Over this past week, I learned something about tolerance and preconceptions from three men of very different backgrounds and lifestyles. One is an Orthodox settlement leader who lives in Gush Katif; the other is an artist who curates exhibitions devoted to co-existence; and the third is a non-Israeli who is an internationally famous art curator.
The Orthodox settlement leader, David*, was a handsome bearded man who wore a large black skullcap, a rumpled white shirt through which his tzitzit (ritual fringed garment) was visible, and dark trousers. There was a pistol tucked into his belt. He had a warm smile, a direct gaze and an engagingly frank manner of speech that was utterly devoid of arrogance or pretence. The orange nylon curtains in his office were hung askew; an old computer with a blank screen sat on his desk, which was littered with messy stacks of papers; and there were paper cups half-full of cold coffee on the Formica meeting table.
Toward the second half of the interview, the American journalist asked David what his right to live on the land was based on. David leaned over to his desk, picked up a copy of the Old Testament, placed it on the table in front of him, and said, “It’s very simple. It says here that God promised all the land from Iraq to the Mediterranean, including Gaza, to the Jewish people.”
And then he continued…
“But it also says in the Bible that we have a responsibility to the guests and the strangers among us.” The Palestinians, said David, have suffered a lot. They deserve a state, and Israel should give them one, and help to make their lives better. David did not believe that evacuating his settlement, which was built on a previously uninhabited patch of land that had been in UN-patrolled no-man’s land before 1967, would help further that goal, but if the democratically elected government of Israel had determined that he had to leave, then he would do so. He would wait until the last day, and then pack his belongings and his family into his car, and he would leave. He didn’t know where he would go, but he would go. And then he added, “And if I see someone raise his hand against democracy, I will break his hand.”
The land that was promised to the Jews by God, said David, will be returned to them when the Messiah comes. Meanwhile, the Palestinians should have a better life.
David said that Ariel Sharon is a great leader. He also commented that Yossi Sarid – the leftist politician whose name is supposedly anathema to religious and right wing Israelis – is a man with high moral principles.
The American journalist told David that he wanted to follow him around the settlement for a few days, together with a photographer, and write an in-depth profile about him. Where I come from, said the journalist, people believe that Israelis are either self-identified leftists who are unambiguously in favour of disengagement, or right-wing extremists who are resolutely against. You can show that the situation is much more complicated than that.
David shook his head and said, “No, it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” we all shouted in frustration.
“Because,” said David, “I’m nobody’s guru or rabbi. I speak only for myself, and I don’t want to put words in other people’s mouths.”

A few days later, I went to interview an artist who curates exhibitions devoted to the theme of co-existence. Tomer* was a burly middle-aged man with long, curly gray hair who wore a blue work shirt and jeans, and spoke very correct, old-fashioned Hebrew; he was the very portrait of a classic Israeli leftist of the salt-of-the-earth variety.
He took me on a guided tour of his beautifully designed, cutting-edge exhibition space, providing fascinating insight into the background and meaning of the various multimedia works on display. He told me that he was dedicated to preaching the theme of co-existence through the universal language of art.
After the tour, we sat in his office for the interview. At one point I asked him why, if the exhibition space was dedicated to co-existence, the explanations for each of the works were in Hebrew and English, but not in Arabic. Tomer sighed, and asked if I’d noticed that there were some signs in Arabic. I told him that I had seen the trilingual entrance, exit, up and down signs.
Tomer said, you know that in France and Germany the museums only have explanations in French and German. They don’t care if foreigners understand or not. Yes, I said, but the Arabs are not foreigners. They live here.
Right, said Tomer. And the truth is that I used to have explanations in Arabic. But I stopped including them when I saw that there were no Arab visitors.
Perhaps you need to give them some more time and encouragement, I said.
No, answered Tomer. I’m preaching to the converted here. They’re not going to come.
Then he continued: I also tried to get some of the ultra-Orthodox Jews who live nearby to visit. They came, but they were very hostile and resistant. And you know, they smell really bad. I know that they believe the soul is more important than one’s external appearance, but it’s simply unpleasant to be around them.

That same day I interviewed the internationally famous non-Israeli art curator. He was very charming, urbane and knowledgeable, and I enjoyed our conversation immensely. We didn’t talk about politics, but rather about art and the institution he headed. Since the interview took place before the guided tour, I asked him whether his exhibitions included explanations in Arabic. He looked surprised at my question, and said “Of course. The language of art is universal, and should be understood by as many people as possible.”
Later, while wandering around and looking at the works on display, I saw that indeed, there were many Arab visitors – as well as religious and secular Israeli Jews, and non-Israelis.
I have quite a lot more to say about Gush Katif – in fact, I'll have more to report tomorrow, because I'm going to spend the day there again. But first I wanted to tell the story about these three men, because I think that there’s a lot to learn from it.

*All the names have been changed.