Saving the Entire Universe, One Child at a Time

Our bodies have painfully tasted man’s indifference and inhumanity to his fellow man. We have witnessed in our own flesh the moral evil present in human society. But this should not tempt us to become morally arrogant. Our suffering should not lead us to self-righteous postures, but to an increased sensitivity about all human suffering. (David Hartman, 1982)

In his autobiography, Once Upon a Country, A Palestinian Life, Al Quds University President, Sari Nusseibeh, tells a story about a time when he asked his mother what her father would have done if European Jews came and said that they want to return to the shared homeland to avoid the imminent catastrophe awaiting them in Europe. Her

response was that her father would welcome his Abrahamic cousins.

“Welcoming”, however, connotes an element of passivity that would have been insufficient in light of the tragedy that European Jews were facing. In hindsight, we all like to think that we would have done much more, but the episode of the St. Louis, the German ocean liner that tried to bring 937 refugees to safety in Cuba in 1939, suggests otherwise. These refugees were returned to Europe where over a quarter of them met their death in concentration camps. Apparently, even when fully aware of horrors being perpetrated against brothers (or cousins), we are unable to leave our comfort zones and meet the challenges our morality demands of us.

I can’t speak to other people’s morality; who am I to judge? but my own sense of decency is beckoning me to take action and I need help. I must save two families that have been deported from Israel to South Sudan. These are the families of my 13 year old son’s school friends from the two years I was on a fellowship at the Shalom Hartman Institute.

I recognize that the notion of deportation is highly charged; thus, allow me an opportunity to explain why I feel that the country of immigrants and refugees that I love, which I opted to become a citizen of during high school, has fallen short on its moral and legal obligations.

Poogi and Deng, my son’s friends from his public school in northern Tel Aviv, had their parents visited by Israeli officials who said that, now that they have a state of their own, Israel can help them return home. Sounds nice, but the officials didn’t like Poogi’s mother, Theresa’s response. She said, I’m paraphrasing, “Thank you, but we are saving money of our own and waiting to see if the country will be safe for our return. We have six children and five of them are still in school. My husband is a leader in our community church here. We can’t just take our kids out of school and abandon our community.”

Poogi, Deng and Itamar celebrating Purim

The official didn’t like this and asked how she was saving money. Then he reminded her that she has refugee status but not a work permit. In Israel, instead of allowing refugees to work and give back to the country that is helping them, they import indentured servants, under the guise of “foreign labor,” who must pay for their right to work in Israel for a limited time and cease to be humans while they live there. An example of this is having children. If a “foreign worker” has a child and raises that child in Israel with Hebrew as their mother tongue with all the risks and rewards of living in the promised land, then that child is at risk of being separated from his or her parents and deported back to the parents native land, alone, where they have never visited, don’t speak the language and don’t know the culture.

The Israeli officials told Theresa, that they would forgive her violation of Israeli law and give the family one thousand dollars per adult family member if they would accept the offer and return to South Sudan. And, of course, sign a document that says they are not being deported. Grace accepted and her family moved back to the civil war raging in her native country after 6 years in our promised land.

I am not decided about the existence of God, but I believe in angels because I learned that Poogi and some of his siblings are now safe living in a boarding school in Uganda, paid for by the parents of one of the children’s classmates in North Tel Aviv. Wow! This is the Israel I love. In fact, I remember taking my son and the boys, his Sudanese friends, to the beach in Tel Aviv and some other angels approached the boys. One woman wanted to buy them ice cream. An older man hugged Poogi and Deng and said, “Welcome to our country. We thank you for giving us this opportunity to give back after having been refugees ourselves.” Oh, for the love of angels.

Sudanese children raised in Israel now at the Trinity School in Kampala, Uganda

I found out about Poogi’s and Deng’s current situation when I went to their apartments in South Tel Aviv and discovered that they had left the country. A friend turned me on to Come True, an Israeli NGO that helps get the Sudanese children to safety in Uganda and raises the funds to pay their tuition. One of the volunteers put me in touch with Theresa in South Sudan. She has nothing but puts her last penny into a Zain cell phone so she can be in touch with her children in Uganada. In Juba, the family’s home was broken into and completely looted. Not only did they lose all of their possessions, but also the apartment is uninhabitable and unsafe. Theresa used to work in a hotel before the fighting broke out. Now the only visitors are oil industry magnates who come to drain this fledgling country of its only natural resources. The slow flow of tourism led to Theresa’s dismissal from work. No job, no home, just a homeland. The creation of her country, like the birth of a child, was so full of hope. What has gone wrong?

Deng’s family, maybe more pragmatic, thought they chose safety over hope. They fled South Sudan for Cairo. Now they live in poverty and suffer extreme racial and religious persecution. Both families are Christian.

During the catastrophe that occurred in Europe throughout the Second World War, few people took action to prevent the atrocities. Those who did help were either vested in the lives of the victims or simply humane. The Israeli philosopher Avishai Margalit describes this as the distinction between morals and ethics. Margalit says that ethics are supposed to guide thick relations, those we have with people who are engaged in our lives, either as friend or foe. Ethics guide these relations because we have stakes in them. The rules of war, for instance, are ethical because they regulate the behavior of enemies who are deeply engaged with one another. Ethics also guide our obligations to family, friends and fellow citizens. Without ethics society would not flow fluidly. Morals, on the other hand, are for perfect strangers. If we are not vested in the lives of others, do we have any impetus to help them? Why should we act when the stakes are low? What might compel us to feed the poor of distant lands if not a moral imperative?

For most people reading this, South Sudan is a moral concern. We ought to care because we are human, and fellow humans are suffering, but caring about the South Sudanese will not change the quality of our lives. For me, this has always been an ethical issue. I have been culpable since the beginning. My country, Israel, sells arms to China, which end up in the hands of the Janjuweed. These Arab marauders created killing fields in Darfur and other parts of Sudan, leading to the steady flow of immigrants. Refugees made their exodus by foot through Egypt, like my people before them, with hopes of a sanctuary in a promised land. My country flew them back to a civil war. Not only is this unethical, it is also a violation of the Geneva Convention.

I understand that if Israel keeps its borders permeable, more refugees will come. Yes, we are geographically small and dedicate a lot of our national budget to defense, but I love the comment that the man on the beach gave to the boys. “We thank you for giving us this opportunity to give back after having been refugees ourselves.”

In most conflicts, the parties see the world as a zero sum game. One side must lose for the other side to win. Everything is always limited by our lack of creativity and the opacity of those forces that have something to loss. In a transparent Israel, rational, good people would give jobs to refugees before importing foreign laborers to do the same work. Opacity hides the money that goes to “man power” companies and politicians who allow this system to continue without obvious benefits.

If Israel would take a leading role in addressing the refugee crisis, she could find partners in the global community. Instead, Israel exports the arms that are used against these refugees. How many average Israelis understand the horrible consequences of some of their countries leading oligarchs’ despicable business practices?

Many people will find it distasteful to read me question the country’s policies. They will say it is washing dirty laundry in public. Some readers will feel terrible about what this country, which holds so many promises and hopes for our people, is doing. They may be pushed away or talk about it with disdain among friends. What I am searching for is people who will take action and try to help save these families or at least their sons.

Both Poogi’s and Deng’s mothers have said to me that they would rather be separated from their son’s and know that they are safe than to be together and in harm's way. I am willing to take these boys into my house and raise them beside my own children, but I need help. Both the Talmud and the Koran share the verse, “To save one life is akin to saving the entire universe.” I want to save at least two. Please think about how you can help; immigration lawyer friends, politician associates, NGO’s and, of course, money. We can start by paying for the families’ cell phones. We can pay for continued tuition for the children in Uganda. We can send money for food and clothing. And we can make this a public issue so that we don’t allow ourselves, via our country, to be shamed by these inhumane and unethical policies. 

Poogi

Poogi Galuak is an eleven year old boy who became a refugee in the first year of his life. His mother, Theresa, was also a refugee who left her native Unity, now part of South Sudan, when she was eight to live in Khartoum where she met her husband Galuak. Both Theresa and Galuak are from the Dinka tribe and are practicing Christians. Galuak is a minister in the church.

When Poogi was one year old, his parents took him and three older siblings to Cairo, Egypt to flee the Second Sudanese Civil War (1983-2005). The family lived and worked in Cairo from 2003 to 2007 but fled to Israel, by foot, after repeated attacks and other human rights violations. By this time, they had added one more son to the family.

In 2007, Galuak led his family into Israel. Upon arrival, they were taken to South Tel Aviv by the military and left to rebuild their lives. Poogi was five years old when he arrived in Israel, having already fled his home twice.

Tel Aviv, Poogi’s new hometown, had a progressive approach to refugee absorption and tried a variety of ways to educate the children. Many people are familiar with the Bialik-Rogozin School because the movie about it, Strangers No More, won an Oscar. At the Bialik-Rogozin School, children of foreign workers and refugees study together in Hebrew with a student body from all over the world. Poogi’s parents were not sure if this was the best idea for their children. They wanted the loving environment and good education, but they were concerned with their children’s acculturation into Israeli society. Instead of sending the children to Bialik-Rogozin, they chose the other option Tel Aviv provided for them. Inspired by the outcomes of the American Supreme Court decision in Brown vs. Board of Education, the city tried bussing kids to good schools in the north. Poogi and his two sisters ended up in the Aran School next to the Sde Dov Airport.

At Aran, Poogi contended with some racism, but ultimately thrived. He was admitted into the Israel Baseball League and made many friends. His family remained in Tel Aviv until 2012 when they were forced to return to the fledgling country of South Sudan. This was the third time in his short life that he was forced to leave his home. After a brief quiet and period of hope, civil strife became civil war and Poogi was moved again. This time he was placed in a boarding school, Trinity Primary School, in Kampala, Uganda. To his good fortune, a family of one of his Israeli classmates is paying his tuition. All of Poogi’s five siblings are now in the school, but the parents remain in Juba, South Sudan. Recently, Theresa lost her job cleaning in a hotel and the family apartment was broken into and looted. They lost everything including the roof over their heads.

I just spoke to Theresa. She and her husband want to leave South Sudan. In their best case, the united family would take up residence in the United States, but Theresa has told me that she will be happy to save as many of her children as possible. Poogi is my son’s friend from the Aran School in Tel Aviv, and I hope we can start saving the Galuak family by saving him first.

Being Rich

Sometimes the clearest truths are hidden in plain sight, in broad daylight, right in front of your face. It’s like not seeing the trees because of the forest or not seeing the forest because of the trees; however that saying goes.

I am sitting on the porch of my high school roommate Gilli’s house in Kibbutz Mishmarot, just a few feet from the spot where my cabin was when I lived here in the army. I have a cup of Turkish coffee next to me, my wonderful partner getting dressed in the other room and a full day before me. I am a very happy guy.

Coming back to Israel has been the best homecoming ever. I feel rich with love and joy and so many good things. I arrive in a city or kibbutz, knock on a door and am greeted with love. My friendships make me so rich, so content, so happy. I fill with pride every time I introduce Diane to another of my friends. This trip has been proof that you are reflected in the company you keep. My friends all share a great commitment to our country. Gilli has always been committed to the security of the country. Snait cares about the ethical behavior of the government. Yair wants Judaism to be defined broadly and positively. He gave up on his orthodoxy, doesn’t believe and still shares my commitment to our sacred texts and the values we derive from them. Today we will have dinner with Sharon, Itamar’s friend Neveh’s mom, and the family. She wants her contribution to come through cinema just as my high school buddy Doron does. He has won 3 Israeli Oscars, hangs them in his washroom and thinks of his film work as his tikkun olam. Tonight we will sleep at my teacher and friend Lori’s house. Her contribution to my education can be summarized in one word, “Scope.” She taught me to see the world with eyes wide open. This morning we will, hopefully, see Marissa, Diane’s daughter. She is in the process of giving this country a place in her heart as she travels with Birthright. She is a very special girl and I am lucky that she is part of the package. And everywhere I go, people ask about my children with great interest and love. “Is Itamar still playing baseball?” “Is Sahar still as brilliant as she was when I knew her here?” “Has Maya taken that beautiful face out of her books? She’s depriving the world of her smile.”

Life is wonderful. Israel is a rich and magnificent miracle, but really not a miracle, the product of the hard work of my people. I feel good.

Moving on

Normally, I force myself to take a deep breath and write my thoughts as a way of getting full value from my experiences, but this trip has been a frantic squeezing of every possibility into the mere 24 hours of a day on Earth. I haven't had time to just think.

On the other hand, I have definitely accomplished my goal of moving on with life and making sure that Israel is part of that equation. This has meant introducing Diane to my two Israeli families, showing her my beloved city – Tel Aviv, eating in all my favorite places, meeting many of my friends (there is no chance for her to meet them all in 2 weeks) and, for me, feeling at home in Israel without an Israeli partner. One week into the trip and I can already proclaim, “Mission accomplished!”

Since we arrived, we have been to Caesaria with my buddy Snait, visited my high school roommate Gilli, spend time in Akko and Rosh Hanikra, walked King George and Shuk Hacarmel on Friday, saw many close friends and ate enough to feed a whole brigade of IDF soldiers.

Tonight we have dinner in Ramallah with my friend Hania Bitar, whom I have been told by many, could be the first Palestinian woman Prime Minister. We will have breakfast tomorrow with my Talmud teacher from the Hartman Institute, Yair Eldan, and we will finish the day in Tel Aviv with my dear friends Effie and Sasha. Sasha was there when I became a father and has been a close buddy ever since. Tuesday we will get a tour of the eastern Galil and Golan Heights from my buddy Gilli, and Wednesday night we will sleep at my high school teacher and friend, Lori’s, house. To top off a great trip, Thursday night, my classmates from the Kfar Hayarok are having a reunion. And how is this for good planning, on Saturday when we depart, instead of being sad, we will fly to Amman and spend 22 hours with my old friend Khaldoun Dajani and his family.

Life is good and my waistline is growing.

Blogging as a way of staying awake

Often one writes in a blog for an audience, but sometimes writing just helps you in the fight against jet lag. Right now it's the latter. It's seven PM and my eyelids are begging to close the store for the night. I need to make it to double digits.

Today was a great start to our trip. Snait's husband, Yaron, runs a farm on Kibbutz Givat Brenner and grows what might be the tastiest avocados ever. These together with jachnun, tachina and salad were a scrumptious and healthy (it's all relative) start to the day.

Ancient Caesarea was our first stop, and, true to form, I bumped into someone I know - my friend Mike Hollander, a tour guide who was leading a group of tourists. The next stop was the Electric Company's Hedera power station where my roommate from high school, Gilli, is in charge of security. Gilli has been my Moroccan brother since 1980 when we first milked cows together. Next week he will take us for a tour of northern Israel. The last time he did this for me, I was traveling with my friend Patrick, an Irish Catholic (secular), and Gilli took us to his friend's restaurant at Caperum, the place where JC was supposed to have walked on the water. With typical Israeli tact, to entertain us during lunch, they told jokes - Jesus jokes. If it wasn't so surreal, it would have been embarrassing, but Patrick took it well.

We also had coffee at Kibbutz Sdot Yam. Oh, to be a socialist living on the sea shore. And later we went to Shula's Fish and Seafood Restaurant. Wow! it was so good. Diane joined the clean plate club by finishing all her shrimp. I couldn't bring myself to eat trayf, but I will eat chicken or beef in non-kosher restaurants here. In America, I don't eat non-kosher meat as a kind of self discipline to remind myself of my identity.
 

This may not sound like a very dynamic day, but it was really great introducing some of my closest friends in Israel to Diane, and I'm sure this is helping her understand her boyfriend better. All good in the promised land.

Waking up in the promised land

Jet lag is a terrible thing. I thought that if I stayed up to reminisce with my old friend Snait (Yes, her parents named her squirrel) until 1:30 in the AM, I would sleep late and get on the right sleep schedule. Apparently, the right schedule for me in Israel is contrary to Benjamin Franklin's pronouncement that "early to rise and early to bed makes a man healthy and wealthy and dead." In Israel, I just don't sleep, and I'm no healthier or wealthier for it. And, of course, my writing is testimony to my being alive. You might conclude, ala Descarte, "I write therefore I am." In truth, I wouldn't mind some more sleep.
During my first stint in Israel, starting in 1980 at the Kfar Hayarok, I was a dairy farmer and I woke up every morning at 3 AM to milk the cows. Rising early continued with the army.
The second major stint in Israel was 1991 through '96 when I lived here with Irit and rose early to run on the beach every morning in Tel Aviv. I thought it would make me tired and help me sleep longer, but as the "best laid plans of mice and men," it didn't work out as predicted. I slept less and still continued to live with full vitality and vigor. I can't put my finger on it, but there is something about this place that makes me want to be awake and experience all that is here for me to experience. As Warren Zevon sang while dying of prostrate cancer, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

To Zion, again

Tomorrow I return to my adopted home, Israel, and my favorite city, Tel Aviv, for the first time since the restructuring of my family. I'll travel with my new partner, Diane, and make all the requisite introductions. She will meet my friends, see my country, eat in my favorite restaurants and walk my favorite streets. I am full of excitement and trepidation.
The first time I traveled to Israel was 1967, right after the Six Day War. I might as well have been my parents' baggage because I was two at the time and have no recollection of the trip. I returned when I was ten, the summer after my parents divorce. I didn't like Israel because it meant being away from my father, but I do remember having a lot of fun. That summer, we lived with my mom's first boyfriend, Danny, and his wife and two kids, in a 2 bedroom apartment in Givataim. We spent our days at the beach and the nights eating falafel and hanging out with friends. Israel was still a product of its socialist roots, and it seemed like everyone had just about the same amount of stuff. There was only one TV channel and everyone listened to The Voice of Peace. This was the Israel that I fell in love with, despite the absence of my dad.
Five years later, after being influenced by my Labor Zionist youth movement, Habonim, I decided to try a year of high school in the Kfar Hayarok, an Israeli agricultural boarding school on the northern border of Tel Aviv. My fate was sealed.

After what became three years of high school, delivering hundreds of baby calves, falling in love for the first time, traveling all over the country and being adopted by all my classmates families, I decided to become Israeli. This wasn't an ideological move. I couldn't imagine myself living anywhere else. I didn't think about the ugly war the country was fighting in Lebanon or the occupation of our Palestinian neighbors in the West Bank and Gaza. I thought about milking cows and being close to friends.
OK maybe it was ideological. I carried a copy of the Israeli Declaration of Independence in my wallet, dreamed of being a hero like Trumpeldor, and building a new kibbutz that would double as an artist colony.

After the army, I went to school at UCLA. The Intifada helped me feel good about the fact that I wasn't in Israel. I studied art and film and gave up my dreams of living on a kibbutz with my girlfriend Estee. However, A few girlfriends later, I was back on my way to Tel Aviv for another stint in the land I call home. This time with Irit, I was a television editor and multimedia producer. I made new friends and strengthened old friendships. We started our family and I felt at home, at least until my dying grandfather asked me to come back to America and help him with his business.

Thirteen years later, I returned again, the father of three and a doctor of education. I studied to become a rabbi, but my school closed unexpectedly and I left after two years, this time with a family and lots of responsibilities. I didn't want to leave, but my kids were not thrilled with my chosen homeland and making ends meet was a challenge. Israel had changed. By 2011, we had exceeded 40 years of occupation, both blurred the green line and built a wall on or close to it, and the country had become ultra capitalist. As much as I hated to go, it was the right thing to do. Little did I know that within a year of my return to America, my marriage would start to crumble and the earth below me would start to shake. Everything came apart and I hit bottom. Then I met my traveling companion and life partner, and now here I go again, back across lakes and seas and oceans to my tiny little country with my wonderful group of friends and my huge bundle of memories. Excited and nervous, I can't wait to get back home.