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The plague of indifference
A year and a half after the disengagement, no one seems to care that the evacuees continue to languish in short-term housing
Renana Marmelstein
Why were we struck with one blow after another? We were people who had moved to the front in order to defend the State’s borders. After all, Gush Katif was established for security reasons. How did it transpire that we were kicked off of our land?
We fought as hard as we could, but it was to no avail. The worst blow of all descended upon us; we were expelled from our homes… and from Gush Katif.
At least I had thought then that we had experienced the worst blow of all, but apparently, anything is possible in Israel. On the morning after the expulsion, my family decided to accept the heavenly decree by putting the struggle behind us and looking forward.
Determined not to drown in sorrow, we began rebuilding our lives from scratch. We tried to always focus on the positive, no matter what happened.
For example, when we spent two and a half months in a gilded cage (a hotel/guest house) and had no family life – we children were spread out over several hotel rooms – we pretended it was an adventure.
When they evicted us from the hotel and sent us to the trailer park in Yad Binyamin, we made light of the difficulties and were looking forward to enjoying some semblance of privacy and normal, everyday life.
Although we were only given twelve short hours to set up our “caravan”, we managed. Nothing mattered, because we believed that the situation was only temporary.
We trusted the authorities who promised us that we wouldn’t be “stranded” in this place for long. “There’s a solution for every evacuee.” Remember?!
Boy, were we mistaken. It’s been a year and a half since we were banished from our homes and our land, but nothing’s changed.
In order to jump start the process, my father met with an architect and told her what he had in mind. She’s even had time to draw up some plans for us, but the State has still not given us permission to build our community. A year and a half later, and still no permission.
The State expelled us, destroyed our lives, and dismantled 21 beautiful communities that we had worked hard for thirty years to build. So, one would logically assume that the State would allow us to build a new community in place of the one it demolished.
Am I wrong? We’re not asking for the moon. We just want to try and reconstruct that which was ruined.
At first, the government planned on scattering us throughout the country. But we – Moshav Ganei Tal – thwarted their plans and stayed together. Unfortunately, the other settlements were divided up into parts.
Why should we have to go collect funds from abroad in order to establish the very community that our government had supposedly promised us? Why – a year and a half later – have they still not removed one stone from the site that was designated as our temporary residence, in order that we can live in a permanent place?
Our current caravans seem fine from the outside but are practically uninhabitable on the inside. The walls serve only one function: to ensure that no one will see what they’re like inside. The insulation is practically worthless; it’s very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer.
We no longer have a big house, like we had in Gush Katif. My married siblings can only visit in turns; there’s not enough room for everyone to come at once.
I want to live in a house, not a refugee camp. We keep hoping that maybe now they’ll finally sign the contract and then we can begin construction. So, meanwhile, we live out of our suitcases, with our lives on hold.
My father transferred his farm to a temporary site, because he didn’t want to destroy thirty-years-worth of his work. He can’t stop selling to his customers and has had to invest money in temporary greenhouses, in place of the permanent greenhouses at the permanent site.
People have had to waste their compensation money on daily expenses. In other words, when the time finally comes, they’ll have nothing left and won’t be able to rebuild their homes. These are people who were all honorably employed, but the State stole their livelihoods.
“Temporariness” is also psychologically unbearable. You’re neither here nor there, but rather somewhere in between. Everything is short-term; nothing is stable.
I feel like we’re living in the 21st century version of the maaborot (new immigrant transit camps). According to the original plan, we were already supposed to be in our permanent homes by the end of this year, because the caravans are set to be relocated by then.
Hopefully, my family and I won’t find ourselves living on the street. Sounds ridiculous? Well, they kicked us out of our homes and didn’t bother finding us a new place to stay. At this point, nothing is far-fetched.
I’d like to end with a word about our society. You remember all the slogans and the spin? The media was full of them.
We were told how this process would bring wonderful results for the Jewish people. Every evacuee is being cared for, we were assured.
However, the reality has been completely different. So, dear reader, pick up a mirror. This is what our society looks like.
The Orthodox public was incredibly kind and supportive in the period following the expulsion. When we moved to the caravans, they came and helped, but now, even our own community has forgotten about us.
Obviously, they’re still far more concerned than everyone else. Yet, they’ve also stopped screaming and shouting about the horrible injustice that was done right before their eyes.
No one cares about anyone else. My family and I are strong, and we’ll survive this traumatic experience.
But, beware, dear reader. If this apathy and indifference continues, your turn will be next.
Renana Marmelstein, 20, originally from Ganei Tal in Gush Katif, currently resides in temporary housing in Yad Binyamin and is a communications major at Sapir College
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