Return to Zion

After three months in Europe this summer, I was finally ready to return to Jerusalem, or ‘Zion,’ as it was called in Biblical times by the Jews who were cast out of Israel by the Babylonians and who longed to return to their homeland.  Although that event may have been some 2,500 years ago, the yearning for Zion and its surrounding lands has not diminished amongst the Jewish people.  And so, as I got on the plane bound for Tel Aviv, I already knew that a plane journey to Israel is unlike any other plane journey.

The first thing that I noticed when I boarded the plane was that I am not Jewish.  Of course I have always known that I am not Jewish but I was confronted with this fact rather abruptly as I looked around a cabin full of Jewish people.  It is a very strange thing to become suddenly aware of your identity or counter-identity; most of the time I walk around relatively oblivious to the fact that I am white or female or British or middle class or atheist and so on.  Indeed, most of us only become aware of one of our many identities when we are in a minority group.  So as I got on that plane and looked around me, it quickly occurred to me that I am a Goy; a Gentile or non-Jew.

This feeling was even stronger aboard that airplane than in Israel because in Israel, it is taken for granted that most of the population are Jewish and that you are in the Promised Land of the Jews.  But aboard that plane, there was an overpowering sense of expectation and import.  There were Jews visiting the land of the founding forefathers of their faith for the first time, Jews returning to make pilgrimage to the place where, according to Judaic scripture, the world and mankind were created, and Israeli Jews returning to the place of their birth.  But to all of those aboard that plane, the journey to Zion marked a spiritual return to their ancient, historical and religious homeland.  And so I could not help but feel overwhelmed by this journey, not merely because I was moving to a new city and starting a new job, a new life, but because of the significance of this land to so many of the world’s inhabitants and the conflicts it creates.

As I sat down in my seat, a young man in front of me wearing a yarmulke or skull-cap, whispered quietly to his God in Hebrew, as he rocked back and forth and read the Torah.  On this plane, such behaviour went unnoticed and indeed, would even have been considered normal.  But as I watched this man, I wondered if I had been on any other plane or if the passenger in front of me had been wearing a jalabiya or long Arabic robe and had been whispering quietly to his God in Arabic, as he rocked back and forth, reading the Quran, what the other passengers around him would have thought and how they would have reacted.  I had no doubt that people would be casting him nervous, suspicious glances and that their minds would be besieged by fears of a terrorist attack.  Lamentably, Islam has become conflated with terror and religious devotion with extremism in the ignorant brains of many Westerners today.  Meanwhile, the terrorist acts of Jewish and other religious extremists are largely forgotten by the West, thereby enabling mainstream Jews, Christians, etc. to practise their religion without being tarred with the brush of extremism.  And so I reflected as I observed the man in front of me, how lucky he was to be of this faith and on this plane, where he could pray in peace without fear of recrimination from those around him. 

A few hours into the flight, I noticed that the aisle was filling up with men, excitedly standing up, looking around and talking to one another.  It was clear that they were waiting for something but nonetheless, I was still rather surprised when the pilot’s voice announced over the intercom that a prayer session was going to be held in the cabin at the rear of the plane.  About a third of the plane’s male passengers then queued up in the aisle to participate in this ritual.  I would like to mention, at this point, that the airline carrier was Easy Jet, a multi-million Euro corporation, renowned for its corporate commercialism, rather than its spirituality.  It seemed that even those in the cockpit had been affected by Holy Land fervour.

And so as we began our descent into the Biblical land of Israel, I thought about the significance of this land for the Jews of the millenia gone by and the Jews of today.  It is written in Psalms 137:1, “by the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Tzion.”  Todays Jews are no longer exiled from their Holy Land, they are able to go home to the place where the Messiah will arrive to herald the end of days.  But for me, for now, returning to Israel was only the beginning.

Did I say Bedouin? I meant Backward.

Filled with abounding excitement and some trepidation about the new life I was embarking upon in Israel, I climbed into a taxi at Ben-Gurion airport.  Conversation was immediately struck up with the taxi driver, who was shocked to learn that I was not your average tourist going round the religious sites but was going to live in the Bedouin town of Rahat, to work with the community there.  Immediately, his reaction was to warn me that I might find it difficult living there because, “the Bedouin are, how shall I put it…,” a long pause ensued as I felt him mentally search around for the politically correct word, “…retarded,” he eventually finished.

After this rather revealing taxi ride, I arrived in Tel Aviv for the weekend before moving down to Rahat, where the reaction of Jewish Israelis to my plans was pretty uniform; “don’t go there,” “it’s dangerous and there’s a lot of crime,” “besides, they’re not Western like us, they’re pretty backward.”  Maybe I was being overly judgemental but it started to feel like there was a common trend in the derogatory way that Jewish Israelis view the Bedouin Israelis.

After several months in Israel, I rather enjoy telling other Israelis about what I do because you can guarantee that the reaction will be unfailingly extreme and simultaneously comical.  “You live in Rahat?” they squeal in shock, “but what’s it like there?”  I feel like a nineteenth-century explorer revealing to a captivated British audience ‘exotic’ tales of my adventures in ‘the Orient.’  Then I watch as a group of Jewish Israelis start to discuss Rahat and one turns to another and asks, “have you been there?  I mean, not just driven through but actually been there?” as if we are talking about a far away and inaccessible land.  In reality, we are talking about a town that is actually within Israel and is only an hour and a half from Jerusalem and an hour from Tel Aviv.  Then again, it is an Arab town in Israel and not only is it an Arab town but it is a Bedouin Arab town.  Heaven forbid!

In another conversation of the same vein, a Jewish Israeli leans forward and tells me confidingly about how the Bedouin often break into Jewish Israeli houses, steal their belongings and are responsible for most of the crime in the Negev desert.  “It is hard for us [Jewish Israelis],” he explains, “because they cause us many problems.”  It is true that a higher proportion of crime in Israel emanates from the Bedouin community than from other groups but there is a total absence of questioning of self or society as to why this might be the case and what the State is doing, or failing to do, to alleviate the problem.  There is no examination of the State’s failure to provide Bedouin towns with economic infrastructure and employment opportunity so that their populations do not have to resort to begging and crime.

Indeed, the government has just approved a plan to evict 30,000 Bedouins, a sixth of the Bedouin population of the Negev desert, from their lands and settle them in the already over-crowded, ‘recognised townships,’ thereby further restricting their traditional lifestyle and reducing their land-holding and thus their livelihood.  Upon discussion of this news, a Jewish Israeli laments, “the government is trying to help them by moving them into modern towns but they don’t want to go.  I just don’t understand it.”  There is no criticism of the State’s political, socio-economic and cultural discrimination against the Bedouin.  There is only recrimination and rejection of the Bedouin society and way of life as a whole.

But then as I travel to the West Bank, I find Palestinians there asking me the same questions as Jewish Israelis and equally sympathising with me that it must be hard to live with such a “backward” group of people.  Now, banish those notions of Palestinian solidarity and unity against the Israeli enemy.  Such fancies are fictions that do not reflect the reality where Palestinian Christians are divided from Palestinian Muslims, Palestinians from Arab Israelis, Bedouins from other Arab Israelis and Palestinians, Arab Israelis in the North from those in the South, and so on and so forth.  For most Palestinians and Arab Israelis, the Bedouin are at the bottom of the pile, a retrogressive remnant of a former age from which other Arabs have evolved.  I wonder if I asked Palestinians with this viewpoint what they think of Israelis or Europeans who see them as “backward,” whether they would agree that this is an acceptable position or whether they would reject this as another example of racist ethnocentrism, where the  West attempts to enforce   its cultural ‘superiority’ and homogeny upon the rest of the world?

By the time I get back to Rahat and my Bedouin boss tells me that Bedouin customs are “seriously backward,” I throw my hands up in the air in exasperation.  I expound upon the idea of political correctness and the assumptions that underly viewing one society or group of people as “backward.”  She cannot, however, get her head around the concepts of ethnocentrism and cultural relativism (due in large part, no doubt, to my laboured attempts to explain these concepts in broken Arabic) and just shakes her head at me and says, “strange the ideas you have in the West.  We just say things as we see them.”

In a country and a region where racism and sectarianism are more prevalent and more openly tolerated, perhaps it is not surprising that language is employed so bluntly and derogatorily to discredit a whole group of people.  But still, every time I am told about how “backward” the Bedouin are, my European, liberal sensibilities cannot help but be simultaneously amused, shocked and appalled by the use of such terminology and its attendant assumptions and prejudices.  I must remember to go back to Britain and to tell the traditionalists, the monarchists and the conservatives how backward they all are for wanting to hold on to their traditions.

Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Are you pro-Arab, Or are you pro-Jew?

As I drag my bags out of Ben-Gurion airport in Tel Aviv and haul them into a taxi, my taxi-driver says, “you are English, yes?”  Yes.  “Good, I have a joke for you.”

So God takes Moses to look over the holy land and says, “look Moses, this is the land I propose for you and your people, what do you say?”  Moses replies, “well God, the Israelites are a democratic people so let me go and ask them and then I’ll give you our reply.”  Off goes Moses and in the meantime, a little devil whispers into God’s ear, “but you’re being so generous; the land is so green and beautiful, it’s got the sea, mountains, everything.  Why are you giving the Jews all of this?”  God replies with a wry smile, “don’t worry, wait and see who I’ve given them for neighbours.”

My first few hours in the ‘Holy Land’ full of unholy deeds and already I’m involved in a game of pick and chose, Arabs or Jews.

I continue my journey down South to the Negev desert, where I jump into an unregistered shuttle bus to the Bedouin town of Rahat.  Looks of surprise pass between the Arab driver and his Arab passengers upon seeing a white girl get into the minivan.  “Where does the Jew want to go?” one of them asks the other in confusion.  They turn to me and ask me something in Hebrew.  “I don’t speak Hebrew, just Arabic,” I reply and quickly, my story is revealed.  “So much the better,” they exclaim grinning.  Then another Arab gets into the front of the van and eyes me suspiciously.  “Don’t worry,” the driver quickly reassures him, “she’s a friend of the Arabs.”  A broad smile spreads across the new passenger’s face and the journey continues with unbounded Arabic babble about the conflict, Israeli oppression and the unadulterated Anglo-American support for the occupying power.  This pattern of conversation is more or less repeated every bi-weekly bus trip to Rahat, with me being pitted as ‘the Jew,’ until it is revealed that since I am not and only speak Arabic, I must, ipso facto, be ‘a friend of the Arabs.’

Once in Rahat though, on the rare occasion that I happen to see a Jewish Israeli passing through the Arab-only town, a glimmer of recognition shoots from them to me; ‘another Jew,’ I can see them thinking.  Recently, a Jewish Israeli even waved at me from across the street, clearly thinking I was ‘like him.’  Now, not only am I not ‘like him’ because I am not Israeli, or even Jewish, but mainly because I would never wave at someone just because they were the same ethnicity or religion as me, particularly in my own country.  I am trying to imagine going to Newham or Southall, predominantly non-white areas of London and waving to a ‘fellow white,’ but somehow I just can’t picture it!  The U.K. may have major problems with social cohesion but thankfully we are not quite at the stage of identifying with people purely because of their ethnicity or religion.

When discussing almost any political, social or cultural issue within Israel, you will inevitably descend into talking about two ‘very distinct’ groups; “the Arabs” and “the Jews,” with little regard for the various strands amongst these peoples.  I have heard this reductive terminology so many times that, unacceptably, it seems to have become acceptable language when dealing with these polemics in Arabic.  Indeed, sometimes I inadvertently find myself slipping into this sort of language in English; “ah yes,” I nod sagely, “but the Jews are committing terrible atrocities against the Arabs.”  What?!  Crusading war tunes suddenly blare in my ears, as the complex intricacies of race, religion and nationality are reduced to a binary world view of Arabs versus Jews.

And as I find myself at the metaphorical crosspoint between the ‘Arab’ and the ‘Jewish’ world, I also find myself being questioned by an Israeli army guard at a military checkpoint between Israel and Palestine.  The soldier is looking none too pleased about my travelling with  Arab friends and asks me with narrowed eyes, “so, do you only help the Arabs or do you also help the Jews.”  That’s it; several years of civil society activism and human rights work in various countries across the globe reduced to one simple question; are you pro-Arab or pro-Jew?  Note, it is not even are you pro-Palestine or pro-Israel, it is a question based on even cruder ethno-religious lines.  There is only one answer, there is no in-between.  So while the Israeli soldier leans forward, waiting expectantly for my answer, George W. Bush sits on my shoulder and whispers, “you’re either with us or against us.”  The colourful tapestry that includes subtle, interwoven threads of pro-Palestinian Jewish Israeli activists, Arab informants to the Israeli State, Orthodox Jews who refuse to serve in the army and reject the State of Israel’s legitimacy due to its seizure and settlement of the Holy Land by force, is reduced to two homogeneous warring factions; Arabs and Jews.

Until Hamas and other like-minded extremist groups recognise the right of the Jews to live in Israel and until Israel stops occupying Palestine and oppressing Palestinians both within its own internationally recognised boarders and outside these boarders, in the Palestinian Territories, there can be no hope for social cohesion between Arabs and Jews in the Middle East or for a region where people are defined and aligned by more than just their ethnic and religious affiliations.  So as you pack your bag for the ‘Holy Land,’ along with your guidebook and your sunglasses, you must also be prepared to pack your answer the most asenine of questions; are you pro-Arab or are you pro-Jew?

Riding the Bus of Life

I have often felt that using the local transport system is one of the best ways to learn about the culture of a foreign land and yesterday, I received my validation.

As I made my way from Be’er Sheva to Jerusalem on the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, I was dismayed to see the throngs of soldiers and civilians making their way home for the holiday and crammed together in a heaving, sweating mass at the bus stop.  Reluctantly, I nudged my way into the fray.

As the first bus pulled in, the crowd surged towards the moving vehicle so that it could not complete its manoeuvre into the bus stop.  Children and the elderly were included in the crush, as we were all involuntarily shoved from one side to another, depending on the strength, size and positioning of the group dominating the pushing at that time.  Then, I watched in wonder and amazement as Israelis climbed over the barriers to get in front of the heaving mass of bodies swarming towards the bus door.  One soldier even jumped from the barriers onto the shoulders of those pushing their way onto the bus, whacking some poor person around the head with his assault rifle.  Now, even though I am constantly being told by both Israelis and foreigners how ‘Western’ or ‘European’ the Israelis are, the longer I participated in this spectacle, the more I longed for the British queue and felt that I was travelling further away from Europe and closer to India.  And throughout this rigmarole, as I was cursing under my breath and using my elbows for self-defense, the Israelis around me were good-naturedly laughing and joking with one another; just another day fighting their way onto an over-crowded bus for them.

When I had finally made my way onto a bus, after one hour of being buffeted about by the hordes and watching several buses fill up and depart in the process, I managed to grab a seat and avoid sitting on the floor of the over-congested aisle.  I passed the journey watching the touching images of camaraderie and warmth between Israeli strangers; a young, Jewish Israeli soldier giving up his seat for an older, Arab Israeli woman and her child, despite knowing that he would have to spend the rest of the 2 hour-long journey standing in the aisle; and conversation and jokes springing up and bouncing between those people unknown to one another but crammed together on the floor of the bus, so that numbers and hugs were exchanged at the end.  Watching this, I was reminded of the stark contrast of riding the bus in London, where the only people who talk to you are the drunks and the ‘crazies,’ and where people eye suspiciously and rapidly slink away from those trying to initiate any form of human contact with them.  My journey in Israel was taking me far away from home.

This bus behaviour reveals the strength of the army in permeating and creating Israeli culture.  In Israel, military service is compulsory for Jewish Israeli citizens when they reach 18; 3 years for boys and 2 years for girls.  As a result, it is ‘perfectly normal’ to see adolescents walking the streets and boarding buses in full army uniform, with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.  The time spent in the army creates a common culture among people who, though they are Jewish, come from all corners of the world, bringing with them their various languages, cultures and religious interpretations.  It unites these people and teaches them the necessity of force to obtain what they want or to defend what they think is ‘rightfully’ theirs and it throws strangers together so that they feel a common bond and instant ease in each other’s presence.  Fighting to get onto the bus and striking up a conversation with your neighbour is therefore a natural continuation of this trajectory.

A substantial part of my education about life in the Middle East was similarly garnered whilst riding the bus in Syria, though the experience was somewhat different to say the least.  The daily commute in Damascus would begin with my awkward attempts to drop the bus fare into the bus driver’s hand without touching him, lest I offend him or give him some sign of my ‘wantonness.’  Meanwhile, I had also to avoid spraying the coins across the floor, as the bus lurched down the uneven streets; a tricky manoeuvre for someone who is naturally somewhat maladroit.  Then, as I would make my way through the packed aisle, I would become increasingly aware of my body because no matter how full the bus and how crammed together the passengers, somehow I remained coated in a thin, invisible layer of protective air, which nobody could perforate to reach my skin.  So cautious were the male passengers not to touch me and offend my dignity that I started to believe in my own special status as a deity, suspended above the masses.  Then I returned to London and found myself gladly and willingly pressing my face into another passenger’s pungent, wet armpit in order to secure my place on the bus.  Not quite the loftiness of the Gods.

Amongst the bus rules that forbid smoking on board and command respectful behaviour towards the driver, it is written on Syrian buses that passengers must give up their seats to the disabled, the elderly and women.  The feminist inside me would bristle every time I read this sign or was offered a seat by some well-meaning male passenger, but nonetheless, the hot, sweaty, bad-tempered British girl who was unaccustomed to the 40-something degree heat, would gleefully swoop upon the offering and firmly nuzzle her derrière into the comforting plastic.  No doubt in London I’d have to be physically giving birth or keeling over to be awarded the same privilege.

Apart from exposing my weak adherence to my feminist principles, these daily occurrences reveal a Syrian society that bestows upon women traditional notions of femininity, such as, purity and weakness.  In a strongly patriarchal society, where women safeguard the honour of their families through their chastity, it is befitting that they are not tainted by being touched by men, however innocent or accidental.  Moreover, women are viewed as a frail species that must be cared for and protected by strong, gallant men who offer up their seats to rescue the damsels in distress.

And so as I ride the bus of life around the Middle East, I find myself being surprisingly and thrillingly immersed in the local culture.  The bus may be taking me further and further away from home but I happy to sit back, enjoy the journey and know that home is just a short plane ride away.

The Forgotten Arab Minority of Israel

When I told people at the beginning of this year that I was moving to Israel, they were surprised, since last year I had lived, worked and studied in Syria.  “Switching sides?” I was asked.  “Moving over to the enemy,” they joked.  Then when it emerged that I was moving out here for work, the immediate assumption was that I must be going to live on a kibbutz.  Now, had I said that I was moving to the Palestinian Territories, I have no doubt that the response would have been very different; people would have supposed that I was going as an activist against Israeli occupation or to work towards ‘bringing peace and democracy’ to the region with one of the innumerable NGOs that flood the West Bank.  It seems that if you are working in Israel, you must be working with the Jewish population and if you are working in Palestine, you must be working with the Palestinians.  There is no cross-over.

“No, no,” I clarified, “I’m going to work with the Israeli Arabs.”  The common reaction was one of surprise and disbelief; “there are Arabs in Israel?  But it’s a Jewish State.”  Repeatedly I would explain that there remained an Arab minority in Israel which had not fled to other Middle Eastern countries in the 1948 war that saw Israel gain its independence and approximately 750,000 Palestinians flee the county in what is known to the Arabs as ‘al-Nakba,’ the catastrophe.  In fact,” I would continue, “this sizeable minority constitutes one fifth of the total Israeli population, some 1.6 million people out of a total of 7.7 million Israelis.”  It seems that everyone is aware of the plight of the Palestinians inside Gaza and the West Bank but nobody has even heard of those still inside Israel.

It is important to point out here that there is some disagreement as to how we should refer to these Arabs still living in Israel.  Originally, before the creation of Israel, they were Palestinians living in Palestine, which stretched from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea.  Now, however, they cannot be Palestinians because they reside in the new state of Israel and not in the what we have commonly come to see as Palestine, namely Gaza and the West Bank.  They cannot, therefore, be Palestinian Israelis because this is a contradiction in terms, giving them two nationalities.  So, for political reasons, they are Israeli Arabs, a hard burden to shoulder.

Since they are Israeli, they are cut off from many of their Arab brothers and forbidden from going to most Arab countries, such as neighbouring Syria and Lebanon, even if they have relatives there as a result of al-Nakba.  Meanwhile, many Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank view them with suspicion and jealousy; suspicion because they live in Israel, working with Jewish Israelis and collaborating with them on a daily basis; and jealousy because there are 1.8 million refugees in the West Bank and Gaza, who abandoned their homes during the 1948 and 1967 wars, and who now live in cramped, squalid and poverty-stricken refugee camps, whilst Israeli Arabs retain their lands and are afforded many rights that the Palestinians are not.  Despite this, the Arab Israelis are, of course, not really a part of mainstream Israeli society because instead of being Jewish, they belong to a hostile race that surround and threaten Israel.  And so it is that Arab Israelis stand alone, isolated and forgotten amidst the struggles for Palestinian independence and Arab liberation from despotic dictators.

“Ok, so you are going to work with the Arab Israelis but what are you going to do there?”  “I am going to work for the advancement of human rights there.”  “No, no,” came the common reply, “they have human rights there.  Israel is like Europe.”  Now, anyone who thinks that they ‘have human rights’ here, clearly hasn’t been here and if they have, they either haven’t left the confines of their comfy air-conditioned bus – old city of Jerusalem – four star hotel tour, or they are ignoring a reality they don’t wish to see.

Arab Israelis are subjected to many of the same discriminatory laws and policies as Palestinians living in occupied East Jerusalem, such as, house demolitions, the denial of building permits, inadequate municipal funding and insufficient or non-existent public services.  Indeed, just walking through Arab neighbourhoods and towns in Israel, you may feel like you have entered an entirely different, less economically developed country; a country where rubbish is dumped in the middle of the town or lies uncollected for days, where loose and dangerous electric cables hang from utility poles, where schools are rundown and overcrowded and where green spaces and playgrounds barely exist.  This, of course, is in total contrast to Jewish neighbourhoods and towns, which appear to have public services of a similar standard to France or Spain.  Instead of prioritising its existing citizens and aiming to narrow the discrepancy between their living standards, however, Israel gives preference to non-Israeli Jews across the world by actively promoting their immigration to Israel and providing them with, inter alia, financial grants, income insurance and attractive financial housing schemes if they make aliya.  Meanwhile, Palestinian refugees from 1948 are refused the right to return to their lands in Israel and continue to languish in refugee camps across the Middle East.

The rights abuses committed by the Israeli authorities against its Arab citizens are most pronounced with regards to the Bedouin in the Negev desert.  These people, who traditionally used to roam freely across the desert, have now been pushed into 3% of this area in Israel since most of the desert has been claimed as State land, thereby denying the Bedouin access to their ancient grazing lands.  They have been forced to settle in ‘recognised townships,’ which have limited land space, as well as a lack of commercial infrastructure.  This means that the Bedouin cannot continue their traditional livelihood, based on farming livestock, but that they equally have little other means of securing an income.  Inevitably, this has led to an existence of poverty and despair.  Worse still, those Bedouin who have refused to give up their historic lands and move to the ‘recognised townships,’ remain in what are termed as ‘unrecognised villages.’  There are 45 of these so-called ‘unrecognised villages,’ which have populations ranging from 500 to 5,000 people.  Some 85,000 Bedouins in total are therefore subjected to repeated house demolitions and the refusal by the Israeli authorities to provide public services, such as schools, water, electricity, waste removal and medical clinics, because officially, these villages, along with their people, do not exist.

Let us now compound these rights abuses and put ourselves in between the rock of racist Israeli policy and the proverbial hard place of a highly traditional, patriarchal society.  Bedouin women are not only relegated to the position of third class citizens by the Israeli authorities (after the Jews and the ‘recognised’ Arabs) but they are also reduced to the lower ranks of society by their own communities.  Traditional gender-discriminatory practices, such as forced marriages, domestic violence, ‘honour-killings,’ polygamy and the denial of education, still remain relatively common amongst the Bedouin here, despite the fact that all of these customs are illegal in Israel.  As is to be expected from a government that does not care for its Arab minority, such practices more often than not go unpunished.  Israeli authorities consistently fail to enforce the law in these matters, feebly claiming that these are cultural issues in which they cannot interfere.

And so al-Nakba continues.  Maybe Zionist militias are no longer mobilizing to massacre the populations of entire Arab villages, as they did in 1948, but Arab villages continue to be razed and their populations dispossessed and displaced.  The ethos behind these current and historic policies remains the same; to make life for Arab Israelis in Israel so unbearable that they are ‘encouraged’ to move elsewhere.  In other words, the aim of the Israeli authorities is insidiously to purge Israel ethnically of its Arab population so that Israel can be what it was always ‘supposed’ to be, a Jewish State.