A scar on the nation

The bitter divisions between secular and religious in Israel that brought about Yitzhak Rabin's murder 12 years ago are as deep as ever.

by Seth Freedman - Nov 7, 2007

Yigal Amir? They should have done him like Eichmann", spat a woman I met at Yitzhak Rabin's memorial, unable to keep the rage from penetrating her veneer of calm. A few days earlier, at a ceremony to mark Meir Kahane's assassination, I witnessed similar fury - albeit from the other direction - as a firebrand speaker cursed the Israeli government for "freeing vicious Arab terrorists every day whilst Amir rots in jail".

Despite a chorus of calls for Rabin's killer to be dealt justice, whether by executing or releasing him, the authorities have thus far stuck to the middle ground. Amir has been incarcerated ever since shooting the prime minister 12 years ago, and as a result has scarcely been out of the national consciousness ever since. His controversial wedding, his attempts to smuggle semen out to inseminate his wife, and his subsequent receiving of permission for conjugal visits, have all been widely reported on and dissected in the national media, reopening old wounds every time his name is mentioned.

"The assassin always dies", says Eleanor Shaw in the Manchurian Candidate - "it helps the national healing". In Amir's case, the fact that he's still alive and kicking (and, just this weekend, attending his son's circumcision), means that the public still can't put to bed the tragic events of 1995. The bitter divisions that brought about the murder, namely the tremendous polarisation between the secular and religious camps, are still evident in today's Israel, as I discovered in Rabin Square as 150,000 people gathered to remember his death.

The size of the crowd was impressive, with the numbers swelled - as Hillel Schenker noted - by people wanting to counter Amir's celebration of his son's circumcision. However, conspicuous by their absence were the religious Israelis, who - despite their political feelings - might have been expected to follow the Jewish custom of honouring the dead on their yahrtzeit (memorial date). "Look around you", said Blair, a left-wing activist who had been present on the fateful night of Rabin's killing. "Where are the kipot [skullcaps]? Some of the religious might feel bad that he died, but not enough to make them come and pay their respects".

Another woman I met told me that, whilst her husband loathed the killing, his politics prevented him coming to a rally that "he feels has been hijacked by the peace camp". This was a view I heard expressed several times during the evening, as people complained that Rabin had been adopted as an overarching "emblem of peace" by all of the left wing parties, rather than being remembered for his individual politics. "It's a shame that people are conflating his memorial with the chance to push a particular brand of politics", a man told me, gesturing to the banners of the various political parties dotted amongst the crowd.

Rabin's murder scarred the nation in a way that few other events have during Israel's turbulent history. Jew-on-Jew violence, manifested in such a deadly and deadpan fashion, touched a nerve that is still almost as raw over a decade later. The killing rent asunder any bonds between the secular public and the national religious camp, and saw both sides entrench themselves in a state of deep distrust and loathing for their opponents.

And, it would appear, the lessons of 1995 have still not been learned. Today, as reported in the Israeli press, the Jewish National Front distributed posters of Shimon Peres decked out in an Arab keffiyeh, underneath the slogan "Releasing terrorists - a president of Arabs". This incendiary tactic is exactly the same strategy as was employed by the far right in the lead up to Rabin's slaying, and is indicative of how disenfranchised the right wing are feeling whilst Kadima and co. are in power.

Lurking in the shadows of those driving the nationalist wagon is the spectre of religious dictums being used to justify extremism. Just like their terrorist counterparts on the other side of the security wall, the likes of the hilltop settlers and their backers are impossible to reason with whilst they claim to be "acting in God's name". Even Rabin's murder was allegedly a result of a rabbi issuing a Din Rodef - akin to a fatwa, making Rabin a legitimate target to be killed, to prevent him endangering other Jews' lives with his policies.

When Amir - a young, religious man who was easily-led - heeded this call and shot his way into the history books, his act was met by scores of commentators whose only reaction was that Rabin deserved what he got, under Jewish law. For a country reeling with the shock of what had just happened to their leader, to hear the slaying justified by so-called religious leaders was a shot across the bows of co-operation and understanding between the two sides.

Shimon Peres, speaking at the rally in honour of his late friend, fired the crowd up with his declaration that "we're not just here to remember him, but to carry out his will". "His torch is now in your hands", he cried, to thunderous applause. But, for all that the audience cheered him on and stamped their feet in approval of his sentiments, he was merely preaching to the converted. His words, impassioned as they were, weren't strong enough to carry to the places they most needed to be heard - because those people were too busy decrying him as an "Arab president" and sowing the seeds for another decade of sectarian division.