“Live and Let Live” — The New Reality

It is hard to know whether the general public will again return to seeing the Haredi public — the non-contributing — in the way it did in the past. Things have changed in the last two or three years, mainly because of political leaders: first the Haredi politicians, and then those elected to represent general Israeli values who voted the opposite. Until October 7, we were used to closing our eyes to Haredi segregation and their unwillingness to participate. It bothered us less. We closed our eyes to a zealous population while we clung to the story about the Torah that protects us. That was the shared Jewish story, we said. The story of the Torah did not change. If anything, it strengthened. After October 7, more and more of us searched and are still searching for something to hold on to. With the force of the old writings, in prayers, in “He who is above.” What has changed is our attitude toward those who claim ownership of the Torah and of protection in the name of the Torah — and in the same breath are not willing to lend a hand when the blood of their brothers is spilled. We see those who entrench themselves in violence in the face of a state that is wounded, exhausted, and groaning, whose needs have become urgent. Maybe that is why, every time they block the country's roads, demean soldiers, or break into bases or the home of Judge Solberg, many of us ask ourselves: how much do they care about the fate of the State of Israel or about their fellow people?

In this context, the violent events around the café “Basmata,” which opened last spring and apparently became a battleground over the character of the capital, are also perceived differently. I write “apparently” because, to an outside observer, this is no longer just another struggle over the character of the state or freedom from religion that has gotten out of control. Our Shabbat disputes have not changed. Governments have wavered and fallen here because of the tension between the democratic and the Jewish. F-15 planes in the days of Rabin’s first government, the truck with the oil, the electricity turbine in the days of Ehud Barak. It was and will be. What has changed is the way we interpret that same gap against the backdrop of today’s reality.

The current struggle, even if it took place in a side café in Jerusalem, is perceived by many of us as “Live and Let Live” in the broadest sense imaginable. It is no longer only the right of the liberal public to have espresso and cheesecake on Shabbat. It is the right to live at all. Not to remain alone on the front line. This is the new “Live and Let Live.”

It is sad to see police beating Jews wearing Shabbat clothes, kicking them, and using batons — and on the holy day. And yet, the measure of empathy toward the Haredi population that does not contribute and acts with violence has changed. Any such clash is immediately perceived by us as a rope stretched too far. As unbearable insolence. How, you tell yourself, can they be so indifferent to the fate of their brothers that they dare to try to take part in writing the story about the character of the state — liberal or religious, praying or spending time in malls — a story in which they are not willing to be partners in the rest of its parts (except for that part of the story where they receive money at the expense of those who are collapsing under the burden)? When this is the context, this demonstration that erupts in the heart of Shabbat suddenly seems trivial and fruitless. If you want to be part of the Israeli story, to argue about Shabbat, about a religious or liberal state, and about how to reconcile them, then be part of a bigger story. A story that touches the very existence of the state. A story of partnership, fate, and love between brothers.