One of my favourite pieces of music is the Sex Pistols’ classic
‘Holidays in the Sun’ - a song that begins with the line, ‘a
cheap holiday in other people’s misery’. This would have made a
fitting epitaph for my holiday in Israel, except that the $3000
air ticket meant that it wasn’t exactly cheap.
I went to Israel full of apprehension. Just knowing what we all
know of the backdrop of paranoia and pain that hangs over that
land is enough to make anybody apprehensive, but I also went
carrying a dark secret - that I was a friend of Mordechai
Vanunu’s, and I was nervous about the reaction I’d get should
this truth suddenly become public.
My friend Morde was completing an 18-year prison sentence for
doing something that most people in this country consider heroic.
Morde told the world about a secret stash of WMD’s (’weapons of
mass destruction’) that are being developed in an underground
factory in the Negev desert. Most people I know think he did the
world an enormous favour, but most people in his own country wish
Morde had kept his mouth shut. Indeed, most Israelis regard him
as a traitor!
In order to try to understand this attitude towards my friend, I
tried talking to local people about their attitude to nuclear
weapons. The response I received was alarming! “They’re only
there as our last resort” one articulate young journalist said to
me. “Just in case we get completely overrun.” “Well … what
happens then?” I asked. “Well”, he said, “then we destroy
everybody!”
Tragically, this was not an isolated example. Almost every time I
sought an opinion from taxi-drivers, cafe workers or hostel staff
concerning Israel’s nuclear capacity, the word ‘Armageddon’ would
come up. And these apologists seemed quite accepting of the fact
that in order to strike this decisive blow against their
neighbours, they might indeed need to take the rest of the planet
with them!
Thankfully not every Israeli took this position. Indeed, the
‘Free Vanunu’ campaign itself had a strong local contingent of
active peace campaigners.
These local activists were some of the most impressive people I
met during my stay in Israel. Even in Australia they would have
been impressive - mainly young, idealistic University students,
with a commitment to world peace and global disarmament -
impressive but not extraordinary in our context. In this context
though, growing up in an environment so overshadowed by violence
and fear, these brave young souls stood out like shining lights.
The violent side of Israeli culture was never more tangible to me
than it was on the day of Morde’s release. I had traveled many
thousands of miles to be reunited with my friend on the day that
he walked free. In my dreams I had imagined our reunion countless
times. Morde would walk through those gates with his belongings
in one hand, and me and a few friends and family would be there
to embrace him and lead him away. I didn’t really realise until I
reached the prison just how far from reality my imaginary
depiction of that scene would prove to be.
There were hundreds of us at the prison, and the vast majority
were not Morde’s friends. As the time of his release drew near, I
tried to move towards the prison gate where I had always imagined
myself standing as Morde walked out. I soon found myself squeezed
into the middle of an angry mob.
It was certainly one of the nastiest experiences of my life. The
whole mass of men seemed to seethe with aggression, and each
individual was competing to claw his way to the front, for what
exact purpose was not entirely clear. Thankfully I could not
understand the chants that were being sung to the tune of ‘here
we go, here we go, here we go’, but I was told later that the
words for ‘death’ and ‘traitor’ had been central to all the
mantras that were chanted that day.
On reflection I now think that it was a good thing that by the
time Morde came through those prison gates the police had packed
us together so tightly that I wasn’t able to move a limb. What
prevented me from running out to embrace Morde also prevented my
neighbours from reaching him with more sinister intent.
Thankfully the car with my friend in it got away with no more
than a dented panel and a shower of eggs. One antagonist did
manage to mount his motorbike in time to catch the car, but after
slamming into the side of the vehicle he lost his mount, and the
‘free man’ was able to proceed in peace.
Back at the gaol things then started to unravel. With their anger
unresolved, the mob started to vent their aggression on other
targets. I found myself swept up in this like a wave breaking
over my head. One second I was walking towards my bus. The next
moment I was surrounded by a mob led by an angry rabbi, screaming
at the top of his voice. ‘Go home’ was the only phrase I could
understand. Equally unambiguous though were the rough hands that
were being placed on my body, the kicks that were landing on my
legs, and the spittle that was accumulating on my face.
I didn’t see any path of escape in this situation, so I placed my
hands together in a position of prayer and bowed my head, working
on the hitherto successful strategy that if you refuse to fight
back, guys are generally very reluctant to beat you up. It
worked. A man grabbed me from behind with both hands and hauled
me out of the centre of the mob. I made it back to my bus without
further incident.
All of this would have been water off a duck’s back had Morde and
I then been able to board a plane and fly back to Australia.
Unfortunately the authorities had ruled that this ‘free’ man
should not be allowed to leave the country, nor go anywhere near
a border or a foreign embassy, nor have any contact with
‘foreigners’. The ‘foreigner’ restriction was aimed at the
foreign press. Even so, technically, I wasn’t allowed to spend
extensive time with my old friend without risking seeing him
re-arrested!
We were reunited briefly on the evening of that same day of his
release. Unfortunately I cried so much that I really didn’t get
the chance to tell him all of the things that I had prepared for
that moment. All I can hope for now is that one-day we will catch
up properly - perhaps over a few beers back here in the land of
Oz. I know that Morde would like that.
Getting Morde out of Israel is indeed the next big challenge for
the Vanunu campaign. I don’t know how hard this will prove to be.
I do know that I had a bloody hard time getting out myself. In my
case it wasn’t that they didn’t want me out (they held off the
departure of the plane until I got on board). They just seemed
determined to let me know that they didn’t want me back.
I had been warned by the other peace activists of intimidation
tactics employed by airport staff. Ironically, I initially made
it through all four security checkpoints without being stopped.
It was only as I proceeded to the final gate that a young man in
a suit caught up with me and said, “Excuse me sir, but can I see
your passport.” He then told me that there had been a ‘problem’
and that he would need to retain my passport until the ‘problem’
had been resolved. I was then shuffled into a small room to begin
a three-hour process of interrogation, body searching and luggage
examination.
In the end the verdict was that I was free to go and that there
was nothing suspect about the contents of my bags, but that the
bags themselves were suspect and that none of them could be taken
on board as hand luggage. This meant that I could carry with me
my camera, but not in my camera case, my laptop, but not my
laptop case, my video camera, but not the bag with the shoulder
strap that I lugged it around in, my toothbrush and paste, but
not my toiletries bag, and even my Palm-pilot portable keyboard,
but not the little vinyl dust-jacket that I kept it in. I could
take what I liked, so long as I carried it in my arms.
It was just a game, though they managed to keep straight faces
throughout the whole ordeal. For my part I refused to get on
board without the bulk of my carry-on items. In the end they
agreed to give me a large cardboard box to put them in.
And so my cheap holiday in other people’s misery came to an end.
But now the real work begins. For I returned home, but I left my
friend inside the confines of St George’s Cathedral in Jerusalem,
where the good bishop has offered him sanctuary.
Morde can’t leave the Cathedral grounds. He has at least two
reporters on every exit, taking shifts to cover his movements
24-hours per day. If Morde tries to walk out into the street,
he’ll be immediately surrounded and identified, and given the
number of locals that would count it as a point of pride to be
responsible for his death, Morde’s life in the open probably
wouldn’t last more than a few minutes.
I’d like to see my friend back here in Australia. I wonder if the
Australian government has the courage to offer him citizenship?
DBS. April 2004
About the Author
‘Fighting’ Father Dave Smith - Parish Priest, community worker,professional fighter, father of three. Dave is the only Australian in Holy Orders to turn pro boxer to help fund his work. He is Parish Priest in Dulwich Hill, Sydney,and has received numerous awards for his work with young people
Get a free preview of his book, ‘Sex, the Ring & the Eucharist’ when you sign up for Dave’s newsletter at www.fatherdave.org
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