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Rabbi David Forman founder of Rabbis for Human Rights. He served as RHR's chairperson between 1988 and 1992 and between 2002 and 2003. |
The Raphael Lemkin awards were named after attorney and tireless human rights activist Raphael Lemkin (1901-1959). Raphael Lemkin, born to Jewish parents in eastern Poland, was a lawyer who dedicated his life to preserving human rights and preventing genocide, a term he coined in 1943.
He played an instrumental role in the United Nations General Assembly’s 1948 adoption of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. On Monday, December 11, 2006 the award was granted to Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) in Israel. RHR founder, Rabbi David Forman, former director of the Israel Office in Jerusalem of the URJ, accepted this award on behalf of Rabbis for Human Rights.
The Raphael Lemkin awards were named after attorney and tireless human rights activist Raphael Lemkin (1901-1959). Raphael Lemkin, born to Jewish parents in eastern Poland, was a lawyer who dedicated his life to preserving human rights and preventing genocide, a term he coined in 1943. He played an instrumental role in the United Nations General Assembly’s 1948 adoption of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. On Monday, December 11, 2006 the award was granted to Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) in Israel. RHR founder, Rabbi David Forman, former director of the Israel Office in Jerusalem of the URJ, accepted this award on behalf of Rabbis for Human Rights.
Thank you for this honor. But, it is not only Rabbis David Rosen, Ben Hollander and me that you are honoring, but Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) in Israel, its entire staff, and especially its dedicated executive director, Rabbi Arik Ascherman. I also am pleased to share the platform with B'Tzelem, with whom RHR has worked so closely over the years.
It was the beginning of July, 1982, during the first Lebanon War; I was with my artillery unit above the Beirut-Damascus highway. After a quiet few days, suddenly a barrage of Syrian rockets landed on our position. We quickly dashed into a trench to regroup. And, with missiles literally falling all around us, I turned to a fellow comrade-in-arms and said: "Do you think we should reevaluate our Zionist commitment?"
A few years later, after the first Intifada broke out, my oldest daughter went to the central bus station in Jerusalem to meet a friend who was visiting for Shabbat. She wore a t-shirt with the words written on it, "freedom for the press." This was to offset another t-shirt that was being worn by those who justified the harsh responses on the part of the Israeli army, and who blamed the media for exaggerating the government's actions, "the people against hostile press." When she arrived at the bus station, she was surrounded by a number of people, who enclosed her in a circle, and, as is often the case, when women express their political views, men only know how to respond by hurling sexual insults; so, in addition to becoming a “traitor,” she became Arafat's "whore."
When she returned home, trembling, before she could tell us what happened, her first words were: "Abba, I now know what it feels like to be an Arab." Stunned, I immediately asked myself, how was it possible that I who had been an activist all my life could have remained silent during this Intifada when it was clear that the response to it on the part of the government to this first Palestinian uprising was extreme? While admittedly this did not cross my mind immediately, I was aware of that powerful Talmudic dictum: "If you see someone in your household committing a crime and do nothing to stop that person, you are held accountable for the crimes of the entire household" (Shabbat 54b).
And so, to alleviate my daughter's pain, to ease my conscience, to assume accountability and ultimately to reevaluate – not my Zionist commitment, but the type of Zionism to which I was committed – I drafted a letter to a number of colleagues – Orthodox, Conservative and Reform – in the hope of establishing a religious voice for decency and humanity, as opposed to the shrill voices that emanated from a rabbinic establishment that seemed to justify, in the name of the Jewish tradition, all manner of human rights abuses. Thus was born Rabbis for Human Rights, whose prime purpose was, and still is, to become an irrelevancy, but which sadly has become a necessity.
A number of years ago, another daughter traveled to the States to visit family and friends. Though we speak English at home, and our children's spoken English is fluent, their reading and writing capabilities are limited, as is their vocabulary. When my daughter went into a bank to break a $100 traveler's check, the teller asked: "Any particular denomination?" She responded: "Jewish."
I am sure that at that moment, my daughter did not consider what it meant exactly to define herself as Jewish. But, for those of us who founded Rabbis for Human Rights, being Jewish is to embrace a universal and humanistic understanding of our tradition – an understanding that sees Jewish national identity forged in that sinaitic somewhere of Jewish experience, where we received a divine mandate to reject the abuse of power that enslaved us; and create a new social order, based on a prophetic vision of justice and equality.
A people that aspires to such a lofty prophetic ethic is put to the test when it is threatened. It is easy to maintain the moral high ground in peace time, it is far more challenging when one is afraid to get on a bus or go to a restaurant. And, there should be no doubt, when one's physical well-being is threatened, civil liberties are necessarily compromised. Collective responsibility cuts both ways.
Instead of Jimmy Carter, on the cover of his new book, Palestine – Peace, not Apartheid, superimposing his own humble presence over Israeli's security wall, he might have superimposed a replica of memorial plaques that dot Israeli bus stops, cafes and malls where Palestinian suicide bombers carried out their acts of murder. Without justifying its route, the wall did not come about in a vacuum.
Matters of right and wrong do not have the same facile moral clarity when lying in a trench in Lebanon or sleeping in a shelter in Kiryat Shemona or walking to school in Sderot or getting on a bus in Hadera, as they do sitting comfortably in one's living room in Plains, Georgia, or in Berkeley, Chicago, New York or Philadelphia.
In our justifiable criticism of Israel, we must be vigilant not to unwittingly feed the ever-growing attempts to delegitimize Israel as a rightful state among the nations of the world.
And yet, despite these hostile attempts, just as no one could, for two millennia, suppress the will of the Jewish people to gain its national expression in its ancestral homeland – making us the longest living national liberation movement in history – we dare not deny the spiritual, emotional and historical attachments of others to their homeland; two states for two peoples, as determined by an act of the international community. And, despite the double standards that are employed to judge the Jewish state – objectively, if we were to do comparative shopping at an ethical mall, given what we face daily from within and without, we morally dwarf other nations – we must not use the lowest common denominator as a yardstick to measure our behavior and justify actions that are contrary to the best of the Jewish value heritage. After all, should we adopt the tactics of our enemies, or of some of our friends, will we not look in the mirror and see an image of those who haunt our worst nightmares? We did not return to our historical home to become a nation like other nations.
We live in a world where the lunacy of the day before yesterday is rarely yesterday's exception, and is fast becoming today's routine. It is a very slippery slope; and, it is too easy to justify all manner of human rights abuses and excessive acts of collective punishment under the guise of "national security" or "Jewish survival." We dare not go down that slippery slope. Nor can we use a preoccupation with security concerns to ignore pressing socio- economic issues. The manner in which a country tends to the needs of the weaker elements in its society also tests its commitment to human rights.
Israel is the only self-contained and self-defined Jewish community in the world that is responsible for its military, economic, social, religious and political decisions. The image of the Jew and the perception of Judaism are often determined – for good and for bad – by what we Israelis do. Saul Bellow wrote: “Israel has become to the West what Switzerland is to the winter holidays – a moral resort area.” And so, together, even as we preserve the body of Israel, we must sustain its soul – recognizing all the nuances and sensitivities and complexities in balancing one's physical security with one's moral integrity.
Therefore, Rabbis for Human Rights will continue its work, for we have no choice but to care for "the orphan, the widow and the stranger." Consequently, you will find us standing with those Palestinians who want only to pick their olives and harvest their grapes, free of harassment; defending those Arabs who want to build a home without fear of demolition; protecting foreign laborers from draconian work conditions; advising the economically deprived and the socially disenfranchised of their basic rights; engaging in interfaith dialogue and activities; promoting religious tolerance for different life-styles and respect for all streams in Judaism; advocating for the release of Israeli kidnapped and missing soldiers; and educating Israelis about the value of human rights as a bulwark of a Jewish and humane and democratic state through our Rabbis for Human Rights Yeshiva, through our Tractate: The Israeli Declaration of Independence and through our primer, Life, Liberty and Equality in the Jewish Tradition, as we teach in pre-army programs, in army and police officer training academies, in Israeli public schools, both religious and secular, Arab and Jewish.
The rabbis tells us that God created Adam from the dust of the four corners of the world – red loam, black soil, yellow clay and white sand – so that no color or race of human being can say that this earth, this land does not belong to me (Yalkut Shemoni 1:3). For Rabbis for Human Rights, this is the essence of what it means to be Jewish – to care for our own and for the "other," no matter the gathering storm that threatens our very existence as a people and a state; and, it is the essence of our Zionist commitment – to create a society, as Theodore Herzl wrote in his Jewish State "that aspires to spiritual and moral wholeness."