I was born in Israel in 1974 and spent the first twenty-five years of my life living in Jerusalem, before moving to Vancouver. My parents were leftists, so I grew up in the peace movement, which at the time felt like half the country. Peace seemed very possible in the eighties, almost inevitable. There were very few settlements; there was no separation wall, no checkpoints, no siege on Gaza. In fact, Gazans were everywhere; all the dishwashers and construction workers were from Gaza. We knew that it was wrong that they didn’t have insurance and didn’t get to vote and had to drive two hours back to the refugee camp every night. Some of us even felt very badly about it; we went to demonstrations, we arranged meetings between Israeli and Palestinian youth, we helped plant olive trees that were cruelly cut down. We tried to make a difference, to be on the right side of history.

And yet, we still did our military service because we were told (and truly believed) that we wouldn’t have a country if we didn’t.

The most gorgeous houses in Jerusalem are called Arab Houses. They have thick walls and arches and beautiful floor tiles. Many of my friends lived in an Arab House, but these friends were not Arabs. We were told that the Arabs who once lived in those houses ran away during the war. Not even once had it occurred to me that the Arabs I saw in all the construction sites around me had anything to do with the Arabs who used to live in the Arab Houses. That these were perhaps their houses. It never once occurred to any of us; which is why we were so surprised when they started fighting back.

When the first Intifada started, we were shocked; we couldn’t understand where it came from. Because we didn’t know our own history. I didn’t really understand what happened in 1948 until YouTube came out in the 2000’s and I saw Palmach soldiers describing how they ethnically cleansed Palestinian villages. One soldier said he stood in one spot and watched the entire town of Lydda walk to Gaza in one long column, with mattresses and family heirlooms on their backs, and the column didn’t stop moving for three days.

I felt lied to and brainwashed, because my history books never mentioned that three-quarters of a million Palestinians were displaced, we didn’t even call them Palestinians, they were just Arabs. I felt bad about what my people did, and my own complicity, so I wrote this play, and I used my own personal stories from my military service. I tried to give historical context and tell some facts, to fight all the lies and disinformation. I talked about the connection between the Holocaust and the Nakba, and how it affects people today. I even allowed for some optimism; I felt like I could use the show to try to promote peace.

I presented it at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August 2023 and many Palestinians came, and many of them wanted to talk after the show. They told me they have never seen a Jew, let alone an Israeli, talk about the ethnic cleansing of 1947, or the crimes of 1967 and the horrors of the occupation. They said they have never seen their story presented on stage by anyone. So, I felt good about myself, felt like I did the right thing. I felt like I was on the right side of history. And the play did well, it won an award in Edinburgh and got booked in several cities.

And then two months later, Hamas kills 1200 Israelis and kidnaps 250 and the world is forever changed. The Israeli Prime Minister, trying to postpone a trial for proven corruption charges, surrounded by the most right-wing and openly racist cabinet in the country’s history, uses this horrific attack as a justification for the attempt to eliminate 2.2 million people by bombing them, killing all their doctors and journalists, and then starving them.

So now my play feels a bit different; I don’t feel so good anymore.

And then the play gets cancelled everywhere. In some cities, it got cancelled from the left and in others from the right. We did a reading of the play in Vancouver and invited members of the Muslim and Palestinian community and asked them if they see harm in presenting it. One of the speakers, a university professor who taught Arab studies, said: “You ask if there is harm in doing this play? I say there is harm in not doing it. We must hear from the oppressor at this time.”

I realized that my role has changed from that of someone promoting peace to someone who admits guilt and documents the atrocities. As hard as it is for me to admit, I do represent the oppressor.