Y. And Micah hired Khaled to be one of the choir’s dialogue supervisors. It was Khaled’s job to facilitate, and translate, the difficult discussions the Arab and Jewish kids had every time they met.
“I don’t think I know anyone in Jerusalem who understands more of what’s going on in the city, from every perspective, than Khaled,” Micah said. “I have so much respect for his understanding of what’s going on here. And he really lives all of the tensions, even just living on the street and with his identity.”
Even though Khaled has to defend his work when he goes home, he doesn’t see any other way. Cutting ties, living separate lives, isn’t a solution.
“They live in their lie, they live in their cocoon, and if we do not approach them, if we don’t start somewhere, we will achieve nothing,” he said. “We have to start somewhere.”
Forsan saw his work in similar terms. Activists often accused people like Forsan and Khaled of embracing “normalization”—a derogatory term for coexistence programs like those at the Y. They were often accused of undermining Palestinian independence by giving legitimacy to anti-Palestinian policies and working within the Israeli system. Forsan rejected the criticism.
“I am totally pro-normalization,” he said. “I am pro–people talking to each other. I don’t see coexistence as a political issue at all. I see it as a way of life, and I refuse to brand it, or even to speak of it in tones of politics.”
Khaled was constantly questioned about his loyalties—by Israelis, by Palestinians, by his own family. His identity and sympathies were challenged at every turn. Everything Khaled did was subject to scrutiny—even how he identified himself: Arab-Israeli? Palestinian-Israeli? Palestinian? Each label came with its own baggage.
Whatever they called themselves, the 1.5 million Arabs living in Israel were always an awkward reality for the country. Israel was established as a home for the Jewish people. Its founders envisaged a democratic, pluralistic nation. But they always imagined Israel would be a Jewish nation—one way or another.
At best, the Arab-Israelis were meant to be a peaceful, fully assimilated minority with full rights and freedoms. At worst, well . . .
In the worst of times, Arab-Israelis were viewed with suspicion. Where exactly did their loyalties lie? If they had to choose, which side of the hyphen would they lean toward? That’s why people paid so much attention to how people like Khaled identified themselves. Were they Arab-Israeli or Israeli-Arab? Were they Israelis of Palestinian ancestry or Palestinians living in Israel?
Israel’s most nationalistic leaders saw the nation’s Arab minority as a dangerous fifth column that threatened the country’s very existence. The hostility tended to rise and fall depending on the political season. Typically, it got worse when things were bad.
“We will have to take another decision, and that is to sweep the Israeli Arabs from the political system,” Effie Eitam, a controversial Israeli war hero and politician, said in 2006 after the country’s war with Hezbollah in Lebanon. “We’ve raised a Fifth Column, a league of traitors of the first rank. Therefore, we cannot continue to enable so large and so hostile a presence within the political system of Israel.”6
Even in the best of times, Israel’s Arab minority was seen as a source of concern. Israeli politicians and demographers carefully monitored the birth and death rates of Arabs and Jews. They watched with incr
easing alarm as the Arab birth rate rose and encouraged the country’s Jewish residents to have as many kids as possible, something Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community was more than happy to embrace.
In 2003, Netanyahu, then serving as Israel’s finance minister, called the country’s Arab minority a “demographic bomb.”7 Netanyahu’s critics denounced his characterization as racist. Netanyahu worried that a rising Arab population would transform Israel into a binational state—an idea anathema to the Israeli leader and most of the country’s Jewish population.
Fear of the Arab minority in Israel fueled the rise of politicians like Avigdor Lieberman, the ultranationalist who gained enough clout to be named foreign minister in Netanyahu’s 2009 government. Lieberman consistently backed inflammatory proposals. He suggested that Arab-Israelis be forced to sign a loyalty oath if they wanted to stay in Israel. In 2006, he denounced Arab-Israeli lawmakers who met with Hamas as collaborators and suggested that they should be tried as traitors before being killed.8 While campaigning in Israel’s 2015 national election, Lieberman suggested that Arab-Israelis who didn’t back the country be beheaded, an inflammatory declaration that drew immediate condemnation from Arab lawmakers who compared him to Islamic State militants videotaping their gruesome beheadings in Syria.9
“Those who are with us deserve everything, but those who are against us deserve to have their heads chopped off with an axe,” Lieberman told one campaign rally.10
Israel’s Arabs were always made to feel like second-class citizens. And the problem was especially pronounced in Jerusalem, where half of the city is considered by international law to be occupied land. Though Israel effectively annexed East Jerusalem after the 1967 war and declared the entire city to be its “complete and united” capital in 1980, most of the city’s Arab residents had fewer rights than their Jewish neighbors.
When Israel took over East Jerusalem in 1967, the government offered citizenship to Arab residents who were willing to pledge their allegiance to the state of Israel and renounce loyalty to any other nation. It was a step few Arab residents of East Jerusalem have ever been willing to take.
A Street Divided: Stories From Jerusalem’s Alley of God Page 25