My Promised Land: The Triumph and Tragedy of Israel (4 page)

Yet I still ask myself why he does not see. After all, Arab stevedores woke him at dawn and carried him ashore in the rough wooden boat. Arab peddlers passed him in the Jaffa market. Arab staff attended to him in the Jaffa hotel. He saw Arab villagers from the carriages along the way. And the Arab residents of Ramleh and Lydda. The Arabs in his own Thomas Cook convoy: the guides, the horsemen, the servants. The Baedeker guide to Palestine states emphatically that the city of Ramleh is a city built by Arabs, and that the white tower of Ramleh is an Arab tower.

As I observe the blindness of Herbert Bentwich as he surveys the Land from the top of the tower, I understand him perfectly. My great-grandfather does not see because he is motivated by the need not to see. He does not see because if he does see, he will have to turn back. But my great-grandfather cannot turn back. So that he can carry on, my great-grandfather chooses not to see.

He does carry on. He gathers his fellow pilgrims and they board the train to Jerusalem. The Jaffa–Jerusalem railway was laid down by a French company only a few years earlier, and the engine is a modern steam engine carrying modern cars with comfortably upholstered seats. But as thrilled as he is by the signs of progress he sees embodied by the new train, he is even more impressed by the landscape. Through the wide windows of the French-made cars he sees the remains of the ancient Hebrew city of Gezer (but he does not see the adjacent Palestinian village of Abu Shusha). He sees the tombs of the heroic Maccabeans in Modi’in (but not the Palestinian village of Midia). He sees Samson’s Tsora (but not Artouf). He does not see Dir-el-Hawa, and he does not see Ein Karem. My great-grandfather sees the ancient glory of the twisting gorge leading to Jerusalem, but he does not see the Palestinian peasants tilling the craggy terraces of the Jerusalem hills.

Two things drive Herbert Bentwich: a vivid historical memory coupled with a belief in progress, and a longing for the glory of the past that gives rise to determination to pave the way for modernization. Yes, he is committed to Russian Jewry groaning under the tsar’s tyranny. He never forgets the victims of the 1881–82 pogroms in the Ukraine and the victims of the recent Romanian persecutions. But what really captivates him is the Bible and Modernity. His real passions are to revive the prophets and to put up telegraph lines. Between the mythological past and the technological future there is no present for him. Between memory and dream there is no here and now. In my great-grandfather’s consciousness, there is no place for the Land as it is. There is no place for the Palestinian peasants who stand by their olive and fig trees and wave hello to the British gentleman dressed in fine linen who is absorbed by the biblical landscape he sees through the train windows.

As I follow the train on its climb up to Jerusalem, I think of Ferdinand-Marie de Lesseps, the French consul general in Egypt who devised a detailed plan to connect the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean with an artificial waterway. He then raised the money to carry out his vision by founding a general stock company. Within ten years the Suez Canal was dug, at a horrendous human cost, and Lesseps proved to the nineteenth century that there were no limits, that in this age of reason any
problem could be solved. No mountain was too high for rational progress.

Herbert Bentwich is not French but British, and though his personality is not Cartesian but Tory, the de Lesseps spirit affects him, too. He believes there must be a rational answer to the Jewish question. For him, Theodor Herzl is the de Lesseps of the Jewish question. Herzl would get the charter, draw up the plan, raise the money by founding a general stock company. Herzl would erect the great artificial nation-state that would connect East to West and would link the past to the future and would turn this wasteland into an arena of momentous events and great deeds.

My great-grandfather’s fellow travelers are excited, too. They have seen so much since dawn: Jaffa, Mikveh Yisrael, Rishon LeZion, Ramleh, the plains of Judea, the Judean hills, the gorge en route to Jerusalem. The locomotive travels slowly, and the Thomas Cook tourists make good use of the time by reading their various guide and reference books: Baedeker, Smith, Thompson, Oliphant, Condor. As they pass the Valley of Ayalon, they reconstruct the great biblical battles that occurred there; astonished, they recognize the site of the heroic victory of the Hasmoneans at Beth Horon. They feel they are traveling back in time, making their way between the epochs of the remarkable history of the sons of Israel.

I take a close look at them. There are sixteen men and five women. Sixteen Brits, three Americans, and two Continental Europeans. All but three are Jewish. All but one are well off. Almost all are well read, well-to-do, emancipated Jews of the modern era. And although they are a bit outlandish in their dress, and although they are naïve, there is no malice in them. What brought them here is desperation, and desperation breeds resolve. They are unaware of the huge forces coursing through them—imperialism, capitalism, science, technology—that will transform the land. And when imperialism, capitalism, science, and technology breed with their determination, nothing can stand in the way. These forces will flatten mountains and bury villages. They will replace one people with another. So as the train moves on with its Baedeker-reading passengers, change becomes inevitable.

Of the twenty-one travelers, only one is not naïve at all. Israel Zangwill is a well-known author whose novel
Children of the Ghetto
is an international bestseller. Zangwill is sharp-tongued, sharp-minded, and merciless. He doesn’t share my great-grandfather’s benevolent conservatism and humane romanticism. There is no need for him to deceive himself, no need to see and yet not see. All that Herbert Bentwich doesn’t see, Israel Zangwill sees. He sees the Palestinian cities of Jaffa, Lydda, and Ramleh, the Palestinian villages of Abu Kabir, Sarafand, Haditta, and Abu Shusha. He sees all the humble villages and miserable hamlets en route to Jerusalem. He sees the farmers who toil the land wave at the passing French train.

In seven years’ time, all that Zangwill sees now will pour out of him. In a landmark speech in New York, the world-renowned writer will shock his audience by stating that Palestine is populated. In the district of Jerusalem, Zangwill will argue, population density is double that of the United States. But the provocative Zionist will not only spout subversive demographic data; he will also claim that no populated country was ever won without the use of force. Zangwill will conclude that because others occupy the Land of Israel, the sons of Israel should be ready to take tough action: “To drive out by sword the tribes in possession, as our forefathers did.”

Zangwill’s speech will be perceived by the Zionist movement as scandalous heresy. In 1897, and even in 1904, no Zionist but Zangwill articulates such a blunt analysis of reality and reaches such cruel conclusions. After his speech, the nonconformist writer will be driven out of the movement, but he will return some years later, and on his return, in the second decade of the twentieth century, he will proclaim in public what no Zionist dared whisper to himself: “There is no particular reason for the Arabs to cling to these few kilometers. ‘To fold their tents and silently steal away’ is their proverbial habit: let them exemplify it now.… We must gently persuade them to trek.”

But all that will take place much later. It is still the early days. In the late afternoon of Friday, April 16, 1897, after a long and exciting train ride,
the Bentwich pilgrims get off the train in Jerusalem’s newly built stone station. My great-grandfather is thrilled. They have reached Jerusalem.

Time is short. Their arrival coincides with Passover. In a few hours the holiday of freedom will begin, and Jews will celebrate a previous exodus. So after the pilgrims are greeted at the station by the notables of Jerusalem’s old Jewish community, they are rushed to the Old City. Once again they are confronted with the misery of the Orient: dark, crooked alleyways, filthy markets, hungry masses. The impoverished Arabs and the pre-Zionist Jews who have been residing in the Holy City for generations, living on charity and prayer, are a wretched sight. But when they reach—at last—the Wailing Wall, they are overwhelmed by the devotion of the worshippers there. They are moved by the genuine grief of elderly, bearded Jews as they stand by the only remnant of the temple and lament the eighteen-hundred-year-long catastrophe of their history.

The British ladies and gentlemen, along with their American and European counterparts, are surprised to find that they, too, are flooded by longing and lament. They deposit their scribbled yearnings in the cracks of the Wall. But as they are short on time, Bentwich hurries the breathless pilgrims onward, through the dark, crooked alleyways, to the Kaminitz Hotel, where the seder is to be held. Then on to David’s Citadel and David’s Tomb the following morning. And then to the breathtaking Mount of Olives. And yet wherever the pilgrims go, the contrast is striking: venues of the glorious past coexist with present-day squalor. In the breathtaking beauty of the ancient city of Jerusalem, both Arab and Jew are stricken with poverty. Young boys look like old men. Disease and despair are everywhere.

The day after Passover the pilgrims head north. Now it is time for the Thomas Cook brothers to display their outstanding skills. For the forty-four guineas it has charged each traveler, the prestigious tourism agency now delivers a hundred horses and mules, with free English saddles and covered sidesaddles for the women. They provide top-quality white Indian tents. No fewer than forty-eight servants arrive, including a butcher, a chef, and a staff of trained waiters. An English breakfast will be laid out every morning; lunch will be packed in handwoven picnic baskets; and in the evening, a gourmet repast will be served: warm soup, two kinds of meat or poultry, three different desserts.

Between April 20 and April 27, 1897, Herbert Bentwich leads a convivial colonial convoy through the land. They travel from Jerusalem to Beit El, from Beit El to Shilo, from Shilo to Nablus, from Nablus to Jenin via the Valley of Dotan. From Jenin they journey on to Mount Tabor via the Valley of Yizrael. From Mount Tabor they go to Tiberias via the Horns of Hittin. And after two days on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, they travel by boat to Capernaum. And from Capernaum to Rosh Pina. From Rosh Pina along the river Jordan to its sources. Then on to Mount Hermon, Damascus, Beirut.

Is this colonialism? If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck. The photographs are incriminating: white safari suits, cork hats, Thomas Cook tents. The language that my great-grandfather uses in his diary is incriminating, too. There is no ambiguity, no beating about the bush. His aim and that of his London circle is to colonize Palestine. The Herzl Zionists seek imperial backing for their endeavor. They are persistently courting Britain, Germany, Austria, and the Ottoman Empire. They want a major European power to use its might to impose the Zionist project on the Land. They want the West to tame this part of the Orient. They want this Arab land to be confiscated by Europe so that a European problem will be solved outside the boundaries of Europe.

And yet the Bentwich delegation seeks to acquire another part of the planet not for the glory of Britain, but to save persecuted masses. They don’t really represent an empire but a deprived people seeking the help of empires. They do not intend to oppress but to liberate. They do not want to exploit the land, but to invest in it. Apart from Israel Zangwill, no member of the delegation considers their mission as a form of conquest, dispossession, or expulsion.

So as I observe the gentlemen sitting on their fine English saddles and the ladies teetering on their sidesaddles, I see no evil. I do not see a condescending attempt to take the poor man’s lamb. For although the setting is colonial and the customs are colonial, these pilgrims are not agents of a colonial power. Although their appearance, thinking, and manners are European, these pilgrims do not represent Europe. On the
contrary. They are Europe’s victims. And they are here on behalf of Europe’s ultimate victims.