By Tal Bahar

“The Prisoner”

About four years ago, when I was a cadet in the IDF Education and Youth Corps’ officers’ course, I was first introduced to the text “The Prisoner” by S. Yizhar.

Fitting for a corps built entirely on education and values, community, and a shared effort to create a better future, militarily in particular and Israeli in general, we were assigned the task of reading the text and writing an opinion essay about it.

“Wonderful!” I thought to myself. “How much I love to read, how much I love to write.” Little did I know that this would become one of the most ethically complex assignments I would encounter in my life.

If you have the chance, I suggest you pause your reading of this article and look up “The Prisoner” online. If not, don’t worry, I’ll share here what I find most illuminating.

The text itself was unfamiliar to me, but the author I knew well. I had read excerpts of his works in the past. And, of course, I had read and heard about the man himself, Yizhar Smilansky, a masterful Hebrew author, educator, member of the Knesset, recipient of the Israel Prize for Literature, the Emet Prize for Literature, and so on and so forth.

I knew exactly who we were dealing with, and the weight he carried with him, a weight that is impossible to ignore.

At first glance, the story tells of the capture, toward the end of Israel’s War of Independence, of an innocent Palestinian shepherd by an IDF unit, and of the grotesque and violent interrogations he undergoes in an attempt to extract from him - information he, it’s important to say, does not possess.

The story presents the moral dilemmas of the soldier assigned to guard him; the one who has the power to set him free, yet does not dare to do so. In the end, the true prisoner is not the Arab shepherd, but the soldier who cannot break away from the herd. On the surface, the text is filled with very harsh words and descriptions, sketching on the page a reality supposedly that seems almost unbearable.

But let’s return for a moment to the beginning. When I first read “The Prisoner,” I felt myself drawn right into it. I was furious. I couldn’t understand, how could IDF soldiers behave this way? I was horrified. “How vile, they are trying to make him lie!” I raged as the soldiers, out of boredom and hatred, sought excuses to torment the poor man.

I kept reading. “Why doesn’t he do anything? Coward,” I thought to myself about the soldier on guard. I found myself muttering again and again the phrase “a manifestly illegal order,” because in the story “a black flag waves above the orders,” and the reality “stabs the eye and outrages the heart of anyone who is not blind, whose heart is not hardened or corrupted.” All throughout, my stomach churned, metaphorically, but also quite literally.

When I finally reached the end of this stormy and painful reading, my eyes landed on the line printed in bold at the bottom left corner: “November 1948.”

I stopped. I went back, searching for clues to tell me the story- where? Who were the characters: the narrator, the balding officer, the prisoner? How? When? Other than “November 1948” and a very common Arab name, too common, there was no information at all.

I consider myself an intelligent woman, yet that did not keep me from falling into the trap of illusion. Suddenly, I felt deceived. The knot in my stomach turned into anger. Not because of the horrifying story itself, but because of the painful truth behind it. Not because of the harsh words written there in black and white, but because of everything lying between the lines, an invisible ink etched into the reader’s consciousness almost without their knowing.

The text is so vague that anyone who does not read it critically would, of course, believe it is not a single story, but the story of the entire War of Independence.

The story of all of Israel’s wars.

It hurt me back then, but today it hurts even more. I’ll share with you that the reason I suddenly recalled “The Prisoner” and the words I wrote about it back then, are the complex emotions I’ve been struggling with in recent weeks, emotions I never imagined I would experience. And when I went back to reread what I had written, in my olive-green uniform four years ago, long before October 7th, before all of this, I was stunned. It was as though I had written those words today.

The idea remains relevant, burning more than ever. Even more enemies outside, public opinion that feels far more destructive, and endless dirty laundry spilled out for all to see, even in front of those who are not part of our home and family. Where is the responsibility?

Responsibility Is the Name of the Game

For those of us with a deep connection to Israel, whether by blood or by choice, our love for her is unconditional, and so, we are able to hold her complexity. We know she is not perfect, nor are her people, yet this does not diminish our commitment to her; sometimes it even strengthens it. “There are those more beautiful than her, but none as beautiful as she,” wrote Nathan Alterman, in another context, in his poem “I Swore, My Eyes.”

And yet, in today’s upside-down world, where evil is called good and good is called evil, we are the minority. The name of the State of Israel, and, whether we admit it or not, as has always been the natural course of antisemitism, the name of the Jewish people as well, has been tied to every slur and label for all that is wrong in the world. Terms are redefined to rewrite the narrative, a narrative woven from the fevered imagination of those who hate.

And this has become a trend, even a condition for being considered a decent, good-hearted human being: to side with the “victim” (as they see it) and to stand against the “oppressor” (as they see it). Truth no longer matters; only what aligns with their claims. But even these are not the majority.

The majority are the ones of lighter mind, who watch from afar, without knowing between which river and which sea lies that country of which they only hear ill. From time-to-time they catch words like “genocide,” “expulsion,” “occupation,” or “apartheid,” but never find a reason compelling enough to dig deeper.

Until one morning, they stumble across a post; a short, vague story, often inaccurate or not true at all. This time not by S. Yizhar, but by a major newspaper, or by a goodhearted person who cares, who believes deeply in tikkun olam, that to them, nothing could be more responsible than speaking out against these so-called wrongs, even if they are supposedly carried out by the country they claim to love.

And so, the indifferent, the ones who sat on the fence or pulled the blindfold over their own eyes, will now say: “Israel is guilty, because of this and that. Even that Jew, or that wise person who supported Israel all his life, even a Zionist, has now said he can no longer remain silent in the face of what the State of Israel is doing.” And just like that, the person who posted, innocently, out of care, has turned another from neutral to opponent, or simply handed the haters more reasons to hate.

And these “posters;” ordinary people, everyday people; in a normal world, one free of antisemitism and Israel-hatred, they should not have to bear such heavy responsibility of good words, even if their thoughts are not. It isn’t fair. I understand them. Sometimes we just want to say what we feel, to quiet our own hearts, without thinking of the bigger picture, or perhaps even to say nothing at all.

But maybe, I don’t truly understand them. Perhaps, in their eyes, this is the responsible thing to do: Tikun Olam, to repair the world, not to stand by when wrongs seem to be committed by the nation they are part of, or the nation they hold to a higher standard. But not in mine.

We were born with this responsibility we did not choose—stitched onto our backs. We cannot ignore it. “With great power comes great responsibility”. To defame this land, even if well-intentioned, even in the name of trying to make it better, is precisely the opposite.

We must all behave as ambassadors of Israel.

Between Legitimate Criticism and “Dirty Laundry”

I find it important to clarify: even though I do not reject the explicit message in the text- for indeed there is no place for horrifying misuse of power, and the values of the IDF, which every soldier learns by heart and swears to uphold, state this clearly- I am angry at the hidden message: that this story is the story of the IDF as a whole.

After all, no terror is ever justified! Here or there, it deserves condemnation, denunciation, and punishment. And when the facts are there - Israel deals with them. People may cry out against punishment, or demand prison and iron bars, but terror is terror is terror, and no person stands above the law.

That said, it is worth looking at several variables, among them the scale, the motives, the culture, and most importantly in my eyes, the policy. On one side of this conflict stands a state, whose government, processes, or the actions of individuals within it may be criticized, but whose policy, plainly and unequivocally, is not one of terror, murder, and inequality.

On the other side stand terror organizations and one governing entity deemed legitimate in the eyes of the world, yet holding a policy of terror, one that is not open to interpretation.

Did you know that the Palestinian Authority pays a monthly stipend to every terrorist (living under its rule or in Gaza) who is imprisoned in Israel for terror and murder of Israelis? You are welcome to fact-check me: just type online “Pay to Slay.” You will likely find that in February of this year a reform was signed that “cancels” the previous payments, though only formally, since now they are disguised as economic stipends for prisoners. Looking deeper into the facts reveals that only a small fraction are actually excluded from these payments.

Four years ago, back in officers’ course, I asked myself: why weren’t we assigned independent study and a paper on the massacre at Kafr Qasim? Why not on the soldier who manned a checkpoint and stole from Palestinian cars? Why not on the laws of war in Dvarim, Deuteronomy? Why not on the commander who stole fruit from a Palestinian vendor’s stall?

And today I ask myself: if, as many claim, there are so many moral wrongs caused by the IDF and the State of Israel, why are nearly all the things that make headlines and stir outrage based on fake news?

After all, there are cases where mistakes and wrongs did occur. I claim that Israel-haters do not focus on those cases precisely because Israel admits its mistakes. Our war is a just one. And when we err - we take responsibility. And when individuals err- Israel is dealing with. The way those haters fuel the fire is by spreading false accusations, and it is clear that Israel will not take responsibility for something that never happened. So, the shouting grows louder, the lie gains momentum, and when the truth comes out, it is no longer interesting.

And to be honest, I can understand more easily those who are not familiar with Israel, or Israelis, or history, or who are not Jewish. What is all this to them? The fringe view of back then has become today’s mainstream, and all they see is bad, because of the bias of the media and social networks. Lies and darkness spread much faster than truth and light.

But it is far more painful when it comes from our own flesh and blood. Our brothers and sisters. Then, as now, I argue that taking a text without the identity card of a real event, presenting it as the story of the IDF, of its soldiers, as if this is how they acted in 1948 (or since), may well be our undoing. It is nothing less than a betrayal of the meaning of the Zionist struggle and the rebirth of our people and our state; nothing less than a betrayal of our unity as one whole, diverse and colorful as it may be, but one.

Criticism is necessary, in life in general, and in any system. But where is the line between legitimate, constructive criticism and destructive criticism, like dirty laundry aired in public? Where is the line between legitimate criticism and post-Zionism? Where is the line between legitimate criticism and the spreading of poison in the name of values meant to serve as medicine?

Is it right to convey the message that anyone who enlists in the IDF might one day turn from human to brute?

The question is not whether hard questions should be asked - for they should. The question is where they should be asked.

On Love, Hatred, and War

There is something deeply complex about war. One must begin with the assumption that war demands unconventional actions in order to restore a conventional reality. That is its very essence. This reality sometimes leads to actions whose morality can be interpreted in two ways (such as espionage or coercive interrogations for security purposes), and in other cases, to actions whose cruelty is absolute and whose illegality is beyond doubt. It is very complex.

All the more, so if we turn our attention to the supposed time of the fictional story The Prisoner, the War of Independence: new norms, a new army, everything was new. The laws had not yet been written in blood, for in two thousand years there had never been such a reality, in which the Jewish people rose up in their homeland and fought back, struggling for their right to live. And so, sometimes the deeds committed were excessive, unworthy. That is to say: the war itself was fought for just reasons, even if there were specific acts that, no matter how one tries, cannot be justified.

These were acts carried out by individuals, not dictated by policy. That war, our first institutionalized war as a state, was a war of existential defense. A war of “Independence”, and so it was: we earned our independence honestly, like other nations, like other peoples, in our eternal homeland, the Land of Israel, after nearly two thousand years of exile and dispersion. It was also a war of “Liberation,” and so it was: we liberated and were liberated, after two millennia during which, for the most part, we had not even enjoyed limited autonomy.

And let us remember: even then, it was not by choice. Already then, we were dragged into war against our will. Already then, the leaders understood, it seems, that there is no higher morality, no greater duty, than the defense of our people - than life itself.

The horrific events of October 7th, 2023, opened the longest, most exhausting, and most complex war in our history. A war that can only be seen as a second War of Independence. Under a tangible existential threat, one that shattered the boundaries of imagination and theory, through deadly rockets, drones, and vile terrorists who murdered and raped and burned and kidnapped, who broke through the borders of the state; an old wound and a new chapter in our history were opened. A chapter that was, and still might be, one of destruction - or of rebirth.

We must all recognize the truth: then as now, the matter depends on us. On our courage, our attentiveness, our responsibility, our sense of mission and passion, and above all, on our unity. And in the end, just as any family, our unity and strength will come only if we will try to get better within, and not by taking sides outside.

Once, a wise man told me: “The opposite of love is not hatred. Hatred and love can exist side-by-side. The opposite of love is indifference.”

We must not be indifferent. I wish for all of us that the State of Israel will always move our hearts, and preferably, make it dance.