'I celebrated Israel's 75th anniversary with pepper spray'

On November 1, 2022, elections were held in Israel that gave the right-wing bloc a clear majority. A week after the formation of the government, the minister of justice presented a plan for significant changes in the judicial system. The proposed alterations would give unlimited power to the government and its leader, prompting citizens to head to the streets to vent their displeasure — and I was one of them.

Already at the first demonstration, it was impossible to ignore an elderly lady sitting in a wheelchair wrapped in the Israeli flag. Her name was — and is — Toni Webber.

On the eve of the Holocaust Memorial Day in 2003, I was about to fly with an Israeli delegation to the March of the Living in Auschwitz, Poland. Toni, the mother of my friend and a Holocaust survivor, asked me to come to her urgently. "When you are there in Auschwitz," she said, "tell my parents that I was saved, that I arrived in Eretz Yisrael, and that I fought in the Hagenah. Tell them that I am not hungry, that I have a home and a family, and that there is not a day that I don't remember them."

While she was talking, she prepared a package. In it, she placed a bouquet of flowers from her garden, fresh challah, and a silver spoon that her mother had given her before parting: "So that you will have something to eat with," she told Toni. And Toni asked me to bury all of them there in the ground near the crematoria. So, I did.

Every Saturday evening, Toni and I met at the corner of what is now called "Demonstration Square." 

"I know what fascism is," she told me. "Promise me you won't give up." She sent me a sharp and piercing look. "I promise," I replied.

Divisions bring back chills from the past

Fast forward 20 years and the rift in the nation is deepening, the tension in the country is rising, the level of violence is increasing.

As the sense of emergency among the liberal and secular population spreads, Toni and I still meet every Saturday night. In the eyes of many members of the government and right-wing activists, we are a mob of anarchists, traitors and fascists. Some have already been arrested.

At the end of the fifth demonstration, after we said goodbye, a group of angry teenage boys followed me home, chanting "Death to the leftists!" My heart was pounding as they followed me to the front door of my building. I rushed up the stairs to my apartment and they disappeared.

That night, as I desperately tried to fall asleep, my mother appeared before me in a lucid dream. She was dressed in a tattered coat, wearing battered shoes, and holding a worn suitcase. In a voice as clear as it was in my childhood, she said to me, "In a place where death is being shouted at people, you have to get up and go."

"But I'm going," I answered her. She stared at me. She didn't understand. "I'm going to the demonstrations," I explained. "You have to go. You have to go," she repeated several times. "Take care of yourself," she added. Then, she disappeared.

'It's a shame Hitler didn't kill you'

The government continues to insist and the protests are getting stronger. Hundreds of thousands wave Israeli flags and shout at the top of their lungs: "This is not Poland, this is not Hungary", "this is neither Turkey nor Iran." They shout, "DE-MO-CRA-CY!"

The hatred and violence are erupting even more strongly. There are those who dream of an Orthodox religious state, and there are those who dream of a democratic state — and the hostility keeps increasing.

At every demonstration, Toni and I meet at the corner of Kaplan and Namir. And we ask painfully: "What happened to us? How did we get like this?” And within us, the memories arise of the terrible days in Europe between 1933 and 1939. And the fear also emerges. This is already the 12th week of protests.

A car screeches to a halt and the driver's head peeks out. "It's a shame Hitler didn't kill you," he shouts at us, "G-d willing, you'll burn in the gas chambers," he adds.

I just hope Toni didn't hear. And at the next demonstration, I arrive with pepper spray — but I don't tell her.

This year's Holocaust Remembrance Day has passed and Israel's Day of Remembrance of Fallen Soldiers is coming. We have reached Week 16 of the demonstrations. And the people are broken and torn.

Remembering my friend Davidi, who died for Israel

As I do every year, I go to place a bouquet of flowers on Davidi's grave.

On the first day at school Davidi sat next to me. My mother was happy because Davidi, like me, was an only child, and his mother, like my mother, had lived through the Holocaust. And when someone hit me at recess, Davidi punched him. When someone tried to steal my lunch, Davidi put his foot down and knocked him over. In third grade, he told me he loved me and I blushed. He bought me a red rooster candy on a stick, and in the sixth grade we joined the Scouts together. My mother only allowed me to join because Davidi would be there too. We went everywhere together. Davidi told me that we would never have another Holocaust. He said that we would always protect our country.

We talked about the Israel Defense Forces with pride, and we talked about equality, justice and peace. As we grew up, we had other loves and made new friends, and the day he received his conscription order he told me he was going to the army and swore he would keep me safe. And on Yom Kippur at two o'clock in the afternoon in 1973, when the war broke out, Davidi was at home. He hurried to report to his unit. Dressed in his uniform and carrying his weapon, he stopped by my house and told me that this time, he really meant it. "My tank and I are going to protect you," he promised. We hugged and I said to him, "Take care." He replied, "Sure."

But he did not return.

'We don't have any other country'

Already 50 years have passed. And this year Israel is celebrating its 75th birthday.

Something has broken in me. I ask myself, why was Davidi killed? And even though I promised Toni that I would never stop fighting for my country, I am afraid I will get tired.

In the evening when it was time for the demonstration, I knew that Toni would be waiting for me. But as I made my way to demonstration square, she called me and said in a tired voice that she wouldn't come. She said that she had ventricular fibrillation, but she asked me to go, and not to despair, "because you know we don't have any other country." I told her I was on my way, and she said, "Take care of yourself. Happy Independence Day."

"You too," I replied. And with the Israeli flag in my hand, pepper spray in my bag, and tears in my eyes, I stood at demonstration square and celebrated the 75th Independence Day of the State of Israel.

The Jewish state was proclaimed on May 14, 1948; this year marks the 75th anniversary of Israel's foundation. Israelis already celebrated the event on April 26, which is Independence Day according to the Jewish calendar. 

Israeli author Lizzie Doron lives in Tel Aviv. Her mother was a German Holocaust survivor. In her works, Doron explores her personal experiences and family history, but she also writes about how her views on the Arab-Israeli conflict have changed over the years.

Edited by: Elizabeth Grenier