I don’t know why I’m not giving this book five stars. I think I might give other books—especially in fiction where it’s difficult to create these complexities largely from imagination—five stars. For me, maybe that’s part of it—this book is too overwhelming for me to embrace it wholeheartedly. In any case, this is still a moving, transformative book that I recommend.
This is a story about competing narratives and shared narratives. It is a story about the harrowing effects of occupation, told primarily from a Palestinian perspective, which is a first for my synagogue’s Israel book club. It is also a story that has been filtered through the perspective and writing of an Ashkenazi, white* American Jew.
(*I disagree with Penina about the use of “white” in this context, how it erases the experience of a certain subset of Jews. But I respect her broader point of not wanting to co-opt someone else’s narrative. Also, a big part of this book is to showcase people communicating beyond their differences. So here we go!)
This is on purpose, part of the protagonist, Souli’s, quest for dialogue, it seems. Souli is in fact more open to a variety of Jewish perspectives, including right wing and nationalist perspectives, than is Penina. Penina is at least functionally anti-Zionist, and a member of the far-left group IfNotNow. She is my litmus test for accepting different Jewish perspectives, the same way that in the book, Souli often found himself at odds with other Palestinians. I kept imagining Penina as a Jewish friend of mine, a friend who has a lot in common with Penina politically, as my way of continually viewing this author with empathy.
And I should say that Penina did a good job of excising herself, and most of her opinions, of this story. As stated above, it was very important to her not to co-opt a Palestinian’s narrative. Much of the book is an accounting of Souli’s life and journey from before Penina knew him, a fluid narrative of reportage and interviews.
Sulaiman was born in the town of Hizma, near Jerusalem (known to Palestinians as al-Quds), a place that can serve as a microcosm for the injustices of the occupation with how it’s been dissected and cut off, due to “Israeli safety concerns” (in itself a paradox of who’s to blame for ongoing violence) and the rise of nearby settlements. When he was 14, in the 1980s, he and his friend stabbed two hiking Israelis whom they took to be soldiers. He was tried by an Israeli military court (as is custom for all Palestinians living under the occupation; they don’t go to Israeli civil court) and sentenced to 12 years in prison.
In prison, Suliaman joined Fatah and adhered to a strict moral code of personal accountability and resistance strictly to Israeli military targets. As he went through prison and beyond, he grew frustrated with increased Palestinian violence against civilians, particularly with the advent of groups like Hamas, and he studied Jewish narratives about the connection to Israel beyond Herzl’s propaganda. This is what led him to embrace non-violence, and to start the group Combatants for Peace. Souli met with Palestinians and Israelis of similar leanings (a criteria for Israeli members of Combatants for Peace is a refusal to serve in the occupied territories.) He continued to challenge himself, including in the face of Israeli abuses in prison and military action that traumatized and killed family and friends, to accept the idea of a universal Jewish connection to the land alongside a Palestinian one.
It’s obvious that Souli wants his pain and history to be seen by Israelis and the broader Jewish community. In return, I feel seen, as a Jewish reader, for the acknowledgment of my own narrative ties to Israel. But, more divisively, there's still the issue of the inherent inequalities in the occupation. This is a movement based on getting Israelis and Palestinians to talk to one another, but one side still holds all the systemic power; in binary terms, it’s still the oppressor vs the oppressed. It’s difficult to get many people to agree to the idea of conversation at all; one need only look at other reviews of this book.
There are other means of inequality in the movement as well, particularly with regards to gender. It’s here that we’re supposed to see Souli as a more flawed human being, but the nature of this sort of nonfiction tends to strip that sort of human emotion from the piece. Penina also intentionally kept out some more controversial verbiage that might keep some readers, particularly Jewish readers, from considering the book. It certainly made things more palatable, and her acknowledgment of Jewish narratives also made it easier for me to disregard any anxieties I have about her far-left leanings, and realize that she’s capable of nuance.
I’m also reckoning with my own journey, as I try to move towards a place of greater empathy and acknowledge my own imperfections. I talk a lot about verbiage, which is at the heart of a conflict where both sides want to feel they belong. I can tell, from my own writings in Jewish/pop culture blog, how I’ve grappled with and ultimately acknowledged such words as “occupation” and “colonization.” I hope, like Souli, who is incredible guide if not a perfect hero, I can continue to challenge myself without losing sight of who I am and who I belong to. I’m sure I’m also censoring my words a little, and it’s easier to talk (or listen with) Jewish communities over non-Jewish ones. I still identify on the Left, albeit the more moderate Left, and I respect the idea of “safe spaces.” So long as we also take the time to leave our bubbles as well. Conversation is a journey for us all.