It is difficult to say “good evening” now. Even our beautiful word of greeting—shalom—catches in the throat.
So I will begin with thanks.
Thanks to the participants, to everyone who opened Zoom this evening with a willingness to open their eyes, and to open their hearts and minds to what is unbearable. Today’s conversation is also a call to open our mouths—not to remain silent, but to cry out and to scream.
Thanks in advance to our speakers this evening: Adi Arbel, Dr. Yossi Triest, Khalil Sbeit, and Professor Dana Amir. And thanks to our guests from abroad who have joined us tonight and stand with us over time. Your presence is important to us.
[If alerts are heard in different locations, we will try to continue the conversation as much as possible. Please take care of yourselves and move to protected spaces. This session is being recorded.]
Today we will speak about violence and cruelty in the West Bank. Violence by settlers, by the army, and by settlers under the protection of the army—hand in hand. This is long-standing violence, cruelty that has continued for many decades, but recently, for many reasons, it has surged and intensified, swelling to unimaginable proportions.
I began with images—images of people. Tormented faces of beaten and tortured individuals, battered physically and mentally. In her seminal book Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag writes:
“Let the atrocious images haunt us. Even if they are only tokens, and cannot encompass most of the reality to which they refer.” And she adds: “The images say: this is what human beings are capable of doing—voluntarily, enthusiastically, self-righteously. Don’t forget.”
I would like to sharpen her words—these are not things that human beings are capable of doing. These are things that we are doing, in reality. Even if we are not doing them with our own hands, and even if we oppose them deeply and unequivocally—so long as we avert our gaze, and so long as we remain silent, we are complicit. This evening, therefore, is an invitation to open our eyes and to cry out.
We must look at the pain and suffering of others—and even more so, we must look at our own actions. Our humanity and our mental health, as individuals and as a society, depend to a great extent on our ability to examine ourselves courageously. This is a difficult psychological task. It is hard to look truth in the eye.
How do we avoid turning away? How do we fight concealment, silencing, censorship, lies, and blinding mechanisms—those that operate within the psyche, and those imposed upon it from outside, manipulatively and at times with ill intent? mental health professionals are always mobilized—and especially in these days—to address real suffering and psychological pain. Do we have any insight that might serve as a compass in times of disorientation?
We have gathered this evening for a discussion initiated by ‘psychoanalysis in action’ group. Psychoanalysis is always at work, but almost always—deliberately—it operates behind closed doors. Stepping into the public sphere is not self-evident, and requires thought. “Everything is political”, says the poet Vislava Szymborska. Yet this evening is also psychoanalytic, so the question of Praxis arises: does psychoanalysis, as theory and as practice, have something to offer in times like these?
I will briefly offer some thoughts:
We are witnessing an eruption of drives and a loss of restraint. A collapse of the superego, leading to a loss of compassion, shame, and guilt – loss of humanity.
We are witnessing a corruption of language. Psychanalysis teaches us that Language is performative, it does not merely describe—it also shapes reality. And when it is corrupted, it corrupts.
For example, in 1968, the Government Names Committee established the name ‘Judea and Samaria’ for the region we are discussing today. The name was chosen, of course, in connection with the Bible—referring to the territory of the tribe of Judah and the city of Samaria—and it expresses our biblical affinity to the area. The committee went even further, declaring that “no other name is acceptable.” In doing so, it erased the name ‘The West Bank’ and the definition ‘occupied territories.’ During this period, the phrase ‘enlightened occupation’ was also common. There is no such thing as an enlightened occupation. Occupation is occupation, and it is corrupt and corrupting.”
And another point for psychoanalytic/political discussion: We know quite a bit about how vast psychic resources are dedicated to avoiding suffering and pain. Mechanisms such as repression, denial, erasure, dissociation, and others serve us in this mission, and they are, to some extent, necessary for us. However, when they become fossilized, hardened, turn into falsehood and deception, and operate too forcefully, they exact a heavy price from us. This is true for the individual soul, and it is equally true for social and national processes.
Psychoanalysis presents us with many insights regarding human existence within the mental, interpersonal, social, and existential spheres. It also presents us with a stance, a possibility, even a demand to recognize denial mechanisms—those that come from within and those that come from without; those that are conscious and those that are not; the innocent and the manipulative. By our very nature, we are a bit blind and squinting—we will never see ourselves from all angles. Our blind spots are numerous, perhaps more numerous than the field of vision available to us. By our very nature, we are subject and vulnerable to the forces that blind us.
Let us say, then:
We must struggle against unrestrained drives.
We must struggle against the corruption of language.
We must struggle against denial and deception.
*
I’ll take a few more minutes of your time to ‘zoom out.’ I’ll distance myself for a moment toward the North, to what is called the ‘Conflict Line’. Another whitewashed term. It’s not a line; it’s a vast region where hundreds of thousands of people live, and today it’s not a conflict—it’s a raging war.
In October 2023, following the massacre in the south of Israel and the outbreak of the war, Kibbutz Manara was shelled and almost entirely destroyed. For the first time since its founding in 1943, all its members—adults and children alike—were evacuated. Most of the houses in the kibbutz were damaged. My parents were among the founders of Manara; they left before I was born, but in my childhood, I heard many stories about that period. The word Nakba was never mentioned. And where there is no word, there is no event. We weren’t told about the massacre in the village of Hula, either.
Seventy-five years before October 7th, 2023—in October 1948—IDF forces captured the village of Hula, located two kilometers north of Manara. The village was taken without resistance, and most of its residents fled. The soldiers gathered several dozen unarmed men into one house and murdered them. They then blew up the building, turning it into a mass grave. The officer who commanded the operation and personally opened fire was tried and sentenced to prison, but later received a pardon. Years later, the commander of that massacre became the Chairman of the Jewish Agency—the executive arm of the Zionist movement. (This sentence needs to be read a few times). The officer’s name is known, but this isn’t a personal story—if we get caught up in the individual, we absolve ourselves of the collective. This is not an anecdote, nor a personal, accidental, or one-time occurrence. Massacres happened and are still happening—from all sides.
And today, Manara and Hula are being shelled again—collapsing houses, destruction, convoys of refugees; terrified children, uprooted from their homes, getting hurt. And in the West Bank, inconceivable acts of violence are taking place.”
We must open our eyes. We will not be able to say: we did not know.