Maia Carter Hallward-Struggling For A Just Peace - Israeli and Palestinian Activism in The Second Intifada-University Press of Florida (2011) PDF

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POLITICAL SCIENCE/INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS

“This analysis of bi-national or uni-national activism for peace and justice in a context
Hallward
of acute power asymmetry proves a very welcome addition to the existing literature
on the second intifada and the Israeli/Palestinian conflict in general.”
Struggling
—Véronique Dudouet, Berghof Research Center for Constructive Conflict
Management
“Hallward’s emphasis on ‘peace work rather than peace words’ offers outstanding
insights on the small galvanizing groups whose labors often lead the way in major
social change.”
—Mary E. King, author of A Quiet Revolution
for a Just Peace
Struggling for a Just Peace

Western media coverage of the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict frequently focuses
on violence and failed attempts at peace. Often unseen and underreported, a surpris-
ing number of small, grassroots organizations have been steadily working to promote
nonviolent approaches to resolving the tension in this region. Israeli and Palestinian Activism
In 2004–2005, Maia Hallward spent most of a year living among, interviewing,
and observing seven such groups from both sides of the conflict. She returned three
years later. Her analysis of the groups’ tactics, activities, and progress in working
in the Second Intifada
toward a just and lasting peace makes fascinating reading. These mini–case studies,
combined with broader contextual examination, reveal the obstacles faced by both
Israelis and Palestinians and provide unexpected insights into what really happens on
)
a day-to-day basis within these groups.
By raising Western awareness of these groups’ existence, Hallward challenges the Maia Carter Hallward
official diplomatic presumption that peace is about working out lines on a map. In-
stead, she relocates the question into social, cultural, political, and geographic con-
texts that affect people’s lives. She also argues that it is in the incremental but often
lasting successes of these groups that true hope for a solution to the conflict may be
found.
Maia Carter Hallward is assistant professor of political science and international

affairs at Kennesaw State University in Georgia and associate editor of the Journal
of Peacebuilding and Development. She taught at the Ramallah Friends Schools in the
West Bank from 1998 to 2000.
University Press of Florida

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Israeli and Palestinian Activism in the Second Intifada
Maia Carter Hallward

Gainesville / Tallahassee / Tampa / Boca Raton
Pensacola / Orlando / Miami / Jacksonville / Ft. Myers / Sarasota
Copyright 2011 by Maia Carter Hallward
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, recycled paper
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hallward, Maia Carter, 1976-
Struggling for a just peace : Israeli and Palestinian activism in the second Intifada /
Maia Carter Hallward.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8130-3652-6 (alk. paper)
1. Al-Aqsa Intifada, 2000- 2. Nonviolence—Palestine. 3. Peace movements—Palestine.
4. Peace-building—Palestine. 5. Nonviolence—Israel. 6. Peace movements—Israel.
7. Peace-building—Israel. 8. Arab-Israeli conflict—1993—Peace. I. Title.
DS119.765.H32 2011
956.9405'4—dc22 2011011168
The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State University
System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida Atlantic University, Florida
Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida State University, New College
of Florida, University of Central Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida,
University of South Florida, and University of West Florida.

15 Northwest 15th Street
Gainesville, FL 32611-2079
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This book is dedicated to all those who have engaged in civil struggle
against the occupation and to those who continue the quest for a just,
lasting, and secure peace for all of the region’s inhabitants.
Contents
List of Maps and Tables viii

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xiii
Introduction: Identity and Conflict 1

1. Examining the Boundaries of “Peace” 15
2. Historical Overview of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict 27
3. Interrogating “Peace” and “Nonviolence”
in the Israeli-Palestinian Context 48
4. Peacebuilding as Process: Groups Studied and
Their Approaches to Change 69
5. Identity in Action: Peacebuilding as Category Formation 107
6. “We’ve Lost This Round”: Fragmentation and
the “Piece” Process in 2008 150
7. Mechanisms of Reconfiguration: Challenging Policies of Separation 178
8. Operating with Distinction: Mobilizing Boundaries of Difference 205
9. Conclusion 224
Notes 239
References Cited 259
Index 279
Maps and Tables
Map 2.1. United Nations Partition Plan (1947) and Rhodes Armistice
Line (1949) 33
Map 2.2. Oslo II agreement (1995) 44
Map 5.1. Major Israeli staffed checkpoints and settlements in the West
Bank as of 2002 129
Table 0.1. Groups of study according to category space 12

Table 0.2. Demographics of formal interviews 13
Table 4.1. Illustrative group methods by mechanisms of change 103
Table 5.1. Ta'ayush activities by area type 124
Preface
I moved to Washington, D.C., in August 2001 to pursue a doctorate in inter-

national relations after three years working in the Middle East and fresh from
a summer experience in Ramallah and parts of Israel. In Palestinian areas we
fell asleep to the sound of the shelling by Israeli forces, and in Israel we expe-
rienced the tangible fear of potential suicide attacks through empty shopping
streets and a heightened security presence. As a result of these experiences, I
interpreted the events of September 11 (which occurred only three weeks after
my return to the United States) very differently than many of those around
me. I was alarmed by the reframing of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to be in
sync with the U.S.-led “war on terror,” and Israel’s March 2002 military inva-
sion of Palestinian cities (which had been granted interim self-rule under the
Oslo Accords) demonstrated how quickly peace processes could transform
into situations of intense armed conflict.
Watching and reading news and scholarly coverage of the events unfold-
ing in Israel and Palestine from sources based in the United States as well as
those emanating from the Middle East, I was disturbed by the ever-widening
divergence of views regarding the causes of—and appropriate avenues for ad-
dressing—the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Calls for peace rang hollow, espe-
cially after witnessing firsthand the problems with the eleven-year-old peace
process, and the discussion in my international relations texts of peace as the
mere absence of armed conflict did not jibe with my own understanding of the
term. The absence of armed conflict alone had not brought peace to Israelis
and Palestinians; what would it take to create a real peace?
Initially, I resisted this research project, not wanting to write yet another
book on the extremely contentious Israeli-Palestinian conflict. However, the
subject followed me and demanded my attention; I realized that the lack of
scholarly texts on Israeli and Palestinian peace activism—particularly dur-
x · Preface
ing the second intifada—made it all too easy to perpetuate stereotypical por-
trayals of Israelis and Palestinians (in Israeli, Palestinian, and international
publics). Furthermore, many texts focus exclusively on Israeli or Palestinian
perspectives, thereby perpetuating the discourse of separation prevalent in
policy circles and the assumption of undying hatred between the peoples. This
scholarly separation reflects the increasingly solidified practical separation be-
tween Israelis and Palestinians that began in the early 1990s and accelerated
after the outbreak of the second intifada in 2000. Most visitors to the region
tend to spend time either only in Palestinian areas and therefore see Israelis
as soldiers and settlers, or only in Israel proper (within the internationally
recognized pre-1967 boundaries) and therefore do not see Palestinians at all
or else see Palestinians as day laborers or as terrorists in the news. I wanted to
capture the humanity, suffering, and dreams of both Palestinians and Israelis
and demonstrate the ways in which their goals for peace are both similar and
different, while avoiding the common trap of treating Israelis and Palestinians
as homogenous entities and their respective representatives as symmetrical
parties to the conflict. To do so, I spent extensive time living in both the Pal-
estinian and the Israeli worlds in order to experience their respective fears,
goals, frustrations, and challenges. This process made me feel schizophrenic at
times, like a traitor at others, and allowed me to deeply appreciate the tremen-
dous sacrifices of time, energy, social relations, and money made by Israeli
and Palestinian activists (albeit in different ways). I am grateful to the many
Israelis and Palestinians who allowed me into their organizations and their
personal lives; I also know that although I was welcomed into many of these
groups to observe, I was always an outsider of sorts. This proved to be a bless-
ing, as it allowed me to cross sociopolitical and cultural boundaries that are
much more difficult for Israeli and Palestinian activists themselves to cross.
I hope this book contributes to more constructive dialogues surrounding
possible political interventions (local, regional, and international) that rec-
ognize the heterogeneity of Israeli and Palestinian societies as well as the ex-
istence of nonviolent activism within both Palestinian and Israeli societies.
Often this nonviolent resistance is overlooked in the media, by policymakers,
and in scholarly accounts of the peace movement, which tend to focus more
on conflict resolution or dialogue efforts, and is sometimes even undermined.
Although the international community regularly calls for a “Palestinian Gan-
dhi,” it has generally not supported the Palestinians and Israelis who have
continued to struggle nonviolently for social justice, human security, and a
durable political agreement despite (or because of) the lack of progress on the
Preface · xi
official level and the worsening situation on the ground. This book is directed
at many audiences, but I particularly hope students, activists, scholars, and
policymakers in the United States will read this book and (re)examine the
role of the United States in the conflict. As a major financial and military sup-
porter of Israel, as the mediator of the historic Camp David peace agreement
between Egypt and Israel, and widely seen as an important player in mediating
and enforcing any durable peace agreement between Israelis and Palestinians,
the United States is often referred to as a third party to the conflict by Pales-
tinian and Israeli activists. At the conclusion of my interviews with activists, I
was often asked to “go home and tell our story”; this book is an effort to follow
through on these requests and to help contribute to a growing body of litera-
ture that paints a more comprehensive and complex picture of the topography
of conflict and parameters for peace.
Acknowledgments
This book would not be possible without the willingness of so many Israeli,
Palestinian, and international activists to share openly about their experiences
with me and even, in some cases, take me into their homes. Although I do not
have space to name everyone here, I am grateful to everyone who went out
of their way to help me during my fieldwork, including connecting me with
other activists, inviting me to events or actions, sharing information, engaging
in stimulating conversation, and providing me with rides.
I could not have done the research without the financial support I received,
and so I would like to thank the Palestinian American Research Center (PARC)
for awarding me the fellowship that helped fund the 2004–2005 fieldwork, and
Kennesaw State University’s Center for Excellence in Teaching and Learning
(CETL) for the incentive grant that helped pay for the 2008 fieldwork. Patrick
Thaddeus Jackson, Mohammed Abu-Nimer, and Carolyn Gallagher provided
much intellectual and practical guidance through the various stages of this
project. Veronique Dudouet and an anonymous reader provided insightful
feedback on the original manuscript, for which I am grateful. I am also ap-
preciative for the editorial support of Amy Gorelick and the rest of the team
at University Press of Florida.
I also owe thanks to my parents, Max and Jane Carter, for helping me fall in
love with the region, supporting me through the ups and downs of this jour-
ney, and providing essential logistical support for my 2008 fieldwork. Finally,
I would not have been able to do any part of this book without the unwavering
encouragement and assistance of my husband, Stoph, who has gone above and
beyond in making this project happen, from celebrating our first anniversary
on opposite sides of the Atlantic to countless days as sole parent.
All of the individuals and institutions listed deserve a share in the credit for
this book; any shortcomings that remain are my responsibility alone.
Introduction
Identity and Conflict
When I returned to Israel/Palestine in 2003, after several years away, to con-

duct preliminary research for my dissertation, I found the landscape trans-
formed by the intensified conflict of the second intifada. New Israeli bypass
roads had been built to connect Jewish built-up areas and skirt Palestinian
communities; settlements had expanded and were continuing to grow; and
numerous additional checkpoints broke up the routes between cities (for in-
stance, it required three different taxis to travel the ten kilometers between
Jerusalem and Ramallah). The landscape of personal interaction and daily pat-
terns of activity was also transformed, as Palestinians resigned themselves to
staying home rather than attempting to visit family in other parts of the West
Bank (it could take days to go the distance formerly covered in an hour). Israe-
lis similarly stayed home out of fear of suicide attacks, a fear that was tangible
when walking in Israeli public spaces and evident in the private security per-
sonnel patrolling café entrances. In talking to those engaged in peace activities
(as well as those who were not), I was reminded again of the wide disparity
between the lived reality on the ground—in both Israeli and Palestinian soci-
eties—and portrayal in the Western media and mainstream scholarship. It was
clearly evident that boundaries presumed in policy discussions surrounding
peace talks did not match lived sociopolitical realities (due, for example, to the
settlements and the divides between Israel’s Jewish and Arab communities),
nor did official calls for “peace” coincide with popular Israeli and Palestinian
perspectives on the term. The recently launched Performance-Based Road-
map for Peace, for example, seemed to have merely cut-and-pasted flawed
polices from previous documents, yet, as one activist I interviewed said, it was
“the only game in town.”
Rather than repeating the mistakes of the past peace process, it seems criti-
2 · Struggling for a Just Peace
cal that future peace efforts reflect the lived experiences and desires of those
struggling for peace in Israel/Palestine. Consequently, this book seeks to (a)
amplify the voices of Palestinians and Israelis who have continued to work
nonviolently for a just, secure, and durable peace between their respective
communities even in times of violence (that is, demonstrate that there are
partners for peace in both societies); (b) broaden our empirical knowledge
and understanding of peace and conflict resolution processes in the Israeli-
Palestinian conflict; and (c) challenge the typically monolithic assumptions
about “Israeli” and “Palestinian” identities, goals, and actions found in West-
ern (particularly U.S.-based) media and scholarship.
Identity and the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict

Although some view the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as an existential, zero-
sum conflict of rival national identities, other scholars have documented how
the conflict itself helps to constitute Israeli and Palestinian identities. Con-
sequently, numerous people-to-people peacemaking efforts have sought to
address the conflict through identity-based interventions that attempt to hu-
manize the Other. One such program is Seeds of Peace, which brings together
Israeli and Palestinian students for joint summer camps and other activities.
Problem-solving workshops that assemble mid- to high-level “influentials” for
sessions of “controlled communication” mediated by a panel of experts also
illustrate this tendency, as mediators seek to build community among those
gathered (Fisher 1997). However, contact-based initiatives that focus only on
building personal relationships while failing to examine the broader context
in which those relationships are located can aggravate stereotypes and fuel
resentment, particularly when parties come to dialogue for different reasons
(Maoz 2000).
Despite the fact that scholars like Samuel Huntington (1993) have portrayed
national (and “civilizational”) identities as static or existential, national iden-
tity narratives are dynamic, influenced by changing contexts and institutional
resources. Furthermore, even as institutional and social contexts shape identi-
ties, these identities in turn help constitute, or create, the sociopolitical and
institutional contexts in which they operate (Fairclough 1992). Although the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict has figured predominantly in the construction of
“Israeli” and “Palestinian” identities, the diversity of narratives surrounding
these identities in both time and space suggests they could be constituted, or
defined, according to boundary markers other than the conflict.1 However,
conflict narratives often perpetuate enemy images, as well as provide a useful
Introduction: Identity and Conflict · 3
tool for managing internal social diversity and defining the boundary between
“us” and “them” (Neumann 1999). For example, Michele Campos argues that
despite significant cultural differences, Mizrahi (Middle Eastern) and Ashke-
nazi (European) Jewish communities in what became Israel were historically
bound together through “the elevation of memories of violence as the core of
national history.” This understanding of self-identity as defined by violence
from Others in turn helped to further conflict between Jews and Palestinians.
Since violence was assumed to be an integral component of the defined com-
munal boundaries, it therefore (implicitly or otherwise) guided interaction
between and understanding of the Other and privileged certain memories (of
violence) over others, of peaceful relations (Campos 2007: 53).
Precisely because years of conflict and separation have contributed to op-
positional identities, it is valuable to study the identity narratives of those
Israelis and Palestinians working together in an environment in which main-
stream peace movements have collapsed and politicians claim there is no part-
ner for peace. How do these groups resist dominant discourses of separation
and hatred? Can they teach us how to promote non–zero sum identities con-
ducive to a just and lasting peace? By studying the words and deeds of these
activists, we can study how they seek to reconstitute, or re-form, patterns of
social relations and challenge dominant discourses, and also examine the ob-
stacles to successful social change (Fairclough 1992). Narratives of resistance
can be seen, for example, in a 2004 protest organized by the Israeli Coalition
of Women for Peace, where Israeli Jews and Israeli Palestinians carried signs
reading “Yesh Partnerit” (There is a [female] partner) to challenge the “no
partner” narrative.2 Why have these women been able to sustain a working
partnership when others have despaired of the possibility? What can we learn
from their practices, structures, and relationships that might be transferable
to broader peace efforts?
Conventional social science methods are ill suited to examining the dy-
namic, contingent interaction between conflict and identity. Within the field
of international relations, for example, national identities are often conflated
with state boundaries, resulting in the homogenization of diverse populations
and the reification of the state. A focus on categories of national identity hides
social groups that do not neatly fit within either Israeli or Palestinian labels
as conventionally used. Those Palestinians who remained in what became the
state of Israel after 1948, for example, defy easy labeling regimes, as each of the
terms used reflects different orientations to existing patterns of sociopolitical
relations as well as efforts to shape (or resist) institutionalized boundaries of
identity. For years, they were “present absentees,”3 internally displaced “Arab”
populations kept under martial law, disconnected discursively from their Pal-
estinian roots and lands. Although these “Arab Israelis” (as termed by Israel)
carry Israeli passports and have the right to vote, they are exempted from
service in the Israeli Defense Force (IDF), a rite of passage for most Israelis
and a critical aspect of Israeli sabra identity.4 Israeli cities and villages are
clearly segregated along national lines, as are schools. While most of these
same individuals identify more with Israeli social and political institutions
than they do with those of Palestinian society in the West Bank and Gaza
Strip, since the outbreak of the second intifada and its accompanying socio-
political shifts (such as the killing of unarmed Arab Israeli protestors by civil
police in October 2000), Israeli citizens of Arab descent increasingly identify
as Palestinians with Israeli citizenship. The ambivalent labeling schemes used
by various groups to categorize this population are not mere semantics but
rather reflect different orientations to the boundaries of national identity.5 Pal-
estinian Israelis engaged in peace activism and the work of social change must
negotiate these boundaries constantly; they face hierarchies of social, political,
and cultural power and privilege on both sides of the so-called Green Line,
the 1949 armistice line demarcating the internationally recognized border of
Israel, and are often left outside prevalent boundary schemata (Rouhana 1997;
Yiftachel 1997).
Boundary-Focused Research
A boundary-focused approach to exploring Israeli and Palestinian identities
engaged in peace activism is well suited for exploring how identity boundar-
ies come to be located where they are and how activists seek to reconstitute,
or reshape, national identities in ways divorced from the conflict. The process
of boundary drawing is inherently relational, resulting not from a priori or
preexisting essences but rather from the articulation of a boundary between
two populations and defining relationships across it. Boundaries must be con-
stantly maintained, although social institutions and legal frameworks limit the
extent to which they can be challenged. Thus, efforts by Israeli and Palestin-
ian peace activists to reconstitute boundaries of identity are constrained by
broader patterns of social relations, prevalent discourses, geographic distance,
and power relations (Fairclough 1992; Shotter 1993; Abbott 1995; McAdam,
Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Tilly 2002).
Activists engage with and challenge prevailing patterns of identity discur-
sively (as in the example of the Israeli Women’s Coalition slogan asserting that
there is a partner for peace) as well as through practical actions (like creating
alternative institutions such as the Hand-in-Hand School or the Neve Sha-
lom–Wahat al Salaam community; Fairclough 1992).6 A focus on boundaries

rather than internal characteristics emphasizes that categories of belonging
are not homogeneous or internally unified; groups are constantly undergo-
ing some degree of redefinition. Again, the example of the Israeli Women’s
Coalition, which is an umbrella organization comprised of diverse organi-
zations, illustrates this fact. It is important to keep in mind that boundary
demarcation and maintenance requires some degree of policing and involves
power relationships that may or may not be benign. While some boundaries
between social groupings (whether physical, political, or social) are mutually
negotiated, others may be imposed by one bounded group on another (Sack
1986; O’Tuathail 1996). When studying Israeli and Palestinian groups working
for peace, negotiations over the group’s own boundaries and its relationship
with other bounded entities (such as other peace groups, the army, or state
agencies) are of great consequence; it is particularly important to examine
how individuals and groups act (consciously or not) within existing relational
patterns to adapt or preserve the boundaries of their individual and collective
identities (Abbott 1995). In particular, to what extent do groups comprised of
both Israelis and Palestinians replicate or reproduce power inequalities and
the differential categories of membership found in broader society?
Territoriality: Boundaries as Power

National identities are shaped not only through sociocultural and political
processes of boundary demarcation but also through geographic ones. Geo-
graphic, political, and sociocultural boundaries in Israel/Palestine provide
the context in which Israeli and Palestinian activists operate. Such boundar-
ies shape the parameters of the possible not only in terms of the contours of
peace but also boundaries of Israeli and Palestinian identities. Most of the
central issues in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict—the status of Jerusalem, Jew-
ish settlements, demarcating secure borders, Palestinian refugees, and wa-
ter—implicate territorial, social, and political boundaries. Indeed, despite
widespread acceptance that a two-state solution is the best way to resolve the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict, policymakers have failed to create “two states for
two peoples” in part due to challenges posed by the lack of congruence be-
tween boundaries of geographic and national identity. Creating and sustaining
national boundaries requires political, cultural, discursive, and physical work,
for example, involving legal and architectural mechanisms that reconfigure
existing patterns of land ownership and occupancy or redefine property rights
(Fields 2010). The difficulty of sustaining boundaries challenged as being il-
legitimate can be seen in the collapse of Yugoslavia in the 1990s or the quest to
build a national identity in Iraq in the wake of the 2003 U.S.-led invasion. The
constant work of boundary maintenance also explains why so much attention
is paid to Israeli and Palestinian textbooks (which socialize the young) or the
route of a new high-speed railway through East Jerusalem, which links certain
communities and avoids others (Schenker and Abu-Zayyad 2006).
Like social boundaries, territorial boundaries must be constantly maintained
and do not exist a priori in space or time; practices of territoriality, like discur-
sive practices, can constitute social subjects and are “embedded in social rela-
tions” (Sack 1986: 26; Fairclough 1992: 35–36). To be successful in demarcating
and maintaining boundaries, actors must have the power to communicate and
enforce boundaries. Using Sack’s theory of territoriality, which examines how
power is used to permit differential access based on classifications according
to area rather than type, is useful in analyzing how Israeli and Palestinian ac-
tivists interact with and challenge boundaries defined by state actors. Israel’s
system of checkpoints, bypass roads, fences, and walls throughout the West
Bank exemplifies territoriality in practice as it classifies by area (for example,
areas A, B, and C in the West Bank and “closed military zones”) and enforces
differential access across those boundaries. For instance, Israelis—whether
Jewish or Palestinian—are forbidden from entering Area A under Israeli law,
and Palestinian identity cards associate each Palestinian with a particular geo-
graphic location, which can then determine whether or not Israeli soldiers
allow them across particular West Bank checkpoints. In each of these cases,
boundary crossing appears to be guided by a neutral (that is, nonracial) regu-
lation based on geographic considerations. The regulations, though, have de-
mographic implications because they divide Palestinian communities within
the West Bank and contribute to fragmentation of the Palestinian identity,
they divide Palestinian citizens of Israel from Palestinians in the West Bank,
and they can divide Israeli and Palestinian peace activists (thereby making
joint action more difficult).
Used in combination with theories of discursive analysis and nonviolent
struggle, territoriality helps explain how Israeli and Palestinian activists re-
sist dominant conflict discourses and practices in their efforts to build space
for peace. Several of Sack’s territorial tendencies—which he calls “displacing,”
“impersonal,” “place-clearing,” and “emptiable space”—can be used to analyze
the discursive moves of actors engaged in nonviolent struggle. One aspect
of this struggle involves seeking to undermine a target regime’s social pil-
lars of support by removing consent and (involuntary) complicity with the
regime. For instance, activists can resist the displacing tendency, evident in
statements like “It’s the law of the land” that attempt to shift attention away
from the relationship between controller (regime) and controlled (populace)

to the territory itself, by focusing attention on the role of agency and power
relations in establishing that law (which did not simply emerge from the ter-
ritory but was created by the regime for its own purposes). Activists can also
resist impersonal classification schema, which can obscure racial policies con-
trolling who is able to live in particular areas, by educating others about the
ramifications of such policies and campaigning for change. A third tendency
of import in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is that of a seemingly neutral place-
clearing function, evident in the conception of property rights, or when access
to space is controlled by whether one has a valid permit or land ownership
documents, which can only be obtained through application to the Israeli au-
thority (which, incidentally, also writes the rules for who can get a permit and
how). Connected to the place-clearing function is the tendency of emptiable
space in which places like vacant city lots (or hilltops) are seen as empty be-
cause there are not presently socially or economically valuable things there to
be controlled (Sack 1986: 34). Time and regulations become invisible in such
cases since the building that used to be there and the people prohibited from
using the space due to zoning restrictions are not “seen.” The powerful Israeli
myth of “a land without people for a people without a land” directly implicates
this territorial tendency. Furthermore, antiquated Ottoman laws that gave the
state ownership of land after it lay fallow for three years allowed the Israeli
government to “legally” seize vast portions of Palestinian land after its owners
had fled or been expelled as a result of war, settler activity, or their inability to
obtain the necessary permit to reach their fields. These territorial tendencies
are not monolithic or universally (or uniformly) deployed, nor are they neces-
sarily hegemonic. Territorial tendencies are useful analytical devices, however,
for exploring how boundaries separating “Israel” from “Palestine” and distin-
guishing between “Israelis” and “Palestinians” are demarcated, enforced, and
challenged.
Selecting the Groups of Study

One of the major challenges in designing this study was determining which
groups to select, as there are a number of groups involved in peace activism
throughout Israel and the Palestinian territories, operating with different as-
sumptions, goals, and constituencies. I began with the definition of “peace
and conflict resolution organizations” in the Israeli and Palestinian contexts
from Gidron, Katz, and Hasenfeld’s Mobilizing for Peace (2002), namely, those
groups that “promoted mutual recognition of national self-determination as
a necessary but not sufficient condition for achieving peace between Jews and
Palestinians” using methods including democracy promotion, consciousness
raising, ongoing contact and dialogue, advocacy, and professional services
(26–27). I modified this to define peacebuilding groups as those committed to
nonviolent approaches to sociopolitical change, recognizing the right of the
other national group to exist, and engaged in ongoing activities during the al-
Aqsa intifada aimed at laying the groundwork for peace. Although there are
debates in the field over the boundaries between peacebuilding, conflict reso-
lution, and nonviolent resistance, these approaches “all share the assumption
that to resolve a conflict, parties must be committed to nonviolent approaches
and methods” (Abu-Nimer 2003: 19). When I speak about peacebuilding
groups, I include both those that are more “resolutionary” and those that use
more “revolutionary” tactics of nonviolent struggle because peacebuilding
work is inherently nonviolent, and nonviolent struggle contributes to a du-
rable peace agreement by challenging the structures of violence embedded in
institutional inequality and racial or ethnic discrimination (Abu-Nimer 2003:
14–16; Dudouet 2008: 2). There are significant differences in assumptions and
approaches between the groups taking more of a conflict-resolution approach
to reducing or managing violence and those more directly confronting the sta-
tus quo (and thereby making latent content more visible) through nonviolent
struggle or civil resistance (Lederach 1997; Dudouet 2008). Indeed, this dis-
tinction is reflected in the category space I used to select the groups of study.
Large numbers of Israeli and Palestinian civil society groups technically fit
the general parameters of my definition. I limited my category space of inter-
est (see table 1) based on several boundaries deemed to be significant in the lit-
erature on peace and conflict resolution as it relates to this conflict: geographic
location of the group (Israel proper or West Bank); uninational (Israeli only
or Palestinian only) versus binational (joint), and religious or secular in ori-
entation. I also sought to explore the difference in dynamics between donor-
funded, staffed organizations and volunteer-based protest groups, and thus
included that axis of difference, although this categorization is imperfect given
the extensive role of volunteers in some of the NGOs. I initially hypothesized
that organizations with paid staff would be more reform oriented and resolu-
tionary due to their reliance on donor funds, and voluntary protest organiza-
tions would be more oriented toward radical change, but I quickly found this
was not necessarily the case.7
The first of these distinctions was used to get at the differences between
what are commonly seen as the two major parties to the conflict (Israel and
Palestine) in terms of culture, goals, or understanding of the root causes of
conflict (Cohen 1997; Abu-Nimer 1999). Implicit in this selection is an avoid-

ance of Arab-Jewish coexistence projects divorced from the context of the
broader Israeli-Palestinian conflict, as well as recognition that the struggles of
Palestinian citizens of Israel (for full civil and economic rights) have tradition-
ally been different from those of the stateless Palestinians in the West Bank
and Gaza Strip (for self-determination and national independence). By the
time I returned for follow-up research in 2008, the concerns of these groups
were converging, a trend also evident in heightened discussion around the
one-state solution as many began to ask whether the time for the two-state
solution had passed (see Tilley 2005; Friedman 2009; and Qaddafi 2009).
In the second distinction I test the “contact hypothesis,” implicit in much
donor funding, that assumes binational or joint initiatives can promote peace
through humanization of the Other given that research shows such activities
can also lead to further entrenched stereotypes (see, for example, Hall-Cathala
1990). The uninational/binational boundary is the focus of a vast literature on
coexistence, interactive problem-solving workshops, encounter programs, and
dialogue (Hertz-Lazarowitz, Kupermintz, and Lang 1998; Walzer 1998; Abu-
Nimer 1999; Kriesberg 2001; Davies and Kaufman 2002); however, defining
“uninational” and “binational” presumes that national boundaries neatly align
with geography or categories of citizenship, which I argue is not the case. Here,
I use the terms to reflect group intentionality in including members who self-
identify as Palestinian and Israeli (usually “Israeli Jews” except in explicitly
binational groups).
In the third distinction I look at religious peace groups, since religion is
often portrayed in the media as a source of conflict and even existential hatred.
At the same time, despite the religious dimensions of final-status issues like
Jerusalem, religious groups have largely been excluded from the secular-led
peace process and have even been deemed obstacles to peace (see, for ex-
ample, Ben-Rafael and Sharot 1991; Mishal and Sela 2000; and Gopin 2002).
There are few religiously oriented local groups that would qualify as peace and
conflict-resolution organizations according to the parameters I used; indeed,
Rabbis for Human Rights and Sabeel were the only ones easily visible. I did not
succeed in finding a religiously oriented Muslim peace group, although many
of the Palestinians involved in the various groups I studied were Muslim.8
Although creating category space based on particular divides might look
like a focus on group characteristics rather than boundaries, table 1 serves
as an analytical device for “cutting into” the many possible Israeli and Pal-
estinian civil society organizations in a systemic manner. In contrast to the
conventional comparativist approach that assumes cases are discrete and sym-
metrical with a priori characteristics, I intentionally focused on how groups

defined their own boundaries (and those of other entities) through words and
deeds, and how these definitions changed over time. Furthermore, I sought
to examine the mechanisms through which groups defined their boundaries
and engaged in peace work, through attention to how groups interacted with
their own particular sociopolitical context and drew on historically available
texts,9 while also being mindful of how these mechanisms of change might
be used universally to analyze similar social-change processes in other con-
texts (Nexon and Jackson 2002: 100). I also want to emphasize that a focus
on boundaries and mechanisms of change differs considerably from variable-
based approaches to understanding conflict, as it avoids essentializing identi-
ties and allows for polyvocality, heterogeneity, and change.
When filling the category space created by the lines of distinction men-
tioned above, I wanted to choose groups that had not already been studied
extensively, so I did not look at groups like Seeds of Peace (covered in films
including SEEDS and Promises), Neve Shalom–Wahat al Salaam (Feuerverger
2001), or Peace Now (Bar-On 1996). Furthermore, I was interested in peace
works rather than peace words, and so I looked for groups that were engaged
in ongoing activities that were accessible for (participant) observation and
interviews.10 Practical matters played a role as well. Since I was based in Jeru-
salem and Ramallah, I limited my groups of study to those primarily based in
those cities. Although I did travel throughout Israel and the Palestinian Terri-
tories (I was unable to obtain a permit to enter the Gaza Strip) with activists to
a wide range of events, the extensive time required for travel around the West
Bank due to checkpoints and roadblocks and the lack of interface between
Israeli and Palestinian transportation networks (as well as the lack of access to
many Palestinian Israeli cities via public transport) made extensive travel very
costly and time consuming. Limiting the groups studied to a particular geo-
graphic area also provided a better basis for comparison as groups faced dif-
ferent possibilities and constraints in different environments due to a host of
factors including travel restrictions on Palestinians and Israelis, sociopolitical
circumstances, and differing priority issues. Geographic selection also meant
I could often attend meetings or events arranged at the last minute, which
often happened. A number of other equally active groups might have been
selected to fill the same category space had I been in a different geographic
location (such as Bethlehem). If I were to begin the study today, I would not
only select some different groups (not all remain active), but I would likely
adapt the category space due to intervening changes in conflict dynamics and
the sociopolitical context.
Although I limited myself to in-depth study of seven groups, I did addi-

tional interviews—formal and informal—with a much wider array of groups
and individuals engaged in nonviolent activism and peacebuilding activity, in-
cluding the Wi'am Center for Conflict Resolution, the Geneva Initiative, Peo-
ple’s Voice Campaign/Mifkad, Association for Civil Rights in Israel (ACRI),
Holy Land Trust, Stop the Wall Campaign, the International Center of Beth-
lehem, the Palestinian Center for Rapprochement between Peoples (PCR),
and Israeli conscientious objectors and refusniks.11 I also attended programs,
demonstrations, and events sponsored by a range of Israeli and Palestinian
groups, including the Israel Palestine Center for Research and Information
(IPCRI), New Profile, Bereaved Parents Forum/Families Circle, Combatants
for Peace, Breaking the Silence (Shovrim Shtika), Israeli Committee Against
Home Demolitions (ICAHD), Israeli Coalition of Women for Peace, Yesh
Gvul, Zochrot, and the Friends International Center in Ramallah. Long bus
rides, solidarity visits, and encounters with ordinary Israelis and Palestinians
as part of my daily routine studying at Hebrew University and volunteering
in a number of organizations all contributed to my understanding of the so-
ciopolitical context with which the groups of study engaged and the prevalent
narratives shaping identity and conflict.12
Because of the small size of many of the peace groups in Israel, most of the
major activities or demonstrations are coordinated by a coalition of groups.
Thus, many of the demonstrations or actions I attended that were publicized
on the Ta'ayush e-mail list, for example, also drew activists from a range of
other Israeli peace groups. The same was also true for large actions in the
Palestinian Territories.
Table 1 fills out the category space with the seven groups selected; brief case
studies of these groups can be found in chapter 4.
Table 2 documents the number of formal interviews I conducted, broken
down according to organization, nationality, and gender. Interviews were
largely unstructured; usually lasting for about an hour, they were tape recorded
and then transcribed. Although I had several guiding questions regarding the
work of the group and their own personal involvement, I usually encouraged
my respondents to start talking about their activism and then asked follow-up
or clarifying questions based on their narration. Most interviews were con-
ducted in organizational offices, although some were done at activists’ homes
or in cafés. Machsom Watch interviews were done during the course of the
shift, either while standing outside the checkpoint or during the often lengthy
car ride to and from the observation sites; they were generally untaped. I re-
turned to conduct follow-up research in July 2008 for a two-week period. Due
Table 0.1. Groups of study according to category space
Geographic Binational Uninational

base
NGO Voluntary NGO (religious) Voluntary

activists activists
Israel Omitteda Ta'ayush Rabbis for Human Machsom

Rights Watch
Palestine Panorama/ Null setb Sabeel Al Mubadara

Bringing Peace
Together
Israel and Alternative Information Center (offices in West Jerusalem and Beit
Palestine Sahour)
Notes: a. Extensive literature on Arab-Jewish relations inside 1948 Israel already exists
(see, for example, Hertz-Lazarowitz, Kupermintz, and Lang 1998; Abu-Nimer 1999; and
Feuerverger 2001). Arab-Jewish dialogue inside Israel has tended to focus on different issues
than Israeli-Palestinian dialogue across the Green Line (pre-1967 boundaries). In 2008 I
encountered considerable questioning of such distinctions (Al-Haj 2005; Lubna 2008). More
research should be done on the boundary between “domestic” Arab-Jewish and “interna-
tional” Israeli-Palestinian peace efforts in the current context.
b. As the bulk of those Israelis living in the West Bank are settlers, this is a null set, although
there are many Israelis and internationals who regularly engage in solidarity activities with
Palestinians in villages along the route of the separation barrier. Although the relations be-
tween Israeli and Palestinian activists in these cases are often quite close, the Israelis still do
not generally live in the West Bank (Hallward 2009). At time of writing, there are a few new
initiatives bringing together settlers and Palestinians, but these tend to be dialogue focused
rather than protest oriented (Bar-Gefen and Rapoport 2010).
to time constraints, I spoke with a more limited number of activists, many of

whom I had also interviewed in 2004–2005. The focus of these interviews was
on what had happened with the organization in the intervening years and on
current challenges facing peace activism in Israel/Palestine.
Outline of the Book

The book that follows is divided into three major sections. The first, context-
setting section, consisting of chapters 1–3, provides the general context for
Israeli-Palestinian peace activism in 2004–2005. Chapter 1 sets the stage with
an overview of why a more critical interrogation of boundaries is important
for understanding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Chapter 2 provides a his-
torical overview for those not familiar with the timeline and dynamics of the
Table 0.2. Demographics of formal interviews
Organization Palestinians Israelis (M, W) Palestinians Israelis

(M, W)
2004–2005 2004–2005 2008 2008
Alternative 4 men, 1 woman 3 mena, 1 man, 1 man,
Information 2 women 1 woman 1 woman
Center (Israeli
citizenship)b
Machsom N/A Approximately N/A 3 women
Watch 22 womenc
Mubadara 6 men, 5 women N/A 2 men, 1 N/A
woman
Panorama 3 men, 3 women 2 men, 1 mand 1 man
2 women
Rabbis for N/A 6 men, N/A 1 man,
Human Rights 2 women 1 womane
Sabeel 1 man, 4 women N/A 1 woman N/A
Ta'ayush N/A 7 men, N/A 2 men,
8 womenf 1 woman
Related 8 men, 2 women 2 men, 1 woman, 3 1 woman,
organizations 1 woman men (1 Israeli 1 man
citizen)
Total 14 (22)g men 18 (20) men 4 (7) men 5 (6) men
13 (15) women 36(37) women 3 (4) women 6 (7)
women
Notes: a. One of the three Israeli men is an Israeli citizen of Palestinian origin and was raised
in an all-Palestinian (Arab) village in the North.
b. She clearly self-identified as Palestinian and worked extensively in Palestinian civil soci-
ety, thus I classify her here.
c. I did not conduct formal interviews with Machsom Watch but rather spoke with women
at length when traveling to and from their shifts and during the hours observing the check-
points. There were two to four women per shift, with a dozen or so women on each of the
field trips on which I accompanied them. I spoke with some of the women in greater depth
than others due to personality, partnering on the shift, and language ability. I accompanied
nine shifts and attended two individual presentations and the press conference at which
several women gave presentations.
d. I attended a large Palestinian-only session of the Bringing Peace Together group and had
several informal exchanges before the meeting began.
e. I conducted no formal interview but participated in extensive discussions with a staff
member, volunteers, and interns during a water convoy action to the Negev.
f. Of those interviewed, two men and three women are Palestinian citizens of Israel; three
others immigrated to Israel from Russia, South America, and Iraq after they were school-
aged (or older); most of the rest were born in Israel or to an Israeli parent.
g. Number in parentheses includes those interviewed from related organizations.
Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and chapter 3 looks more specifically at narratives

around peace in Israeli and Palestinian societies, particularly as related to the
Oslo peace process.
The second section of the book introduces the seven groups studied and
explores their peacebuilding activities. Chapter 4 provides short case studies
for each of the seven groups and compares group activities according to three
different peacebuilding processes. Chapter 5 explores how the seven groups
challenged and created, or constituted, boundaries of identification in the
course of their activism.
The third section of the book revisits the groups in 2008. Chapter 6 exam-
ines changes in the sociopolitical context of Israel/Palestine in the intervening
years, while chapters 7 and 8 discuss two different social change processes
used by the groups in the new environment. Chapter 9 concludes the book
with lessons learned and general observations specific to the Israeli-Palestin-
ian conflict as well as some more broadly applicable to peacebuilding in other
contexts.
1
Examining the Boundaries of “Peace”
It is 2004, and I am walking back from the Liberty Bell Garden, heading to-
ward the Old City of Jerusalem after a day with Israeli and Palestinian peace
activists. As I approach the modern Dan Pearl Hotel, on the corner of Jaffa
Road opposite the Old City walls, I see several teenage girls dressed in the long
skirts and long-sleeved shirts of the Orthodox sitting on the curb. A group of
tourists approaches the girls, asking for directions to a restaurant. In loud, ac-
cented English, the girls hastily point the tourists down Jaffa Street, toward Zion
Square and the heart of downtown West Jerusalem, proclaiming loudly, “Don’t
go down there” (pointing down the hill in the direction of Damascus Gate and
downtown East Jerusalem). “That is where the Arabs are. It is dangerous. Stay
away from there!” Duly warned, the tourists thank the girls and head down Jaffa
Street toward Zion Square and the Ben Yehuda shopping district. Although I
knew consciously that such powerful emotions and fears existed, based on my
research and experience in the area (many tourists come through Israeli travel
agencies and never travel to so-called dangerous Palestinian areas except in
tightly controlled circumstances, such as the Nativity Church in Bethlehem),
observing this exchange was a stark reminder that the Israeli and Palestinian
activists I was studying were not the norm. It also illustrated the vast differences
between the lived and perceived realities within Israeli and Palestinian societies.
We could literally see Damascus Gate (the main entryway into the Old
City from East Jerusalem) from where we stood. There was no physical bar-
rier stopping Palestinians from making the climb up the hill (although there
were sometimes “flying” police checkpoints where police demanded to see
ID cards). Despite government efforts at erasing the old 1948–1967 seam line
dividing East (then under Jordanian control) from West (Israeli-controlled)
Jerusalem and promoting the idea of a unified Jerusalem, the psychological,
social, economic, and political walls of division remain. For me, who traversed
both sides of the city in the course of my daily activities, the difference was
palpable. And, admittedly, although I was becoming more comfortable on
the western side of the city (according to what Ringmar [1996] calls “geog-
raphy of affection” rather than strict geography, because the Mount Scopus
campus of Hebrew University, where I was taking classes, is geographically
“East” but politically, culturally, historically, and psychologically “West”), I
was still more comfortable in the more familiar Palestinian areas. For me, Ben
Yehuda Street, the site of numerous suicide bombing attacks, was the “danger-
ous” place, while Damascus Gate is replete with memories of my escapes to
Jerusalem during my years teaching at the Ramallah Friends School. Its sights
and smells and the colors and calls emanating from the falafel stands, bakeries,
and street vendors seeking to make their living still fill me with delight.
At the same time as I was reminded of the starkly different lived realities
of the city in terms of comfort level, I lamented that the tourists heard only
this loud, emphatic voice signaling “danger” and did not have the opportunity
to hear different Israeli voices—such as the voices of activists who regularly
cross into the Palestinian Territories and have long-term partnerships with
Palestinian groups—or to experience Palestinian hospitality. I was also struck
by the paradox set up by the girls’ comments. On one hand, they vigorously
emphasized that Arab East Jerusalem is to be avoided, that it is the Other
(culturally and psychologically, and also economically, if one considers the
spending of tourist money). On the other hand, they would probably make the
political argument (their attire indicated that they were from practicing Or-
thodox Jewish families, who tend to vote more right politically) that Jerusalem
was a united city (the eternal capital of Israel) and should never be divided in
a peace agreement with Palestinians.
This brief encounter illustrates how social, political, and geographic bound-
aries within Israel/Palestine can be co-constitutive. For example, the girls’ socio-
political identification as Jewish Israelis affected their lived geographic boundar-
ies, which contributed to an understanding of Palestinian as Other, which fed
into their sociopolitical boundaries of Jerusalem; or Jewish settlers moving to
the West Bank because they understand Israel to include all of the land between
the Mediterranean sea and the Jordan river. At the same time, these boundar-
ies can also be noncongruous, as in the case of Palestinian citizens of Israel.
Although in 1967 Israel unilaterally annexed territory from more than twenty
Palestinian villages (largely in the eastern part of the city that had been under
Jordanian control)—an annexation that has never been recognized by the inter-
national community and is thus illegal according to international law—to create
an expanded metropolitan Jerusalem, the residents of these areas generally do
not have Israeli citizenship and do not have access to the same city services as
do residents of West Jerusalem.1
Examining the Boundaries of “Peace” · 17
Israeli Jews come out in great numbers to celebrate the unification of Je-
rusalem each year, parading by busloads to scenic overlooks, but during the
rest of the year, few Israeli Jews (apart from settlers, residents of the Old City’s
reconstituted Jewish Quarter, peace activists, and religious Jews praying at
the Wailing Wall) are seen in the streets of East Jerusalem.2 Indeed, one can
feel—and see—the difference between West and East Jerusalem, between the
“Israeli” and “Palestinian” areas of the city even if one does not know the route
of the seam line that physically divided the city between 1948 and 1967, when
Jordan controlled the West Bank. Differences in architecture, transportation
systems, verbal and written language, attire, and mannerisms are readily ap-
parent, as is the different level of city services (trash collection, for example,
is not nearly as regular in East Jerusalem, and West Jerusalem has many more
parks). Although living in close proximity to each other, the vast majority of
East and West Jerusalemites live completely separate lives, as if they inhabit
two separate worlds. I traversed these boundaries daily as I walked the short
distance from my apartment on the Mount of Olives across the no-man’s-land
to Hebrew University’s Mount Scopus campus for class. Despite the short walk,
the two locales were worlds apart psychologically, politically, and socially. I
had to negotiate these different worlds carefully, in terms of my language, my
conversation topics, and the culture of interaction. Many of those with whom
I interacted in each of these worlds had little practical knowledge of the Other
who lived nearby—as their patterns of daily life (economic, physical, social)
did not intersect.
At the same time, however, I was accompanying groups of Israelis and Pal-
estinians who intentionally challenged these boundaries of division to create
space for interaction premised on mutual recognition. In a time when the
dominant narrative was “There is no partner for peace,” these activists not
only demonstrated that there was in fact a partner for peace, they actively
practiced that partnership. How was it that these groups could work together
for a “just and lasting peace” with security for all while the vast majority of Is-
raelis and Palestinians lived very separate lives? Were there processes used by
these groups that could be passed on to those engaged in official negotiations
or be used with the general public? How did those working for peace frame
their own identity and that of the Other?
Boundary-Focused Research: Examining the Contours of Conflict

Boundaries of identity are inherently tied up with approaches to peacemak-
ing in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, regardless of whether one defines the
conflict as one of rival nationalisms, religions, cultures, civilizations, or ethnic

groups. However, such boundaries are not clear cut, uniform, or exclusive, as
different individuals and groups deploy such categorical memberships in very
different ways depending on the context (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001;
Sufian and Levine 2007). It is perhaps easiest to see the problematic nature of
identity labels and essentialist assumptions when one examines the question
of the Palestinian citizens of Israel (also called Israeli Arabs or Arab Israelis),
who comprise roughly 20 percent of Israel’s population.3 As Mohammed, a
Palestinian citizen of Israeli I interviewed, explained, “The Palestinians [in
the West Bank] said to us: ‘You have Israeli passports, you have Israeli identity
cards, you are Israelis.’ Okay, I am an Israeli citizen, but in my feelings, in my
roots, my family, my relatives are Palestinian. . . . They are deep roots” (R.,
R., et al. 2004). He went on to explain the isolation of his community during
October 2000, when thirteen Palestinian citizens of Israel were killed by Is-
raeli police forces and the Jewish Israeli community stopped all contact with
the Arab Israeli villages. Not only did Jewish Israelis stop shopping in Arab
markets, they also refused to fix electrical outages or replenish pharmaceutical
supplies in these communities. “We [were] all alone, and all the Israeli [po-
litical] Left—Meretz, Yossi Sarid, Hizb al Amal [Labor Party]—and the Right
were all against us. We were citizens of Israel, we have the passport and the
identity card, but they were ignoring us, and were against us, making a siege
on us” (ibid.).
In this brief exchange, Mohammed demonstrates how the same set of
identity markers—citizenship, ID card, passport—resulted in different sets
of boundaries demarcating different identity categories depending on the
context. For the Palestinian community in the West Bank, the boundary was
drawn based on citizenship categories: Mohammed’s Israeli citizenship sepa-
rated him as an Israeli Other. In contrast, for the Jewish Israeli community, the
boundary was drawn based on nationality: Mohammed’s Israeli ID—marked
“Arab”—separated him as a Palestinian Other.4 As one of my Jewish Israeli
interviewees explained, “[The conflict is] not just about neighbors not getting
along. . . . There are laws to this country, and there’s the army, and there’s taxes
and there’s this whole structure that goes against partnership and equality”
(Isadora 2004). The differential application of laws, rights, and benefits con-
tributes to the establishment of identity boundaries while also contributing
to conflict dynamics. These identity markers are situated in a complex (and
dynamic) political environment in which one’s rights are the product of one’s
officially defined identity, but they are also subject to ongoing sociopolitical
negotiations over the location of national boundaries. For example, in Decem-
ber 2008, Israeli foreign minister Tzipi Livni said: “Once a Palestinian state is
established, I can come to the Palestinian citizens, whom we call Israeli Arabs,
and say to them ‘you are citizens with equal rights, but the national solution
for you is elsewhere.’” An Arab Israeli lawmaker replied to her: “The roots of
the Israeli Arab citizens of Israel were planted before the state was established.
They are residents of this country with rights; their residency and citizenship
are not open for negotiation” (Haaretz 2008).
Since the second intifada, the role of the Palestinian citizens of Israel in a
future peace agreement has come increasingly to the forefront (Al-Haj 2005).
Although in 2004–2005 a number of activists spoke of the parallels between
the situation in the occupied territories and 1948 Israel, in 2008 increasing
numbers of activists (Israeli Jewish, Palestinian citizens of Israel, and Palestin-
ians in the West Bank) spoke of the situation from 1948 to 1967 to the present
as a continual process of Palestinian dispossession and transfer.5 For many
activists, this was confirmed by the strong showing of Avigdor Lieberman
(Yisrael Beitenu Party) in the February 2009 elections. Lieberman, tapped
as foreign minister by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, advocates a law
demanding that Arab Israelis pledge loyalty to Israel as a Jewish state in or-
der to keep their citizenship. He has also suggested transferring Arab citizens
to any future Palestinian state in exchange for settlement blocs (BBC 2009;
Ravid 2009). Such proposals advocate state boundaries aligned with a specific
bounding of an ethnonational community (i.e., Jewish Israelis). Such changes
in sociopolitical context contribute to the changing terminology used by
many to describe the Palestinian citizens of Israel (Arab Israelis), just as the
changing terminology impacts the overall sociopolitical climate. Those sup-
porting Lieberman’s position, for example, suggest that by self-identifying as
Palestinian more than Israeli, this group’s loyalty belongs to the Palestinian
Authority. In contrast, Palestinian citizens of Israel note that they are excluded
from the self-defined Jewish state by default and are automatically signified as
outsiders.
Negotiating Boundaries of Identity

The constitution of boundaries in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not simply
the purview of politicians and negotiators. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is
(re)constituted through countless negotiations carried out by ordinary people
in the course of their everyday lives, as Palestinians go to the checkpoint, hop-
ing to cross and get to their jobs, or as Jewish settlers drive along an Israeli-
only bypass road. Often, negotiations over the boundaries of national identity
are tied up with negotiations over the physical boundaries of control since
social, political, and geographical boundaries are intertwined, overlapping but

not congruous. Permanent Israeli military checkpoints guard the entrances to
major cities, policing who can and cannot enter, and so-called flying check-
points are instituted for varying amounts of time along busy thoroughfares by
a couple of Israeli soldiers and a vehicle or two. The separation barrier con-
sists of hundreds of miles of fences, walls, roads, and electronic surveillance
systems, establishing a clear physical boundary, yet in most places the barrier
separates Palestinians from Palestinians rather than Palestinians from Israelis
(Lein and Cohen-Lifshitz 2005; Ben-Eliezer and Feinstein 2007).
At the same time, psychological and social boundaries are evident, as dem-
onstrated in the exchange between the Israeli girls and the tourists, or by the
signs posted in the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Mea Shearim, forbid-
ding those with “immodest” attire from passing through. While some of these
boundaries are obvious to the outside observer, other boundaries are less vis-
ible, more nuanced.
Sustaining the location of boundaries takes sociopolitical work, as does
challenging them. This work occurs through a number of seemingly innocent
practices, from the documentation of scientific “facts” to the writing of text-
books, to the reinterpretation of memory (Schenker and Abu-Zayyad 2006;
Sufian and Levine 2007). Contrary to popular perceptions, Palestinian and
Israeli political identities are not static but rather are “always transient and
subject to relations of power and knowledge” (Alatout 2007: 213). Violent con-
flict often facilitates the (re)institution of exclusive boundaries of identity, as
“practices expressing cruelty and uncompromising hatred can serve as ‘just
the thing’ to clearly delineate this line of ‘us’ versus ‘them’” (Ben-Eliezer and
Feinstein 2007: 176). What is interesting is not that these boundaries exist but
rather “the way they are established, contested, stabilized, and reconstituted in
a number of fields and ways” (Alatout 2007: 214). Furthermore, although the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict is often portrayed as intractable or ancient, history
demonstrates that boundaries are contextually defined, since a number of dif-
ferent borders have existed in the region over the years, mediated by different
types of relationships.
Lieberman’s effort to redraw Israel’s boundaries along ethnic lines is but
one example of such boundary making, one that contradicts the boundary
created by Israel’s separation barrier, which includes approximately 8,500 West
Bank Palestinians on the western “Israeli” side.6 Those Palestinians who live
in “Jewish” settlements in the Jerusalem area, such as Pisgat Zeev and French
Hill, are also engaged in boundary-drawing (or erasing) processes (Gradstein
2008a). Although in recent years Israelis and Palestinians have been “much
more successful . . . at building rather than removing the innumerable walls

between them” (Sufian and Levine 2007: 307), some Israelis and Palestinians
have continued their struggle to break down walls and (re)constitute bound-
aries that respect and honor the human rights of everyone.
This book examines the daily practices and what Charles Tilly (2008)
terms “contentious performances” of Israeli and Palestinian peace and jus-
tice activists as they challenge, create, and maintain social, political, and
geographic boundaries. While we often hear about violence that occurs
across national boundaries, we less frequently hear about nonviolent contes-
tations occurring over the location of those boundaries. In particular, we do
not hear stories of how national borders are selectively deployed depending
on the context, or how one’s interpretation of the location of such borders
influences—and is influenced by—one’s approach to the concept of peace.
For example, a Jewish Israeli peace activist attempting to visit Hebron by
going through the Kiryat Arba settlement, the entrance to which is directly
off the main road from Jerusalem (other entrances to Hebron from the main
road were blocked at the time, leaving only the Palestinian entrance in Area
A, which is legally off-limits to Israelis), is turned away by the settlement’s
security guards, who say, “No leftists allowed,” even while the Jewish settlers
of Kiryat Arba assert the city of Hebron is an integral part of Israel, holy to
Jews. In this case, only the right kind of Jews—a classification based not on
ethnicity but on political views (and determined by settlers, not the gov-
ernment)—are allowed entry into Hebron. Political views can also provide
an opportunity for transcending national lines, however; in my interviews
Israelis and Palestinians involved in joint endeavors independently attested
that they have more in common with some members of the other national
group than they do with extremists in their own communities.7
Negotiating Boundaries of Peace

In its focus on states as the primary actors in world politics, mainstream inter-
national relations (IR) literature often does not examine internal boundaries,
and instead tends to treat “Israelis” and “Palestinians” as preexisting categories
represented by their governments. However, standard IR assumptions that
national divides should coincide with state (that is, international) boundaries
are particularly problematic in the case of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict for
a number of reasons, first and foremost being Israel’s lack of officially defined
state borders.8 Studies that focus on demarcating international or state bound-
aries as a key process in peacemaking often implicitly assume that national,
political, and geographic identities are congruous and that peace will result
from delimiting the right boundary (Brawer 1994; Biger 2008). However, so-
cial, geographic, and political boundaries are not always congruous but rather
are interrelated, contextually defined, and constituted in part by the same pro-
cesses that constitute the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. Orienta-
tions toward geographic boundaries such as the Green Line9 or the separation
barrier10 are part of broader sociocultural and political debates over national
identity within Israeli (Jewish and Arab) and Palestinian communities (Al-Haj
2005; Ben-Eliezer and Feinstein 2007; Eldar 2008b; Waxman 2008). Further-
more, prevalent understandings regarding the proper location of the border
changes over time, even within the same national community. This is evident
in the PLO’s acceptance of the two-state solution in 1988 (rather than its previ-
ous goal of a single binational state), and in shifting Israeli public opinion re-
garding withdrawal from the 1967 territories (Mohamad 1999; Waxman 2008).
Not just any border can be imagined, however, as facts on the ground fa-
cilitate the institution of certain boundaries and erase the potential for others.
In recent years a number of scholars and activists have noted that the window
of possibility for the two-state solution is rapidly closing and processes such as
ongoing settlement expansion are therefore, ironically, threatening Israel’s ex-
istence as a Jewish state (Tilley 2005; Tuathail 2005; Baskin 2008; Halper 2008;
Seidemann 2008). Thus, the work of peace activists is partially circumscribed
by official narratives of identity as well as by legal barriers separating Israe-
lis and Palestinians. For example, Israeli peace activists are legally prevented
from entering those areas of the West Bank under the nominal control of the
Palestinian Authority (Area A). At the same time, however, the special roads
(built with government funds) connecting Israeli cities like Jerusalem and Tel
Aviv with Jewish West Bank settlements, many of which are adjacent to Area
A, actually facilitate activists’ travel to these areas.
The work of peace activists is also context dependent, as what is possible
(as well as what is deemed successful) changes over time and space. The older
generation of Palestinians and Israelis still has pre-1948 memories, when Jews,
Muslims, and Christians were neighbors who shared each other’s holidays,
exchanged visits, and lived in relative harmony (Cedar 2004; Campos 2007).
While these neighborly relations were not without their challenges, as one of
my Palestinian contacts recalled, “Just by nodding to your neighbor, or smil-
ing, or smelling their food, we [realize that we] are [all] human beings . . . [and]
a bond grows between you.” She went on to tell the story of her Syrian Jewish
neighbor whose son was fighting on the Egyptian front during the 1967 war.
She recalled: “I wanted us to win the war, but I wanted my neighbor’s son to
come back safely home. . . . And her son came back safely home, but we were
vanquished; he was the victor and we were the vanquished. I cried. I cried hot
tears . . . and still I rejoiced with my neighbor because her son was home” (Ce-
dar 2004). Although such stories are practically unimaginable for the young-
est generation of Israelis and Palestinians, who have grown up in the shadow
of the failure of the Oslo Accords, the violence of the second intifada, and the
dominant narrative of separation (Awwad 2001), there are young Palestinians
and Israelis who combat—nonviolently—such images and representations in
their efforts to build a sustainable, just, and secure peace for both peoples.11
Context dependency is not relativism, however, as agreed-upon frame-
works for addressing the conflict exist (for example, UN resolutions 242 and
338 and the Clinton Parameters). Rather, it underscores the importance of the
strategic element of peace building and nonviolent struggle emphasized by
scholar-activists; to be successful, nonviolent struggle consists of more than a
collection of methods or tactics, just as peacebuilding requires more than do-
nor money thrown at short-term projects. To be successful, activists must pay
attention to changes in the socioeconomic and political situation and reevalu-
ate how they seek to achieve their goals. Furthermore, as in any conflict situ-
ation, activists must be attuned to how Israeli and Palestinian histories (and
their conflicts) shape present obstacles to and opportunities for activism. One
of the major contributing factors to the large-scale nonviolent resistance in the
first intifada was the injection of a new set of ideas and symbols into Palestin-
ian society (King 2007); considering how to shift discourse in an acceptable
manner requires keen attention to sociocultural and political dynamics.
When I give presentations to groups in the United States, I often encoun-
ter surprise or disbelief when I explain that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is
not static or timeless but rather has changed dramatically in the past decade.
I taught in the West Bank city of Ramallah from 1998 to 2000, in the midst of
the Oslo process. Although there were complaints about the situation—the
checkpoints, ongoing settlement construction—in comparison with today,
businesses were expanding, Jewish Israelis would come in by the busload
to eat at a few well-known Palestinian restaurants, and if one had the right
license plate and ID, one could drive to Jerusalem in fifteen minutes. After
the outbreak of the al-Aqsa intifada in 2000, however, the situation changed.
New checkpoints were established throughout the West Bank, and an ex-
panding system of bypass roads was constructed, reconfiguring the social,
political, and geographical landscape. For example, a number of my students
commuted from neighboring villages, such as Deir Dibwan or Bittin. In 1998
it was a short drive of about fifteen minutes. However, by the end of 2000
it took hours to get to these same villages due to Israeli-only bypass roads
(which serve as walls since Palestinians are not even allowed to cross them)
and roadblocks instituted by the Israeli army. One had to go through a se-
ries of checkpoints and roadblocks, transferring between several shared taxis
(each of which charged a separate fare), and drive along treacherous back
roads, sometimes through fields, in a large circular path that initially took
one in the opposite direction from the destination villages. Such closures
were not unique to the Ramallah district and had a devastating effect not only
on the geography of the West Bank but also on the Palestinian social fabric,
economy, and view of the Israeli Other.
In addition to the changing of the physical landscape, which one can see
dramatically from visit to visit—as new roads are created, temporary check-
points institutionalized into major terminals, or entire hillsides carved away
for a new Israeli-only road or settlement—the sociocultural and political land-
scapes change as well. Walking down the streets of Ramallah, for instance,
the streets are filled with women covered in the Muslim headscarf, or hijab,
whereas ten years ago, the majority remained uncovered; in Bethlehem, the
streets are empty, many shops shuttered due to lack of tourism because of the
wall and trends of emigration among Christians. When talking to Israelis or
internationals in Jerusalem in 2004–2005, I was shocked by how many had
never been to Bethlehem (which borders on Jerusalem). For example, a Ger-
man woman in my Hebrew class—who had been working for the Christian
Embassy in Jerusalem for three years, was very religious, and helped organize
tours of Europeans to the area—admitted that she had never visited Bethle-
hem. When I asked why, she responded that she was upset by the big deal that
was always made about whether or not Arafat would attend the Christmas
ceremonies.12 What about going outside of Christmas, I inquired. She seemed
surprised at the thought, and said no. Despite the fact that the ongoing expan-
sion of the Har Homa settlement brings Bethlehem ever closer to the (Israeli-
defined) southern boundary of Jerusalem (with Israeli government tenders
issued for five hundred new housing units in August 2005, for one thousand
new housing units in January 2007, and for an additional three hundred units
after the November 2007 Annapolis Conference),13 Bethlehem is far away in
the “geography of affection” for most Israelis (Ringmar 1996: 78).14
All of these changes affect what social, political, and geographic boundaries
are possible in any peace agreement, even while the prospect of a possible peace
agreement affects changes in the boundaries. Furthermore, the entrance and
exit of sociopolitical actors affects not only visions of peace but also visions of
Israel and Palestine. Both Yasser Arafat and Ariel Sharon, major players in the
conflict over the decades, have exited the stage, while new parties like Kadima
and Hamas’ List of Change and Reform have come to power. Such changes have
affected the possible and actual boundaries of Israeli and Palestinian political,
social, and geographic entities as well as how the conflict (and its potential
solution) is manifested (Ben-Ami 2005; Biger 2008; Waxman 2008).
International actors have also affected the shape of potential and lived
boundaries in Israel/Palestine at the intergovernmental, state, and individual
levels. Although this book (especially the first two parts) focuses primarily on
the role of Israeli and Palestinian actors, the international community con-
tinues to play a key role both in efforts that perpetuate and those that seek to
transform the conflict. Norway, for example, hosted the talks that led to the
Oslo Accords (1993); the United States hosted the failed Camp David II sum-
mit (2000) and gives billions of dollars in aid annually to Israel (including
military equipment); and the International Quartet (United Nations, European
Union, United States, and Russia) proposed the Performance-Based Road Map
for Peace (2003). Individuals such as former U.S. president Jimmy Carter and
South African leaders such as Archbishop Desmond Tutu speak publicly on
the contours of conflict and peace, while activists such as Rachel Corrie, Tom
Hurndall, and Tristan Anderson literally put their lives on the line when engag-
ing in nonviolent solidarity activities. Global corporations are also actors in the
conflict, not only large weapons manufacturers but also companies like Motor-
ola, Caterpillar, and Veolia. International civil-society actors are increasingly
part of activist efforts targeting these corporations, such as the French groups
whose pressure helped end Veolia’s involvement in building the Jerusalem light
rail system connecting settlements to the western city center.15
Peace Studies and Examining What Has Gone Right

In addition to being surprised to hear that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is
rooted in modern grievances rather than biblical hatreds, many U.S. audi-
ences are often amazed to learn that there are Israelis and Palestinians who
want peace with their neighbors, or that roughly 20 percent of Israelis have
Palestinian heritage. Western media tend to portray Israelis and Palestinians
in starkly oppositional categories, highlighting official “failures” (for example,
the never-implemented Performance-Based Road Map to Peace approved by
the Quartet in 2003, and the 2007 Annapolis Conference),16 or dramatic vio-
lent events (like suicide bombings, settler pogroms), rather than the actions of
those Israelis and Palestinians who have continued to work for peace (some-
times together, sometimes separately) throughout the al-Aqsa intifada.
Mainstream IR studies of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict tend to focus on
the conflict and what has gone wrong in peace negotiations, historical pro-
cesses, or sociocultural practices rather than what has gone right. Scholars
and policymakers often focus on the official negotiations, on actors’ interests
and positions relevant to an agreement, rather than on how peace might be
implemented. As the Oslo peace process demonstrated, words alone do not
bring peace to fruition, and many peace scholars and practitioners have noted
the need to engage more people within each society to prepare the ground
for peace (Hirschfield and Roling 2000; Gopin 2002; IPCRI 2002; Kriesberg
2002). By looking at groups that continued their efforts to bring about a just
and lasting peace in a time of violent conflict, one can explore the question of
how to build constituencies for peace and engage populations across a variety
of divides.
Peace and justice groups are infrequently studied as they are often discounted
by politicians and mainstream academics as irrelevant or marginal or too small
to be worthy of study.17 True change, these officials argue, will come from the
mainstream, and thus pragmatic (“moderate”) peace groups of the center are
better targets for programs and analysis. However, scholars have demonstrated
that the margin can be the site of great creativity and leverage, leading to trans-
formation in patterns of thought and sociopolitical configurations (D. Newman
1998; Gladwell 2000; Nicol and Townsend-Gault 2005). Marginal groups can
set precedents or promote strategies that might be later appropriated by the
cultural or political mainstream (Hermann 2002); they can highlight the prob-
lematic definition of boundaries and spur societies to think about where lines of
social, political, and geographical demarcation are and should be (Ben-Eliezer
and Feinstein 2007; Basaran 2008; Keller and Zilversmidt 2008). When such
groups happen to be working to create the conditions for a viable peace, their
words and deeds can provide insight not only regarding the contours of a peace
agreement (the “what” of peace) but also in terms of the mechanisms through
which peace can be put into practice in the course of everyday life (the “how”
of peace). By using theory to interrogate peacebuilding practices,18 that is, by
analyzing how groups operate through the application of a series of ideal typical
causal mechanisms based on scholarly literature, this book adds to empirical
knowledge about civil-society contributions to peacebuilding, contributes to
theory building regarding peace processes and identity formation, and provides
insight for practitioners and policymakers regarding possible peace interven-
tions.
2
Historical Overview
of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict
Although conventional treatments of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict by poli-

ticians and mainstream media outlets portray it as timeless, inevitable, and
based on ethnic or religious hatred, this is not actually the case. Indeed, one
of the fears of many peace activists I have spoken with over the years is that by
continuing to call the conflict a religious or ethnic conflict, and by making pol-
icies based on these assumptions, the conflict might actually be reconfigured
as such. Such a shift would have tremendous implications for de-escalation ef-
forts and serious political peace efforts since one cannot negotiate metaphysi-
cal beliefs or evaluate between claims of divine sanction. This chapter provides
some basic history of the evolution and emergence of the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict so that the aims, strategies, and discursive deployments used by the
activists studied can be better understood in context. A secondary aim of this
chapter is to begin to introduce the many facets of “Israeli” and “Palestinian”
identity and the complexity and contingency of these categories of identity.
Although these terms are often used monolithically, the boundaries defining
inclusion in said categories have shifted with time; furthermore, “Israeli” is
not synonymous with “Jewish” nor is “Palestinian” necessarily synonymous
with “Arab” or “Muslim,” although these terms are often conflated by Western
audiences.
Over the years, numerous state and local policies, practices, and oral tra-
ditions have modified and sustained geographic, political, and psychosocial
boundaries between Israeli Jews, Palestinian citizens of Israel, and Palestinians
living in the West Bank and Gaza Strip (Bar-Gal 1993; Slyomovics 1998;
PASSIA 2002; Golan-Agnon 2005). Although Jews, Christians, and Muslims
were all considered Palestinians under the British Mandate, rival promises
made by the British government to the Zionist movement and Arab nation-
alists during World War I aggravated tensions between the Arab and Jewish
populations, creating new boundaries of identification along ethnonational
and religious lines.1 Before giving a brief overview of the conflict, it is impor-
tant to say a word about boundaries as they relate to history and to relations
between Arabs and Jews or Israelis and Palestinians. The area I call Israel/Pal-
estine—in an effort to acknowledge competing names for the land between
the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River—has been under the control of
numerous empires over the millennia and has been the site of both competi-
tion and accommodation between cultures; consequently, it is hard to say that
any particular community is indigenous in the true sense of the word (Gold-
schmidt 2008). It was not until the defeat of the Ottoman Empire in World War
I and the granting of a League of Nations mandate to the British that borders
of Palestine were demarcated between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean
Sea, although it had existed as a ill-defined region in historical memory going
back to Roman times (Biger 2008). To date, Israel has never officially declared
the boundaries of its state, as it claims the 1949 boundaries (the internationally
recognized state boundaries) are the result of a cease-fire rather than being
secure, negotiated borders.2 What follows is not a comprehensive historical
account (that has been done elsewhere)3 but rather an effort to highlight sig-
nificant events, ideas, boundaries, and proposals that echo in contemporary
peacebuilding efforts and identity constructions of Israeli and Palestinian ac-
tivists. As Avi Shlaim, one of the leading Israeli “new historians,” states: “The
past is our best guide for understanding the present and for predicting the fu-
ture. . . . Alongside the political conflict between Israelis and Palestinians runs a
parallel conflict between two national narratives. Only by taking full account of
these two narratives can we form a true picture of the character and dynamics
of this tragic conflict, and of the prospects for its resolution” (2009b: ix).4
The Emergence of Rival Nationalisms

The Palestinian-Israeli conflict is a modern phenomenon, arising in part from
rival nationalisms—Arab nationalism and Zionism—that emerged during the
age of nationalism at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth
century. Arab nationalism emerged as the Ottoman Empire weakened and
European empires gained further ground in the Middle East and Africa.5 Zi-
onism, which sought a nation-state for the Jewish people as a remedy for Eu-
ropean discrimination and anti-Semitism, emerged as a political movement
in the mid-1800s, with different variants (religious and secular) of Zionism
espoused by Eastern and Western European Jews. The first major wave of im-
Historical Overview of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict · 29
migration (the first aliyah)6 to Palestine (1882–1904) consisted of twenty to

thirty thousand Eastern European Jews, many fleeing Russian pogroms. Most
of these Jews settled in communities that already had a Jewish presence (Jeru-
salem, Safed, Hebron, Tiberias); at this time Jews numbered only about 5,000
out of the total population of 275,000–300,000 (Lesch 2008: 29). The second
aliyah brought a different breed of Zionists: younger, more ideologically com-
mitted to the idea of creating a new Jewish state, and seeking to build a new
society. Although competing strains of Zionism often did not see eye to eye,
both political and social Zionists sought to create new social, economic, and
political institutions—separate from and exclusive of the Arab population—in
Palestine to build the foundations for a new state.7
Although he was not the first Zionist thinker, Theodor Herzl and his book
Der Judenstaat (The Jewish State) brought political Zionism to a new level
with the founding of the World Zionist Organization and its first congress
in Basel, Switzerland, in 1897. Herzl, along with Chaim Weizmann, president
of the World Zionist Organization (and first president of Israel), engaged in
extensive diplomacy with European powers, particularly Britain, to secure
support for their nationalist program; Herzl also approached the Ottomans
directly for political backing and the territory of Palestine, but his offer of
20 million English pounds was turned down (King 2007; Lesch 2008: 33). As
Zionist settlers arrived in the Ottoman Empire, they brought the twin prin-
ciples of “Hebrew Land” and “Hebrew Labor,” displacing the Arab peasantry
through purchasing land from absentee landlords (and consequently refusing
to sell to Arabs), and displacing Arab workers by replacing them with Jewish
ones (King 2007; Lesch 2008).
Rival Promises
During the course of World War I, European powers, particularly Britain and
France, jockeyed for influence over Ottoman lands and made rival promises to
Zionists and Arab nationalists in exchange for their support in the war against
the Ottomans. In 1916 the British and the French, with Imperial Russia’s ap-
proval, concluded the Sykes-Picot agreement to divvy up Ottoman lands after
the war, and on November 2, 1917, the British government issued the Balfour
Declaration, named after the foreign minister, which stated:
His majesty’s government views with favor the establishment in Pal-
estine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best
endeavors to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly
understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil
and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine,

or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.
(Quoted in King 2007: 27)
To Arab nationalists, this declaration contradicted promises made to Sharif

Hussein of Mecca in correspondence with the British high commissioner of
Egypt, Sir Henry McMahon, for an independent Arab kingdom after the war
in exchange for an Arab revolt against the Ottomans (Lesch 2008: 54–59).
After the war was over, the British were granted responsibility for Pales-
tine under a League of Nations mandate. Although the mandate originally
included Transjordan, the British carved that off, dividing the territory along
the Jordan River, and installing King Abdallah, son of Sharif Hussein (his
other son, Faisal, was installed as king of the newly created Iraq after he was
deposed as king of Damascus by the French), as a way of reducing Arab pres-
sure. Like many British decisions during the mandate period, this action was
viewed very differently by Jews (local and European Zionists) and Arabs.
Some Zionists were upset by the closing off of a large area (although most of
Jordan is desert) to Jewish immigration (Gerson 1978). Some Israeli politicians
continue to refer back to this British action as the creation of the promised
Arab state, thereby releasing the current state of Israel from the need for any
more territorial compromises.8 Many Arabs, in contrast, saw the British move
as power politics (and a divide-and-rule strategy) aimed at Western colonial
domination of the Middle East; the newly installed Hashemite dynasty was
“foreign,” from the Hejaz region (now Saudi Arabia), and those included in
the newly formed state had little sense of common identity within the British-
created boundaries.
Other British decisions during the mandate period were equally contro-
versial, including British decisions regarding the expansion and restriction
of Jewish immigration to Palestine.9 Palestinian Arabs demonstrated against
British promises to the Jews, and Palestinian Arab congresses spoke out
against the Balfour Declaration and other British policies. Although Jewish
immigration did not live up to the Zionists’ projected numbers until the 1930s,
with the rise of Nazi Germany (other locations, such as the United States, were
more attractive to Jewish immigrants), the Jewish population in Palestine in-
creased steadily, with approximately 157,000 Jewish (17.7 percent) inhabitants
by the end of the 1920s. Jewish immigration continues to be central to Israeli
identity, and numerous songs and popular phrases reflect the importance of
early Jewish “pioneers.” As historian David Lesch reports, “To this day immi-
gration has been the foundation [of the Zionist enterprise]” (King 2007: 30;
Lesch 2008: 101, emphasis in original). Although space does not permit a full
discussion here, the Zionist movement, and British cooperation with it, was
part and parcel of the modernization and Westernization discourses prevalent
in the colonial era.10 British policy decisions were guided in part by the belief
that the Arabs could not govern themselves and that Zionists helped “mod-
ernize” and “civilize” the “traditional” Palestinian Arabs (Sa'di 1997; Pappé
2004: 30; Massad 2006; King 2007; Shlaim 2009b: 11).
Moves toward Partition

Tensions between the Arab and Jewish populations increased starting in 1929
and intensified throughout the 1930s as Jewish immigration rose dramatically
as a result of events in Europe. Although the British never fully opened the
doors for immigration—a fact bitterly resented by the Zionists—Jews also
arrived through illicit means (Lesch 2008). By 1936 tensions were high, due
in part to changing patterns of Jewish immigration as Ashkenazi Jews from
Western Europe joined the Mizrahi (Oriental) and Eastern European Jews al-
ready present. When a Jewish bus passenger was killed by some Arab robbers,
the incident set off a tit-for-tat sequence (which continues to be a prominent
modus operandi in the conflict), leading to mutual attacks and a general Arab
strike demanding a halt to Jewish immigration and land purchases (Campos
2007).11 In response, the British sent an investigative commission chaired by
Lord Peel, which declared in 1937 that the mandate itself was responsible for
fueling Arab-Jewish antagonism. The Peel Commission recommended end-
ing the mandate and creating separate Jewish and Arab enclaves and a Brit-
ish corridor of control from the Mediterranean to Jerusalem, inclusive of the
Jerusalem/Bethlehem region (Lesch 2008: 110–11). While Zionists were di-
vided in their views of partition (Jabotinsky’s Revisionist movement rejected
it), they saw the plan as a springboard toward statehood and believed a small
state could be expanded in the future (Shlaim 2009b: 27). The Arab Higher
Committee, however, rejected the plan as unfair; they deemed it gave the Jew-
ish minority the majority of fertile land. Furthermore, the plan compelled all
Arabs living in the proposed Jewish state (33 percent of the territory) to move
to the proposed Arab state, which was to be united with Transjordan and not
under local Palestinian rule (PASSIA 2002; Lesch 2008).
Partly due to a rekindled Arab revolt, and partly due to Britain’s wider stra-
tegic concerns, the British set aside plans for partition and responded harshly
to the Arab revolt, often teaming up with Zionist militias. The harsh treat-
ment resulted in a Palestinian Arab leadership that was “imprisoned, exiled,
or driven out of politics and public service.” This, combined with deep divi-
sions between powerful families, meant Palestinian political life was largely
paralyzed between 1939 and 1946 (Morris 1999: 159).
Zionists led by David Ben-Gurion persisted in their quest for Jewish state-
hood and continued to support Jewish immigration and to develop Zionist in-
stitutions such as the Jewish Agency and the Jewish National Fund to further
those aims. Members of the Yishuv (the Jewish community in Palestine) also
sent tens of thousands to fight in the Allied armies, thereby gaining military
training and weaponry. Ironically, some of the British-trained brigades, like
the Palmach, were used in the Zionist struggle for independence against the
British (Morris 1999: 174). In 1946 an Anglo-American commission that had
been given the task of determining resettlement possibilities for the European
Jews displaced by the war, including possible absorption in Palestine, rejected
restrictions on Jewish immigration as well as partition and called for a single
binational state when independence was granted in the future. This plan, too,
was never implemented, since it was rejected by the Arab leadership and only
partially endorsed by the Zionists.
In 1947, the British, having unsuccessfully managed the conflict between
rival Zionist and Palestinian Arab nationalisms, and with increasing Jew-
ish violence and terrorist attacks,12 submitted the Palestine problem to the
United Nations, which subsequently formed a Special Committee on Palestine
(UNSCOP) that spent five weeks touring the region. This was the nineteenth
investigative body sent to Palestine since 1925 (PASSIA 2002: 24), and like
previous delegations, it found the Jewish areas clean and welcoming (thanks
to some strategic preparation by the Jewish Agency) as well as “European,
modern, dynamic,” in contrast to their experience of Arab communities as
“dirty,” “backward,” and “suspicious” (Morris 1999: 182). The resulting UN par-
tition plan granted the Zionists a state in 56.47 percent of Palestine and the
Palestinian Arabs a state in 42.88 percent, and created an international zone
of around 0.65 percent of the territory, surrounding Jerusalem and Bethlehem
(see map 2.1). The population in the proposed Jewish state was 905,000, over
half of whom were Palestinian Arabs (407,000 Palestinian Arabs plus 105,000
Bedouin who were overlooked by the commission in the original count), and
within the Palestinian Arab state only 10,000 Jews remained among 725,000
Arabs. This partition proposal was approved by the UN General Assembly
on November 29, 1947, as Resolution 181, to the rejoicing of the Zionists and
the rejection of the Arab delegations. Many Palestinian Arabs interpreted this
decision through the lens of Western guilt; they did not understand why they
should pay the price for Europe’s failure to prevent the Holocaust (or to allow
Jewish immigration to their own countries; Morris 1999: 186).
Map 2.1. United Nations Partition Plan (1947), created by United Nations General Assembly
Resolution 181, compared with the Rhodes Armistice Line (1949). This latter border is also
known as the “Green Line” or the pre-1967 border since Israel occupied the remainder of the
territory (West Bank and Gaza Strip) in the June 1967 war. Created by the Palestinian Aca-
demic Society for the Study of International Affairs (PASSIA). Available at http://www.passia.
org/palestine_facts/MAPS/1947-un-partition-plan-reso.html. By permission of PASSIA.
The War of Independence/the Nakba

Israeli and Palestinian historiography differs significantly when it comes to
the 1948 war, although with the advent of the “new historians” such as Avi
Shlaim, Benny Morris, and Ilan Pappé in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the
conventional Israeli narrative was questioned through the use of Israeli archi-
val sources (while also defended by some), indicating that Israeli-Palestinian
animosity was not ancient or existential but was instead rooted in specific
and contemporary grievances (Heller 2006; Shlaim 2007). In fact, the war in
1947 began as a civil war between Jews and Arabs in Palestine (with the Arabs
practically defeated by the Jewish forces by May 1948). It shifted to an inter-
state war after Israel declared its independence on May 15, 1948 (on the eve of
the official end to the British Mandate) and neighboring Arab states sent their
armies to support the defeated Palestinian irregular forces (Shlaim 2009b: 28–
29; Morris 1999). The invasion by Arab states, however, was largely due to their
own interests rather than out of concern for the Palestinians, who distrusted
the Arab League. Not only did the Arab states hope to distract their publics
from their own collusion with British and French neocolonialism, they were
concerned by plans made between the Zionist leadership and Transjordan’s
King Abdullah to divide Palestinian territories between them, which would
alter the regional power balance among Arab states (Lesch 2008: 135–36).
Although the 1948 war is often portrayed as a David-versus-Goliath story,
the Yishuv forces were better trained and organized than their Arab counter-
parts, were assisted by thousands of trained volunteers from around the world,
and by mid-July had about 65,000 troops to the Arabs’ 40,000 (Morris 1999:
217–18). The Israelis pursued a strategy aimed at securing the borders of the
Jewish state (as outlined in Resolution 181) while also gaining control over
the blocs of Jewish territory outside those borders. In contrast to the well-
armed, well-staffed Israeli Defense Force (IDF), the Arab states had no unity
of military command or agreed-upon political or military aims, they lacked
equipment and trained personnel, and they suffered from an international
arms embargo while the Israelis had their own weapons manufacturing plants
(Morris 1999). During the course of the war, hundreds of thousands of Pal-
estinian Arabs fled their homes, especially after what one Israeli commander
termed the “cruel” conquest of Deir Yassin, a village outside Jerusalem, in
which entire civilian families were gunned down in cold blood (208); later,
some of these homes were used to settle Jewish refugees of the Holocaust
while others were razed. The war ended with a series of armistice agreements
between February and July 1949, not a peace treaty; technically, the Arab states
remained at war with Israel, which they did not formally recognize.13 In the
end, Israeli forces controlled nearly 80 percent of what had been the Palestin-
ian Mandate, Transjordan controlled the remainder of eastern Palestine (the
West Bank), and Egypt controlled the Gaza Strip. These new boundaries, not
those demarcated by the United Nations in Resolution 181, became the de
facto borders of the new Jewish state (Lesch 2008).14 For Israelis, the war was
a tremendous victory for a small, new country against the large Arab armies;
for the Palestinians, it was al-Nakba, the Catastrophe, which resulted in mas-
sive dispossession and 700,000–750,000 Palestinian refugees—over half of
the Arab population of Palestine—who lost their homes, lands, bank accounts,
businesses, cemeteries, farm equipment, and personal property (Morris 1999:
252; Fischbach 2006). About 160,000 Palestinian Arabs remained in what be-
came the state of Israel and eventually became citizens of the state, although
they were also displaced from their homes and treated as absentee property
holders, and they lived under martial law until 1966 (Jones and Murphy 2002).
This drastic reduction in the Arab population of the state of Israel was seen
positively by the Zionist leadership, which since the 1937 Peel Commission
recommendations was on record as “in favor of the transfer of at least several
hundred thousand Palestinian Arabs—if not all of them—out of the areas of
the Jewish state-to-be” (Morris 1999: 253).
The 1949 armistice line was called the Green Line after the color of the ink
with which it was drawn, which was deemed less permanent looking than
the usual black (King 2007: 142). This division was perhaps most visible in
Jerusalem, which was physically divided into east (under Jordanian control)
and west (Israeli control) by walls and barbed wire, with only a few crossing
points. After the 1948–49 war, significant resources were invested in destroy-
ing and eliminating traces (physical, historical, and mental) of Palestinian
villages in what became the state of Israel and legalizing the confiscation of
Palestinian refugee property (Fischbach 2006). The land of some former Pal-
estinian villages was used to make Israeli parks, with historical markers that
focused on ancient Jewish history and avoided any mention of a Palestinian
presence.15 More than four hundred Palestinian villages and towns overrun
during the war were rendered uninhabitable, and plans were devised to move
Jews into the area as an additional measure to prevent the Palestinians’ return
(Benvenisti 2000; Kimmerling and Migdal 2003). At the same time, Israel
passed the Law of Return (1950), granting automatic citizenship to Jews from
anywhere in the world wishing to settle in Israel. The story of 1948 remains
controversial to this day; in 2009, an Israeli textbook was sent to the Ministry
of Education for reexamination due to its side-by-side presentation of the Pal-
estinian and Zionist perspectives on the refugee issue, and Foreign Minister
Avigdor Lieberman’s party proposed a bill that would ban commemoration of
the Nakba (Ilani 2009; Kashti 2009).
The 1967 War

After World War II, the Middle East, like much of the world, was affected
by cold war politics, with Israel falling into the U.S. sphere of influence and
several of the Arab states, such as Syria, falling into the Soviet sphere. This,
combined with inter-Arab rivalries and the lack of resolution to the issues of
1948, including the question of Palestinian refugees, contributed to several
additional Arab-Israeli wars. In terms of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (as op-
posed to the conflict between Arab states and Israel), the 1967 war, also called
the “June” or “Six Day” War, was the next major turning point. Egyptian presi-
dent Gamal Abdul Nasser had begun to reinforce Egyptian troops along the
border with Israel, and had declared his intention to reinstitute the blockade
of the Strait of Tiran (which contributed to the 1956 war). The fighting began
with a major Israeli preemptive strike against Egyptian airfields, which deci-
mated Egypt’s air force. This was followed by strikes against Jordanian, Syrian,
and Iraqi planes; Israel gained control of the West Bank, Gaza Strip, Egyptian
Sinai, and Syrian Golan Heights. UN Security Council Resolution 242, passed
in November 1967, referred to this war in calling for the “withdrawal of Israeli
armed forces from territories occupied in the recent conflict” and the “respect
for and acknowledgement of the sovereignty, territorial integrity and political
independence of every State in the area and their right to live in peace with
secure and recognized boundaries free from threats or acts of force.”16 The
resolution, yet to be implemented, is commonly seen as the basis for the two-
state solution, as well as for “normalization” of relations between the Arab
states and Israel.
The 1967 war was a turning point in Palestinian nationalism, as many had
been attracted to the pan-Arabism espoused by Nasser, who was so stunningly
defeated by Israel. The Palestinians viewed the war as a defeat of pan-Arabism
and began to pay increasing attention to Palestinian nationalist groups that
had formed secretly in the 1950s and had begun to emerge publicly in the mid-
1960s. One of the leading groups, Fateh, was started by Yasser Arafat, who
became the leader of the Palestinian nationalist movement (Khalidi 1997). By
1969 the various nationalist groups, led by Arafat’s Fateh movement, took con-
trol of the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), which had originally
been established by the Arab League as a token body to rein in the Palestinian
groups. Arafat was the chairman of the PLO from that point until his death in
2004. In 1974 the Arab League recognized the PLO as the sole legitimate rep-
resentative of the Palestinian people, and in 1975 it was granted observer status
at the United Nations. Until November 1988, when at its historic meeting in
Algiers the Palestinian National Council voted to recognize Israel, renounce
terrorism, and accept a two-state solution on the basis of UN resolutions 242
and 338, the PLO was committed to armed struggle for the full “liberation” of
Palestine from Israeli control and committed numerous attacks against Israeli
civilian targets (Shlaim 2009b: 232). Israel refused to recognize or talk to the
PLO, which it considered a terrorist organization, and treated Jordan as the
representative of the Palestinian people.
Within weeks of the 1967 war, several plans were devised for administrating
and ruling the newly occupied territories; the Allon Plan, named after Israel’s
then minister of labor, was most favored by the military. The plan, which was
vague and never officially endorsed, called for a broad swath of paramilitary
and civilian settlements in the Jordan Valley, with a broader strip running
westward to Hebron. An additional strip of settlement was designed from
the coastal plain to the Jordanian border, extending to Ramallah in the north
and to Bethlehem in the south. Later administrations viewed the Allon Plan
as too limiting, and they began to build Jewish settlements deep into the West
Bank (PASSIA 2002: 48; Zertal and Eldar 2007). In 1976, Israel declared its
intent to “populate the Galilee [with Jews]” in order to “protect national land”
(PASSIA 2002: 54). Israel Koenig, advisor to the Israeli Knesset, wrote in his
1976 memorandum that “we must use terror, assassination, intimidation, land
confiscation, and the cutting of all social services to rid the Galilee of its Arab
population” (cited in Massad 2006: 5). Contemporary efforts to resettle the
Gaza settlers in the Negev and the Galilee are reminiscent of the 1970s move-
ment to Judaize the Galilee. Despite policies that favor Jewish residents in the
Galilee over their Arab counterparts, however, Jewish Israelis continue to be a
minority in the region (Rabinowitz 1997; Yiftachel 1998; Torstrick 2000).17
One of the areas of most dramatic change post-1967 was Jerusalem. Un-
like the remainder of the West Bank and Gaza, East Jerusalem expanded dra-
matically beyond the Jordanian-controlled portion of the city to encompass
land from more than twenty surrounding Palestinian villages. This territory
was annexed to Israel, and each year Jerusalem Day is celebrated with large
parades and school field trips to eastern parts of the city otherwise unvisited
by most Israeli Jews.18 The Israeli government built ten new neighborhoods,
established new roads and infrastructure, and cleared the Moorish neighbor-
hood in the Old City to make way for a large plaza giving access to the Western
Wall of the Temple Mount, the holiest site for Judaism.
While the 1967 war meant military occupation for the one million Pales-
tinians living in the areas captured by Israel, for religious Jews it meant re-
demption of the core lands of Jewish religious history. Even for those who
were not religious, the West Bank is home to the “ancient Jewish kingdoms
of David and Solomon, an essential component of Jewish mythic conscious-
ness” (Kimmerling 2001: 46). Strategically, the acquired lands (particularly the
Golan Heights and the Sinai) were seen as vital to Israel’s security and also as
the basis for “land for peace” negotiations. Religious nationalist movements
epitomized by Gush Emunim (Bloc of the Faithful), however, moved to settle
the land and viewed any attempt to trade the land as a usurpation of God’s will
(Jones and Murphy 2002: 47).
In many ways West Bank settlers followed templates from Zionist settle-
ment in the Yishuv, including the “tower and stockade” settlements of the
1930s, which appeared overnight in the midst of Arab populations (Zertal
and Eldar 2007; Fields 2010). The settlement enterprise received financial
support from the government, and new enclaves were rapidly connected to
electrical and water grids; often the military was involved since new areas
were claimed to be critical to Israeli security. The state also expropriated all
of the state-owned land in the West Bank, more than 50 percent of the land
surface, and made it available for settlement (Morris 1999: 335). By 1972 there
were 10,608 Jewish Israelis living in lands occupied in 1967; by 1983 there were
106,595, with the vast majority (76,095) in East Jerusalem. By 1985 there were
more than 100,000 settlers in Jerusalem alone, and more than 44,000 in the
West Bank.19 Not all of the settlers were ideologically driven; many were mo-
tivated by economic incentives including free land or low mortgages. After the
election of the right-wing Likud Party in 1977, the pace of settlement activity
quickened, with more than one hundred settlements in the West Bank alone
by the mid-1990s (Morris 1999).
The Israeli government spent considerable effort trying to erase the Green
Line after 1967, although they enacted strict controls on the Palestinian popu-
lation living in the West Bank. According to Israeli defense minister Moshe
Dayan, such policies were designed “to increase Arab emigration from the
West Bank” and included efforts to frustrate Palestinian industrial develop-
ment (including dumping of Israeli goods) and severe curtailing of freedom

of expression and association (Morris 1999: 339). Ironically, Palestinians had
the ability to travel throughout Mandate Palestine for the first time since 1948
(although permits were required), and a number of Palestinians took advan-
tage of the opportunity to reconnect with family members on the other side of
the Green Line or to find out what had happened to family houses left behind
(Tolan 2006). The West Bank and Gaza Strip were integrated into the Israeli
economy, a source for raw materials and labor and a market for Israeli goods.20
This led to the marginalization of the Palestinian productive sector since Pal-
estinian businesses faced unequal taxation, strict regulations, competition with
a developed economy, and Israeli-controlled water and electricity (Dajani
1995: 13–15). In the first two decades after 1967, Israel sought to cultivate an
indigenous, conservative Palestinian leadership even as it deported leading
political figures associated with the Palestinian national movement. Palestin-
ians responded to military occupation by creating dual-purpose grassroots
organizations that functioned as quasi-state political institutions on one hand
and provided community services on the other (Rigby 1991: 5–7). A principal
form of Palestinian resistance in the 1970s was sumud (steadfastness), charac-
terized by an insistence on remaining on the land (Dajani 1995; King 2007).
The First Intifada

The next major turning point in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict occurred in
December 1987, when massive demonstrations followed the deaths of four
Palestinian workers killed in a truck collision at an army roadblock in the
Gaza Strip. Earlier in the year Palestinian prisoners had engaged in a three-
week hunger strike demanding improved jail conditions and recognition of
their status as political (as opposed to criminal) prisoners, which triggered
large demonstrations in both the West Bank and Gaza Strip (King 2007: 203).
Although the Israeli military occupation was a major driving force behind the
revolt, Palestinians were also frustrated with the PLO leadership in exile and
the Arab states (Rigby 1991). The consequent intifada, which literally translates
as a “shaking off ” of the occupation (although often translated as “uprising”
in English), was unarmed, using predominantly nonviolent tactics due in part
to the leadership of a group of Palestinian intellectuals who had spent years
laying the groundwork by conducting workshops and circulating booklets
about strategic nonviolent resistance (King 2007). The shift to nonviolent,
grassroots struggle originating in the occupied territories marked a signifi-
cant shift in Palestinian resistance. Not only had the PLO largely engaged in
armed struggle, but it intentionally targeted Israeli civilians, operated outside
Israel/Palestine (using other Arab states as a base of operations, including Jor-
dan, Lebanon, and Tunisia), was hierarchical in nature, and was dominated by
the Fateh faction of Yasser Arafat. The intifada also represented a shift from
the more static sumud to more active participation and mass mobilization
in grassroots committees that built on the voluntary associations (popular
committees for women, trade unions, students, farmers) created in the 1970s
(Dajani 1999; King 2007).
The Unified National Leadership of the Uprising (UNLU), which brought
together representatives from different Palestinian factions (although not the
Islamic Resistance Movement, known by its acronym Hamas), worked under-
ground to coordinate the intifada by issuing flyers, communicating with the
popular committees, and emphasizing the use of nonviolent actions (Abu-
Nimer 2003: 134). The UNLU took on the character of an “embryonic state”
and sought to unify a Palestinian society divided by class, family, clan, region,
and urban-rural separation. Although the UNLU eventually broke down over
factional rivalries, it did seek to create an alternative infrastructure for provid-
ing services previously administered by Israel. Through the UNLU and the
popular committees, the Palestinians challenged the Israeli strategy of repress-
ing organizations (like the PLO) that unified Palestinians, using divide-and-
rule tactics, and promoting a compliant leadership (deemed collaborators by
Palestinians) (Rigby 1991: 18–19).
The intifada brought a new kind of international attention to the Palestinian
cause, as pictures of unarmed Palestinian boys facing Israeli tanks made their
way into the media. Although Palestinians used overwhelmingly nonviolent
tactics—strikes, sit-ins, demonstrations, noncooperation with authorities, tax
resistance, creation of Victory Gardens—the Israeli military was instructed to
follow a “break their bones” policy and did not differentiate between armed
and unarmed struggle. In a four-year period (according to an Israeli military
spokesperson), 706 Palestinian civilians were killed, in contrast with 12 Israeli
soldiers. These statistics differed substantially from the 650 Israelis (three-
fourths civilians, as opposed to soldiers) killed by PLO factions between 1969
and 1985 (Dajani 1995, 1999; King 2007). While the intifada succeeded, at least
for a short time, in altering the international image of Palestinians as terror-
ists, the nonviolent campaign did not receive significant international support,
and it failed to convert large numbers of Israeli sympathizers. Although some
Israelis practiced nonviolent noncooperation by partnering with Palestinian
activists despite a legal ban on Israeli contact with the PLO,21 this was not
widespread, in part due to continued misrepresentation of the Palestinian
nonviolent movement and its (limited) aims of self-determination, which was
exacerbated by Palestinian use of violence (stones, Molotov cocktails, killing
of collaborators) in the intifada (Kaufman 1992; Abu-Nimer 2003).22
It is important to note that although the first intifada is often characterized
as nonviolent, some have described it as unarmed (Rigby 1991) or character-
ized by limited violence (Kaufman 1992). This distinction is important be-
cause of Israeli fear, the legacy of the PLO armed struggle, and the challenge
of building a nonviolent movement (as opposed to using nonviolent tactics).
Although for some Palestinians stone throwing was not considered violence
(and was even seen by some as a symbol of restraint from lethal force in the
face of a much stronger opponent), from the Israeli perspective stones could
kill (Kaufman 1992: 100; Abu-Nimer 2003: 141). Some have attributed the in-
tifada’s failure at achieving Palestinian aims of independence to the lack of an
exclusively nonviolent struggle (Rigby 1991). The limited return to violence
advocated by Islamic Jihad and Hamas in 1990 in response to massive Israeli
repression, and the high price Palestinians paid for resistance (including Is-
rael’s closing of all Palestinian educational institutions), also undercut the
nonviolent movement (Abu-Nimer 2003). Factional in-fighting contributed
to violence among youth and ultimately harmed Palestinian society and its
ability to pursue common goals (Dajani 1995).
The intifada has been deemed both a success and a failure; it refocused at-
tention on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, raised the issue of the occupation
in Israeli politics, and portrayed Israel as the aggressor with vastly superior
force at its disposal, but it failed to bring about a Palestinian state (Abu-Nimer
2003: 135). The intifada put pressure on the PLO and Israeli leaders and led to
the 1991 Madrid peace conference and the eventual Oslo Accords, where the
home-grown nonviolent movement was co-opted by the outside PLO leader-
ship, who never fully understood nonviolent strategy and were out of touch
with the situation on the ground in the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Indeed,
the intifada was a major factor in Arafat’s decision to declare independence in
November 1988, and it led to a strategic shift in Palestinian goals from a single
binational state in all of historic Palestine to recognition of Israel as a fact
of life and an acceptance of the two-state solution (Rigby 1991). The intifada
mobilized a minority of the Israeli left wing, and new groups like Women in
Black, which has held a vigil against the occupation every Friday since January
1988, and B'Tselem, which documents human rights violations in the occupied
territories, were formed (ibid.). Although elements of the Israeli peace move-
ment, like Shalom Achshav (Peace Now), grew during the years of the intifada,
the Israeli peace movement as a whole remained small, and was criticized for
failing to genuinely understand the Palestinian perspective, although it did
have some impact on public attitudes and policy considerations such as ter-
ritorial compromise (Hermann 2002; King 2007: 292). For many Palestinians,
it seemed that “the majority of Israelis participated in the peace convoys and
solidarity visits for reasons which had more to do with their own personal and
political needs rather than with supporting the Intifada” (Rigby 1991: 190).
The intifada allowed new Palestinian institutions to form and was a source
of pride to Palestinians, who felt empowered by their nonviolent activism,
even though they were not always able to see the impact of their resistance
on the Israeli occupation (Abu-Nimer 2003: 136). The intifada succeeded in
transforming the relationship between Israelis and Palestinians, highlighting
the occupation and reinscribing (to a limited extent) the Green Line, but it
failed to end the occupation itself, in part due to the high price Israel was will-
ing to pay to hold on to the occupied territories. Furthermore, Israel’s desire
for the land of Palestine without the Arab (Palestinian) population means that
it was willing to live with noncooperation, intensify the cost of Palestinian
resistance, and hope that more Palestinians would leave (Rigby 1991: 195–96).
The Oslo Process

The Oslo Accords were signed in 1993 by Israeli prime minister Yitzhak Rabin
and PLO chairman Yasser Arafat. The accords were the result of secret back-
channel negotiations mediated by Norway; they preempted the official nego-
tiations that were simultaneously being conducted under the auspices of the
U.S. State Department (Mikhail-Ashrawi 1995). Although the accords were
widely heralded, they were also widely misrepresented as a peace agreement;
instead, the Oslo Accords consisted of an exchange of letters of mutual recog-
nition and a Declaration of Principles (DoP) that established a “transitional
period not exceeding five years, leading to a permanent settlement based on
Security Council resolutions 242 and 338” (1993). Thus, the Oslo agreement
was not an agreement on peace but rather an agreement to begin a process of
negotiation in pursuit of “a just, lasting and comprehensive peace settlement
and historic reconciliation through the agreed political process” (1993).
In many ways the Oslo Accords were both a new Israeli strategy for con-
taining the Palestinian national movement and a PLO effort to regain its au-
thority (control) over the movement. The subsequent creation of a Palestinian

National Authority (PNA) with numerous police and security apparatuses,
as well as the construction of hundreds of miles of Israeli-only bypass roads
on land confiscated from Palestinians to connect settlements with Tel Aviv
and Jerusalem, created new avenues for managing Palestinian resistance. For
many of those who had been active in the intifada, this was not an experiment
in self-rule but rather another form of occupation. Furthermore, the Oslo Ac-
cords shifted issues covered by international law—Jerusalem, refugees, settle-
ments—to items up for negotiation in the framework of future permanent-
status negotiations (Allain 2004: 264).
The Oslo process brought about a new phase of territorial delimitation, al-
though little of what was agreed to in the 1993 Declaration of Principles on In-
terim Self-Government Arrangements was ever implemented. The first stage,
the Gaza-Jericho (Oslo I) Agreement (1994) resulted in a partial withdrawal
(technically a redeployment) of Israeli forces from these two highly underde-
veloped and resource-poor areas. Israel retained power over water, land use,
zoning, and development in addition to settlements, roads, and broad security
strips (PASSIA 2002: 74). A second interim agreement (Oslo II), signed in
1995, divided the West Bank into areas A, B, and C. Area A, which included
six major cities and 2 percent of the West Bank territory, was under Palestin-
ian civil and internal security control; Area B, which included 420 villages and
26 percent of the West Bank, had Palestinian civil control and Israeli security
control; and Area C, the remaining 72 percent of the West Bank, remained
under Israeli control (see map 2.2). Palestinians referred to the resulting map
as the “Swiss Cheese Map,” stating ironically that they got the holes. Indeed,
the map shows small islands of Palestinian-controlled territory, strategically
separated from each other by Area C, which enables Israeli officials to close
off entire Palestinian cities and villages. Although neither side was supposed
to do anything to jeopardize permanent status negotiations, during 1995 alone
Israel built four hundred kilometers of new bypass roads and increased set-
tlement activity in order to consolidate its presence prior to any agreement
(Israeli-Palestinian Interim Agreement Map No. 1, 1995). During the Oslo de-
cade, the settler population doubled, adding 230,000 new settlers (Tilley 2005:
85; Meital 2006).
The next Oslo-era division occurred in 1997, when the Hebron Protocol
divided the city of Hebron into the H1 (Palestinian) and H2 (Israeli) zones.
Although the Palestinian-controlled H1 comprises 80 percent of the city, the
area controlled by Israel includes the extremely significant Ibrahimi Mosque/
Map 2.2. Oslo II agreement (1995). Outlines areas A, B, and C, which
signify areas of phased redeployment of Israeli forces from the West Bank
and Gaza Strip. Map created by the Palestinian Academic Society for the
Study of International Affairs (PASSIA). Available at http://www.passia.
org/palestine_facts/MAPS/Oslo-2.html. By permission of PASSIA.
Cave of Machpelah/Tomb of the Patriarchs, the Old City of Hebron, the Pal-
estinian central market, and twenty thousand Palestinians. Subsequent agree-
ments resulting from intense U.S. pressure on then prime minister Netanyahu,
including Wye River (1998) and Sharm al-Sheikh (1999), resulted in minimal
changes to the percentages of territory designated A, B, and C, leaving 17.2
percent of the West Bank and 60 percent of the Gaza Strip under Palestinian
control and the remaining territory under continued Israeli control (PASSIA
2002; Shlaim 2009b: 203–204). Israel remained in control of West Bank aqui-
fers, using 93 percent of their annual recharge, with a per capita water usage
more than three times that of the Palestinians (Tilley 2005: 63).
For all intents and purposes, the Oslo process ended with the Camp
David summit between Israeli prime minister Ehud Barak and Palestinian
president Yasser Arafat in July 2000. Barak sought to end the interim pe-
riod and the Oslo redeployment process by presenting a final offer to the
Palestinians (and the Israeli public) prior to elections. Whereas Barak’s offer
regarding Jerusalem went farther than those of any previous Israeli leader
(who all refused to discuss any of the final status issues—refugees, borders,
settlements, but particularly Jerusalem), this offer gave Palestinians only
clusters of authority in a greatly expanded Greater Jerusalem. Furthermore,
Israel was to annex large settlement blocks and retain control of water re-
sources, bypass roads, airspace, and borders, and Palestine was divided into
three major canton blocks. The final straw for most Palestinians, however,
was the lack of discussion of the Palestinian refugee issue. The talks ended
in disaster. U.S. president Bill Clinton joined with Israel in blaming Ara-
fat for rejecting what became known as “Barak’s generous offer,” and many
Israelis and Palestinians began to talk about the peace process being over.
The mainstream Israeli peace movement collapsed, accepting that there was
“no partner for peace,” and the Palestinian NGO network called for a dis-
continuation of joint activities with Israelis (Beinin 2000; Agha and Malley
2001; Slater 2001).
The Second Intifada

The second (al-Aqsa) intifada began after Ariel Sharon, then Israeli minister
of defense, known for his role in the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacres and his
solidly right-wing credentials, visited the Temple Mount/Haram ash-Sharif
complex with an estimated one thousand armed Israeli police and security
agents on September 28, 2000. This controversial visit was provocative on
many levels, including the contested nature of the complex, which is seen as
holy to both Jews and Muslims, the role of visits to the Temple Mount by Jew-
ish groups in the past (extremist Jewish groups like the Temple Mount Faithful
want to rebuild the temple where the mosques now stand), and Sharon’s per-
sonal history with the Palestinians (Barr and Gaouette 2000; Allain 2004: 267;
Meital 2006; Bennis 2007).23 The first weeks of the second intifada consisted
of “an unarmed popular revolt,” and it was only after heavily armed Israeli
soldiers killed several dozen young demonstrators that Palestinian soldiers
joined the confrontation. Palestinian suicide bombings inside Israel did not
begin until three months later (Warschawski 2004b: 12–14).
Despite the return to armed conflict, however, Palestinian and Israeli nego-
tiators met in Taba in January 2001 to move forward from where they had left
off at Camp David. There, Clinton presented his “parameters,” which included
proposed processes (not specific formulations) including land swap, resettling
Palestinian refugees, and solutions for Jerusalem.24 Although the early weeks
of the second intifada witnessed a series of largely nonviolent Palestinian ac-
tions, demonstrators were met with heavy violence by the Israelis, including
new military orders for Israeli soldiers to shoot to kill rather than only if fired
on or in self-defense (Warschawski 2004b: 14). In contrast to the first intifada,
in which Palestinians maintained a largely nonviolent program of action, the
second intifada became known for its militant actions and suicide attacks,
although these tactics only began in earnest after several hundreds of Pal-
estinians had already been killed (King 2007). The second intifada was also
marked by increasing intra-Palestinian rivalries and the lack of a coordinated
leadership body as was the case with the UNLU in the first intifada. According
to B'Tselem, a leading Israeli human rights organization, between the end of
September 2000 and December 26, 2008, more than 4,902 Palestinians and
580 Israelis had been killed (other sources give higher numbers, and this does
not count injuries).25 Many of these casualties came in the early years of the
intifada; by March 2002, more than one thousand Palestinians, including two
hundred children, had been killed (Bennis 2007: 121).
The international community did little to stop the increased violence, and
in the wake of the September 11, 2001, World Trade Center attacks, U.S. presi-
dent George W. Bush stood with Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon in stating
that a return to the political process was contingent on the stopping of ter-
ror (Meital 2006: 144). In March 2002 Saudi crown prince Abdullah issued a
peace plan that would have included the recognition of Israel by Arab states
in exchange for a withdrawal to the 1967 borders. The proposal was over-
shadowed by a suicide bombing that killed thirty people celebrating Passover
in Netanya, which provided the impetus for Israel’s reinvasion of the major
Palestinian cities in the West Bank (Ramallah, Bethlehem, Nablus) as part of
Operation Defensive Shield. Consequently, this “first of a kind Arab proposal
and peace initiative” was buried and removed from public discourse (Meital
2006: 152–53). In 2003 the Quartet (United States, European Union, United
Nations, and Russia) issued the Performance-Based Road Map, which offered
a phased approach toward a Palestinian state with “provisional borders” and
recycled many of the ideas and plans presented previously. The plan was met
with a series of reservations outlined by Prime Minister Sharon and, like pre-
vious plans, was not implemented or enforced.
The bulk of the research for this book was conducted in 2004–2005 when
Ariel Sharon was prime minister of Israel and Yasser Arafat (until his No-
vember 2004 death) was president of the Palestinian Authority and chairman
of the PLO. The chapters that follow explore the specific dynamics of seven
Israeli and Palestinian groups working for peace in times of ongoing conflict
(although the extreme violence of the early years of the intifada had abated),
who sought coexistence and cooperation in an age of disengagement and
walling-off. Consequently, the book explores the interaction between Israeli
and Palestinian activists and contemporary political events. Historical events
related to the Israeli-Palestinian peace process between 2004–2005 and 2008,
when follow-up interviews were collected, are discussed in chapter 6.
3
Interrogating “Peace” and “Nonviolence”
in the Israeli-Palestinian Context
After my first several visits to Israel/Palestine to meet with Israelis and Pales-
tinians working to end the conflict, I quickly realized the very different frame-
works through which Israelis and Palestinians understood the situation. As
speakers would talk about peace and how to achieve it, I realized that all too
often international relations scholars assume that “peace” is a neutral con-
cept. While peace scholars talk about “positive peace” (which includes the
presence of equitable social, cultural, and economic systems) in addition to
“negative peace” (the mere absence of war; Galtung 1969, 1996), even these
terms are open to multiple interpretations and applications. The boundary
between war and peace remains unclear and contested, particularly when is-
sues of security and justice are interwoven with issues of peace and national
identity. Terms such as “peace enforcement,” “peacekeeping,” “peacebuilding,”
and “peacemaking” are used by the United Nations and other state actors,
some of which have a military dimension (Doyle 2001). However, these terms
are often conflated or used interchangeably, overlooking critical distinctions
in terms of goals (macrolevel political and economic change versus psychoso-
cial transformation versus minimal coexistence), approach (foreign military
versus local civilian actors), time frame (short-term ceasefire enforcement or
long-term social transformation), and view of “peace” (Weiner 1998). Such
distinctions are not mere semantics, as the assumptions one has regarding
what peace is affects how one works to achieve it.
Defining Peacebuilding and Nonviolent Resistance

Preparing for peace is an ongoing process, not a quick fix, especially in regions
of intractable conflict where identities are often used to foster and reinforce
division. One of the major findings of this book is that what distinguishes
between groups engaged in peacebuilding processes is not necessarily their
Interrogating “Peace” and “Nonviolence” in the Israeli-Palestinian Context · 49
external identities or visible characteristics (for example, whether groups are

joint or uninational, NGOs or voluntary protest groups), but rather the pro-
cesses through which they engage in their work and the extent to which their
actions for peace line up with their visions for peace. This observation is con-
sistent with research on strategic nonviolent action, which claims that “the
behavior of participants defines nonviolent action, not their convictions or
adherence to a creed” (G. Sharp 2005; King 2007: viii). This also supports the
findings of Paffenholz and Spurk (2006), who extensively review the litera-
ture on civil society and peacebuilding and argue that functional (as opposed
to actor-oriented) approaches to peacebuilding are more useful in analyzing
civil society impact (see also Paffenholz 2010). A focus on actions and deeds
is also more consistent with a social science perspective, as beliefs and visions
cannot be empirically observed. While values, beliefs, and morals are critical
in the framing and sustaining of unarmed resistance and peacebuilding work,
simply holding a set of values and beliefs does not necessarily result in an
individual taking risks in the pursuit of peace.
Terminology around “peace” is confusing at best. In his 1992 “Agenda for
Peace” speech, UN secretary-general Boutros Boutros-Ghali defined the terms
“preventive diplomacy,” “peacemaking,” “peace-keeping” and “post-conflict
peace-building” vis-à-vis a linear progression of stages of armed conflict. Ac-
cording to Boutros-Ghali,
Preventive diplomacy seeks to resolve disputes before violence breaks out;
peacemaking and peace-keeping are required to halt conflicts and pre-
serve peace once it is attained. If successful, they strengthen the opportu-
nity for post-conflict peace-building, which can prevent the recurrence of
violence among nations and peoples. (Boutros-Ghali 1992: par. 21)
As befits the United Nations, comprised of states, the report applies these
terms primarily in the context of interstate conflict and an understanding of
peace as the absence of armed conflict; it thus reflects what some scholars
call the “conflict management” paradigm of peacebuilding (Paffenholz and
Spurk 2006). The United Nations’ concept of peacebuilding has evolved since
Boutros-Ghali’s 1992 speech, with greater attention placed on the intercon-
nectedness between issues of human rights, development, and security and
increased focus on the role of nonstate actors, including civil society organi-
zations and the private sector, in addressing these issues (Annan 2005). How-
ever, the UN Peacebuilding Commission (PBC), established by UN resolu-
tions 60/180 and 1645 in December 2005, continues to define peacebuilding
at the intergovernmental level and in postconflict terms, even though coor-
dination efforts are supposed to include a broader array of actors, including

international financial institutions (IFIs), donor agencies, nongovernmental
organizations (NGOs), and civil society actors from the areas of conflict (IPA
2006).1
The more linear, state-centric model of peacebuilding is often equated
with the postsettlement context; this is consonant with a narrow definition
of peacebuilding associated with the concept of negative peace (Doyle and
Sambanis 2000). In contrast, a broader definition of peacebuilding empha-
sizes positive peace and the transformation of societies that have experienced
armed conflict into those able to manage conflict constructively (Paffenholz
and Spurk 2006). This approach tends to focus more on addressing the root
causes of conflict and engaging with multiple levels of society. Furthermore,
the wider definition of peacebuilding assumes conflict is a cyclical, not lin-
ear, process; it therefore incorporates interventions at all stages of the conflict
cycle (conflict prevention, conflict management, postconflict). This broader
definition of peacebuilding is often equated with conflict transformation, a
process that seeks to prevent violent conflict, promote sustainable peace, and
restructure relationships (Lederach 1997: 71).
A recent book by the Alliance for Peacebuilding acknowledges the diversity
of the peacebuilding field in terms of timing, scope, and conceptualization of
goals (Zelizer and Rubinstein 2009). One of the definitions included by the
editors broadens the definition of peacebuilding to include aspects that have
traditionally been considered the domain of nonviolent resistance or peace
activism. Citing Lisa Schirch, the editors assert that “peacebuilding seeks
to prevent, reduce, transform, and help people recover from violence in all
forms, even structural violence that has not yet led to massive civil unrest”
(Zelizer and Rubinstein 2009: 3). Several aspects of this definition differ from
the earlier definitions of peacebuilding. First, the focus is on violence rather
than on conflict, based on the assumption that conflict itself can be productive
and useful in promoting social change and that it is violence (not conflict) that
is harmful and should be addressed. The focus on structural violence as well as
overt violence also expands the domain of peacebuilding to include nonvio-
lent activism, which often seeks to make latent conflict overt (for example, by
exposing “white privilege”).2 Schirch’s definition includes civil society efforts
seeking to address root causes of conflict even in the absence of national-level
peace processes, as well as those groups and individuals working to garner
support for political agreements or build a culture of peace through educa-
tional or institution-building activities (Barnes 2005: 19–21).
Peacebuilding efforts often focus on strengthening civil society associa-

tions and laying the groundwork for liberal democratic institutions for a
variety of reasons. Some see civil society as a middle-range actor with con-
nections to the grassroots and to the government and therefore in a unique
position for leveraging social change (Lederach 1997). Others see civil so-
ciety as critical in the establishment of a liberal democratic order, a desired
goal since liberal democracies are less likely to go to war with each other
(thus promoting interstate peace) and are more likely to resolve domestic
conflicts via the ballot box and other nonviolent means (thus promoting
societal peace). However, external peacebuilding efforts coordinated by the
United Nations and donor organizations often fail to adequately engage the
views of the local population, for reasons including donor control over the
agenda and process and a tendency for external actors to consult with only
elite or Westernized representatives. Democratization efforts are often con-
strained by donor conceptions of democracy and civil society, as well as by
donor timetables; often target countries lack structural components such
as free media, adequate infrastructure for accessing information and poll-
ing stations, and institutions to distribute power and encourage deliberative
processes (Barnett 2006). Because some of the external-driven processes of
top-down peacebuilding efforts did not adequately address the needs and
concerns of the local population, and sometimes even increased structural
violence, some grassroots and civil society actors grew disillusioned with the
concept of peacebuilding and emphasized instead the need for popular re-
sistance and civil disobedience aimed at changing structures of oppression.
Relationship between Peacebuilding and Nonviolent Resistance

Although Schirch’s broad definition of peacebuilding refers to the transfor-
mation of structures of violence, conventionally peacebuilding approaches
have tended toward resolution, using techniques of dialogue, problem solv-
ing, and relationship building as means toward healing divides within so-
ciety and preventing violence. In contrast, nonviolent resistance, while also
seeking social justice and transformation, has tended toward revolution,
seeking to confront oppression, discrimination, and authoritarianism (Du-
douet 2008: 2). Nonviolent resistance as a strategy and set of tactics emerges
out of the field of peace studies (rather than the relatively more recent field
of conflict resolution) and uses contextual analysis to study structural as well
as overt violence, seeking to promote justice and equality along with peace.
As it is used in situations of asymmetric power, nonviolent activists may ini-
tially increase conflict in an effort to have structural violence acknowledged

and addressed (Abu-Nimer 2003: 16–18; Dudouet 2008: 4). In contrast, con-
flict resolution is often associated with more short-term change, seeks to
reduce the level of conflict, and is best suited for situations in which parties
have relatively symmetrical power (Dudouet 2008). Schirch’s definition of
peacebuilding incorporates aspects of both paradigms in its inclusion of
efforts to resolve as well as to transform or confront situations of structural
violence. Likewise, in his study Nonviolence and Peace Building in Islam,
Mohammed Abu-Nimer notes that he does not distinguish between the
terms “conflict resolution, peace building and other nonviolent approaches.”
While he acknowledges the debates between the fields of conflict resolution
and peace studies, he asserts that all of these approaches “share the assump-
tion that to resolve a conflict, parties must be committed to nonviolent ap-
proaches and methods” (2003: 18).
When I use the term “peacebuilding” in this book, I use the broader defini-
tion that includes sociopolitical transformation rather than the narrow defi-
nition that looks at postagreement efforts to reduce violence. I often use the
term “peacebuilding” to incorporate the diversity of approaches found in the
seven groups studied, all of which use nonviolent tactics even though not all of
them might be classified as nonviolent resistance groups (that is, they may not
directly challenge the broader sociopolitical institutions contributing to struc-
tural violence and power asymmetries). When speaking of individual groups
and their specific tactics and strategies, I focus on the particular mechanisms
used in their efforts at social transformation.
From Nonviolence to Nonviolent Resistance and Popular Struggle

A key element of peacebuilding in the civil society context is the use of ex-
clusively nonviolent methods for socioeconomic and political change. Gene
Sharp categorizes 198 nonviolent methods ranging from symbolic protest to
noncooperation to disruptive interventions aimed at altering the established
order. What these methods have in common is a rejection of violent tactics in
their pursuit of freedom, justice, and/or national survival in acute conflicts (G.
Sharp 2005). However, simply using nonviolent methods does not necessarily
equate with peacebuilding, nor does it necessarily entail nonviolent activism;
the latter “implies deliberate restraint from expected violence, in a context of
contention between two or more adversaries” (Dudouet 2008: 4). Further-
more, diplomacy and dialogue (nonviolent methods) can occur during war-
time but do not necessarily equate with peacebuilding if they are conducted
in the power-politics framework (Abu-Nimer 2003: 18). Nonviolent activists

usually emphasize that they are engaged in nonviolent struggle or nonviolent
action to emphasize their active struggle to rearrange power relationships, of-
ten at great risk to the activist, who could be physically assaulted, imprisoned,
injured, and even killed (15). Nonviolence does not equate with pacifism, pas-
sive submission, or weakness (Stephan and Chenoweth 2008). Instead, non-
violent resisters have strategically opted for nonviolent methods for a wide
array of reasons, not necessarily involving ethical objections to violence (G.
Sharp 2005). The goal of nonviolent struggle is often “ending tyranny and
bringing peace with justice to the people” and requires strategically analyzing
the conflict situation and the strengths and weaknesses of the parties involved,
and critically assessing the best techniques for undermining the government’s
pillars of support (Helvey 2004: xi). In the case of Arabic-speaking societies,
the term used for nonviolence, la unf, is particularly problematic as it has a
negative connotation associated with acceptance, exactly the opposite goal of
nonviolent activists (Rigby 1991: 174). Consequently, most Palestinians have
embraced terms like “civil disobedience,” “civil struggle,” or “popular resis-
tance” to describe their tactics (Abu-Nimer 2003: 138; Kaufman-Lacusta 2010).
While the pragmatic school of nonviolent resistance emphasizes the strate-
gic choice of nonviolent methods, whether because it is the most effective, least
costly means for defeating an opponent or because an armed struggle would
be certain to fail due to the asymmetry of military might, others emphasize
the principled nature of nonviolent resistance (Dudouet 2008: 7). Those in the
principled school define their nonviolent action in moral or spiritual terms,
often emphasizing the equality of humanity and a rejection of all forms of
violence in an effort to reconcile ends and means.3 Power plays a key role
in the theory and practice of nonviolent activism. According to Sharp, “It is
ultimately [the people’s] attitudes, behavior, cooperation, and obedience that
supply the sources of power to all rulers” (2005: 36). Helvey furthers Sharp’s
analysis of power through examining the “pillars of support” that “permit and
sustain the day-to-day operations of government,” which can include police,
military, civil servants, media, the business community, youth, workers, reli-
gious organizations, and NGOs and by drawing on the pluralistic theory of
power, which holds that political power—even in tyrannical regimes—is not
fixed in granite but rather resides among the people “with the power holder
able to exercise only that power that the people permit” (2004: 3, 8). Whether
a people’s “consent” stems from indifference, cultural patterns of obedience,
or fear of sanctions, when they collectively withdraw that consent, they un-
dermine the regime’s power. Noncooperation and disobedience, the heart of

nonviolent resistance, intentionally seek to activate this type of power, and do-
ing so requires determination, discipline, and a willingness to endure probable
sanctions resulting from defiance of the regime.
Terminology related to peacebuilding and nonviolence is particular chal-
lenging in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, due to significantly
different orientations to “peace” on the part of Israeli and Palestinian societies.
Simply studying civil society groups that call themselves peace groups is mis-
leading, as different definitions for peace and conflict resolution organizations
are used by Israeli and Palestinian researchers (Hassassian 2002; Hermann
2002). Thus, it is important to look at peace work rather than peace words
because for many—Israelis and Palestinians alike—”peace” has been discred-
ited by the lack of follow-through on official peace talks and agreements. For
example, I was interviewing a Palestinian citizen of Israel who has actively
worked with Israeli and Palestinian social movements from different back-
grounds to bridge divides, discuss core conflict issues, and engage in dialogue,
activities that I associated with the literature on peacebuilding. When I asked
her about her vision of peace, however, she responded:
Peace? I don’t believe in peace. This is not what I want, peace. I want
first of all tahrir qawmeh (national liberation). If later I want peace, okay,
but who said that peace is an issue and tahrir qawmeh is another [sepa-
rate] issue. And now I want tahrir qawmeh. I want my life, I want to be
respected in my land, and then later, if I want peace, okay. But this is a
different issue. And the Israelis know very well how to kill you [while]
saying we want peace, peace, peace. (Lubna 2008)
This quotation alludes to the debate between “peace” and “justice” often found
in the theory and practice of peace and conflict resolution. To date, most ap-
proaches to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict have focused on the narrow, nega-
tive definition of peace as the absence of overt conflict and have not addressed
the national grievances of the Palestinian people, notably their desire for a
sovereign state and a resolution of the Palestinian refugee question. Thus, for
Lubna, peace has meant a denial of her national identity and desire for equal-
ity, and she challenges that artificial separation between peace and justice
(for her, defined as tahrir qawmeh), while also highlighting the importance
of collective (and individual) identities in peacemaking. This gap between
conceptions of peace within Israeli and Palestinian societies and diplomatic
efforts toward peace must be bridged if a sustainable peace agreement is to be
reached. The remainder of this chapter explores how peace is seen in Israeli
and Palestinian societies, particularly between the onset of the Oslo peace
process and 2005, as the bulk of the research for this book was conducted be-
tween September 2004 and May 2005. It also examines obstacles facing peace
activists in both societies. Chapter 6 examines changes in approaches to peace
occurring between 2005 and follow-up research conducted in 2008.
Contending Views of Peace in Israel/Palestine

Just as the official Israeli and Palestinian narratives of history differ, so do
their narratives of peace. Israelis and Palestinians have experienced the con-
flict very differently (to such an extent that one might see several different
conflicts playing out), and their view of the Oslo peace process (and other po-
litical initiatives) is interpreted through those lenses. In order to reach a mutu-
ally acceptable peace agreement, it is important to consider both Israeli and
Palestinian experiences of the conflict and their visions of peace, since peace
does not mean the same thing to all people and must address the varying
sources of conflict (political, economic, social, and so on) in order to be du-
rable. Within Israeli and Palestinian societies, many equate peace (negatively)
with surrender or submission, and members of both societies feel justified in
their righteous victimhood as well as in their (unique) claim to land, identity,
and cultural heritage.
The inadequacy and ambiguity of the term “peace” can be seen immedi-
ately by the fact that Palestinians tend to speak of “peace with justice” and
Israelis usually speak of “peace with security.” The word “peace” alone is insuf-
ficient for expressing their vision. Politicians and scholars involved in various
levels of talks between Israelis and Palestinians have noted the different ap-
proaches the two societies have toward understanding the conflict and their
correspondingly different conceptions of how to solve it (Kelman 1982; Aly et
al. 1996; Cohen 1997; Halper 1999). In fact, just by noticing the terminology
used by Israelis and Palestinians when talking about a solution to the conflict,
one can observe fundamental differences in assumptions, values, and concep-
tualizations related to what the conflict is and consequently how peace could
be achieved. Many Israelis, for instance, call for a secure peace, emphasizing
a desire for recognition from their Arab neighbors and an end to the threat
of war and terror, while Palestinians call for a just peace, emphasizing their
desire for freedom, a sovereign, independent state free of military occupation,
and treatment as equals. This terminological debate reflects not only different
orientations toward the conflict and peace, but it also reflects different orien-
tations to social, political, and cultural structures due to the power differen-
tial between the two societies. Israelis, who have the best equipped and most
highly trained military in the Middle East, an internationally recognized state,
and billions of dollars in annual aid from the United States, focus on direct
violence (“terror”), while Palestinians, who have no military, no state, and very
limited (in comparison to Israel) and conditional foreign aid, focus on struc-
tural violence (the Israeli occupation) and articulate their need for freedom,
altered political and economic relationships, and adherence to international
law and human rights principles.
Palestinian Perspective on Peace

In addition to differing definitions of the conflict, Palestinians and Israelis
tend to vary in their perspectives regarding the Oslo Accords, which were
seen as a victory by the Israeli peace movement but more negatively by Pal-
estinian groups that were partners in the national struggle (Hassassian 2002;
Abu-Nimer and Kaufman 2004). This meant that post-Oslo joint Israeli-Pal-
estinian organizations “were ineffective at identifying and achieving one com-
mon, specific goal” (Hassassian 2002: 148). Many Palestinian activists who
had been willing and eager to work with Israeli partners abandoned work
supporting the peace process due to their perspective that Oslo legitimized the
Israeli occupation and the corruption of the Palestinian Authority. This senti-
ment—along with pressure from the Palestinian Authority—led the General
Assembly of the Palestinian NGO (PNGO) network to withdraw from joint
activities with Israeli NGOs in October 2000 after the outbreak of the second
intifada (IPCRI 2002). Because of many Palestinians’ equation of the Oslo
peace process with a worsening social, economic, and political situation, the
word “peace” has been sullied in the Palestinian context. Many Palestinians
felt they were
cheated by the word “peace,” which hasn’t meant justice for Palestin-
ians . . . [W]hile the whole world was talking about peace [during Oslo],
the Palestinian economy was going downhill, checkpoints were being
instigated, homes demolished, settlements built. So Palestinians believe
that they were misled by this peace process, and that the Israeli peace
groups were in it for how it would benefit them, without achieving justice
and freedom and an end to occupation. (Arraf and Shapiro 2003: 70)
This experience has led to an avoidance of the use of “peace” as a term to de-
scribe Palestinian organizations and activities that might be given such a label
in other circumstances. To further compound this distrust of peace initiatives,

the already “dirty” word was further discredited when U.S. president George
W. Bush called Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon, known among Palestin-
ians (and the Israeli peace movement) for his role in the 1982 Sabra and Shatila
massacres, a “man of peace.”
Rather than talk about peace, Palestinians speak of their history of nonvio-
lent resistance against Israeli occupation and their rejection of arms in their
quest for freedom. This resistance comes in a variety of forms, including try-
ing to build a sustainable economy and society in the face of military occupa-
tion as well as seeking to maintain dignity despite the humiliation at Israeli
checkpoints (Saleh 2003). Palestinians involved in conflict transformation
(peacebuilding) efforts often eschew others’ use of violent means but explain
those choices in terms of desperation, last resort, and the legal right to self-de-
fense against military occupation (Abunimah 2003). Palestinians speak about
their desire for peace, but they emphasize that “peace can only come after the
occupation ends” (Ateek 1989; Said 2003: 55; Zaru 2003). They emphasize that
Palestinian life under Israeli occupation is a daily struggle and even in times
of quiet, some communities, like Nablus, experience almost nightly raids by
the Israeli military.4 Palestinians working for peace tend to be involved in
organizations that are providing social or other services in the absence of a
state, or else building the social, political, and economic infrastructure for
peace through teaching skills related to democracy, advocating on behalf of
human rights, providing mobile health clinics, or reaching out to marginal-
ized communities (Gordon and Gordon 1991; Hajjar 2001; Hassassian 2002).
Rather than merely being the end of overt violence, “peace” means the rec-
ognition of and respect for Palestinian rights, most importantly the rights of
self-determination and freedom. Palestinian peacebuilders work toward the
achievement of these rights through nonviolent resistance that “challeng[es]
the oppressive ‘facts on the ground’—such as checkpoints, roadblocks, mili-
tary bases, curfews and settlements” despite the fact that they risk harsh pun-
ishment from the Israeli military, including death and imprisonment (Andoni
et al. 2003: 66). Palestinians affirm their desire for peace but clarify that their
immediate focus is on justice and freedom, and “the dynamics used to achieve
freedom are different from the dynamics used to achieve peace” (Arraf and
Shapiro 2003: 72). In particular, the dynamics of freedom are more confronta-
tional and revolutionary than the tactics of dialogue and negotiation favored
by some in the international peacebuilding community.
Consequently, researchers involved in a comparative study of peace and
conflict-resolution organizations found that the definition they used for such
organizations in Israel, South Africa, and Northern Ireland was not appro-
priate for Palestinian organizations. Furthermore, they could not find joint
Israeli-Palestinian groups operating in the context of the al-Aqsa intifada
(Gidron, Katz, and Hasenfeld 2002). As a result of these issues, the research-
ers defined “peace and conflict resolution organization” within the Palestin-
ian context as a group that “had as its agenda a nonviolent resolution of the
conflict . . . [and] sought understanding both within Israel and abroad of the
social, political, historical, and cultural context of the Palestinian people, of-
ten involving consciousness-raising activity, human rights advocacy, dialogue,
and the provision of services intended to familiarize others to the Palestinian
concern for justice” (Hassassian 2002: 134; Abu-Nimer and Kaufman 2004). It
is noteworthy that the word “peace” does not appear anywhere in the defini-
tion. Similarly, in 2005 a new peace studies center being built at Hebron Uni-
versity was seeking an alternative name. Although the curricular materials,
drawn from peace studies programs in the United States, were not necessarily
controversial, the word “peace” was.
Israeli Approach to Peace

The situation is different in Israel, where the highly diverse peace movement
is comprised of groups calling for different approaches to coexistence and
peace. One scholar of the Israeli peace movement describes the movement
as largely reactive rather than proactive, suggesting an orientation to nega-
tive as opposed to positive approaches to peace. Furthermore, he argues that
“the peace movement emerged partly in defense of universal values [such as
liberty, equality, and justice] which appeared to be threatened by highly par-
ticular trends in Israeli society” that stressed “Jewish nationalism, religiosity
and devotion to Eretz Yisrael” (Hall-Cathala 1990: xiv, 2). This context helps
explain why even though the term “peace” is not generally viewed as problem-
atic within Israel, “human rights” can be seen as threatening, even “dirty” ac-
cording to some of the activists I interviewed. Several Israeli activists told me
that anyone referring to human rights tends to be viewed as pro-Palestinian
and anti-Israeli, a response that indicates the tension between particular and
universal values named above. Partially due to this fact, Israeli human rights
groups like B'Tselem and Rabbis for Human Rights have emphasized that they
are not peace groups advocating a particular political solution to the conflict,
even though human rights advocacy work was seen as explicitly peace work in
the Palestinian context. This tension can be seen clearly within the aims and
objectives of the Israeli peace movement itself. Most in the movement con-
sider themselves Zionists who believe in the importance of Israel as a Jewish

state (a particular focus), yet they also believe that occupying the land of mil-
lions of Palestinians is not simply contrary to universal humanistic principles
but is also inimical to the security of Israel due to the fact it begets resistance
that leads to a cycle of violence (Hall-Cathala 1990). This universal-particular
tension results in the focus of the mainstream Israeli peace movement on
separation, or exchanging land (and consequently non-Jewish populations)
for peace rather than working for a binational democratic solution based on
equality of citizenship. Israeli doves have tended not to question the Jewish
right to all of Eretz Yisrael but rather have argued that “in the interest of sav-
ing lives and preserving peace, the occupied territories should not be retained”
(Hall-Cathala 1990: 30). Here, peace is connected to conceptions of security
and has a more negative orientation, evident in the status quo–oriented goal of
preserving peace rather than building it. Another tension in the Israeli peace
movement reflecting the universal-particular tension is the desire to be both a
democratic and also a Jewish state. This can be seen repeatedly throughout the
history of the Israeli peace movement, including the “Officers’ Letter” of 1978
written to Prime Minister Begin by 350 reserve officers stating their desire to
move back to the 1967 borders because of concern that Israel’s policy of con-
trol over the Arab populations in the West Bank and Gaza “may damage the
democratic, Jewish character of the State” (Hall-Cathala 1990: 40).
As the Officers’ Letter indicates, the Israeli peace movement has long been
connected to the military. Indeed, for Peace Now (Shalom Achshav), the “IDF
constituted one of the few unifying institutions that symbolized both the state
and the society of Israel” (Rigby 1991: 171). A second soldier-based group, Yesh
Gvul (There is a Limit/Border), emphasized their commitment to the defense
of Israel but also stated their reluctance to perform military duty beyond the
state boundaries (in the case of the Lebanon War) and refused to follow orders
that they deemed illegal due to their violation of the human rights of others
(Rigby 1991). Because of the centrality of military service to Israeli identity, it
was socially significant when Yesh Gvul activists refused to serve in the occu-
pied territories (although they would complete military service within Israel’s
pre-1967 borders). The mainstream peace movement, however, as exempli-
fied by Peace Now, has tended to feel that “military service is over and above
any political debate.” While they may advocate the officers’ right to protest
through letters, they do not necessarily support follow-up action through se-
lective refusal (that is, refusing to serve in the occupied territories) by groups
such as Yesh Gvul, although after the Lebanon War and during the first inti-
fada, selective refusal was increasingly supported (Hall-Cathala 1990: 47). The
rising number of young Israelis refusing military service on either side of the
Green Line (either for political reasons or those of conscience) is a relatively
new phenomenon and is significant because of the centrality of military ser-
vice in conceptions of Israeli national identity as well as the high price these
activists pay in terms of social ostracism and prison terms.5
The historic connection between the military and the Israeli peace move-
ment underscores the centrality of security to the Israeli conception of peace.
A second grouping within the peace movement consists of civil and human
rights groups who focus on a more positive approach to peace and appeal
to Jewish values of justice as the basis for peace (Hall-Cathala 1990; Landau
2003). There have always been some Israeli peace activists who have em-
braced a broader definition of peace, notably the solidarity movements like
the Committee Confronting the Iron Fist and the Birzeit Solidarity Com-
mittee that consisted of Israeli and Palestinian activists working together to
protest the Israeli occupation “as an exercise to further dialogue and mutual
understanding” despite some political differences (Rigby 1991: 172). Other
groups formed during the first intifada, such as Physicians Against the Oc-
cupation, Women in Black, and B'Tselem, focused on issues related to the
Israeli occupation and raising awareness within Israeli society about human
rights violations committed by Israel as a factor feeding into the conflict.
While many of these groups sought to distance themselves from any politi-
cal program, they did participate in broad demonstrations and other activi-
ties calling for peace (Rigby 1991). Several existing groups expanded their
activities during the first intifada. For example, Peace Now began its Settle-
ment Watch program in 1990 to help inform Israeli society about the “heavy
price—economic, security and social—which Israel has had to pay in order
to realize the misleading vision of a ‘Whole Israel’” (Peace Now 2005).
It is important to note that not all of the Israeli peace movement focuses on
the macro-level conflict with Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza Strip or
the problems stemming from the occupation. Instead, a large number of the
organizations included in the Israeli peace movement are focused on encoun-
ter and dialogue projects within Israel’s pre-1967 borders and have been exten-
sively studied in the literature (Abu-Nimer 1999; Torstrick 2000; Feuerverger
2001). Many of these groups tend to focus on micro-level problems of fear,
hatred, stereotypes, and cultural differences and believe they can overcome
such problems through positive contact between the Palestinian Arab and
Jewish citizens of Israel, although some also look at structural obstacles to
coexistence. Although this is changing, many of these groups have not seen
a link between their work and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict; consequently,
they are not the focus of this particular book.
Social, Political, and Geographic Obstacles to Peace

Rival historical narratives and competing views of the conflict and peace create
a challenging backdrop for Israeli and Palestinian peace activism. However,
these narratives are just one part of the complex sociopolitical landscape in
which peace and justice groups operate. Not only are Israelis and Palestinians
influenced by different social views of the conflict, but they are also governed
by different sets of laws, confined to different geographic spaces, and catego-
rized according to a host of identity markers that aim to separate and divide
not only Israelis from Palestinians but also Israelis from Israelis and Palestin-
ians from Palestinians. It is worth noting up front that Israeli and Palestin-
ian societies are incredibly diverse and each is home to numerous competing
views of the conflict and approaches to peace. In fact, the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict has often served to bind Israelis together into a national “us” opposed
to the Palestinian “enemy,” overshadowing significant domestic divides along
religious-secular and ethnic lines (Pioppi, Tocci, and Karam 2006). It has
meant that those outside of the national consensus are treated harshly, some-
times even viewed as traitors. Palestinians likewise have competing views and
are similarly bound together in national solidarity in the face of massive Israeli
onslaughts such as the 2002 redeployment into major West Bank cities in-
cluding Ramallah, Bethlehem, and Nablus. Those deemed to be collaborators
with Israel are treated harshly, even executed, and antinormalization discourse
prevails during times of intensified conflict. Despite the existence of what may
seem—from the outside—to be monolithic, official, national discourses, de-
bate is alive and well within many sectors of Israeli and Palestinian societies,
and there are many in each society who disagree with government policies on
a whole range of issues. Although, for the sake of convenience, I often refer
to “Israeli” or “Palestinian” views in the course of this text, it is important to
remember that these categories are neither monolithic nor homogeneous.
Physical Obstacles to Cooperation

Perhaps the most obvious obstacle to Israeli and Palestinian peace activism
consists of the many physical barriers to joint projects and cooperative ven-
tures. These physical obstacles are connected to legal mechanisms governing
different territorial spaces within Israel/Palestine as one’s official identification

card determines where one can and cannot go and the manner in which one’s
rights are determined. Israeli citizens—whether Jewish or Arab/Palestinian—
have a full host of political rights under Israeli civil law, although in practice
these are applied differently to Jews and Arabs. This was documented by the
Orr Commission, charged with investigating police conduct related to the
killing of thirteen Palestinian Israeli citizens in October 2003 (Dromi 2003).
Palestinians living in the West Bank lack citizenship (and consequently the
protection such citizenship provides) and fall under a complex mix of Pales-
tinian, Ottoman, and Jordanian laws, emergency orders dating to the British
Mandate, and Israeli military law. Which laws have precedence depends on
whether one lives in Area A, B, or C, as areas A and B have varying degrees
of Palestinian administration, whereas Area C is under full Israeli control
and is governed by Israeli military courts (see Tilley 2005; Yehuda 2005; and
Weizman 2007: 121). Jewish settlers living in the West Bank, in contrast, carry
Israeli citizenship and are under the jurisdiction of Israeli civil courts. The
applicability of different sets of laws directly impacts joint struggle; Palestin-
ian activists face military courts, the possibility of administrative detention,
and village-wide consequences (such as road closures and curfews) for their
participation in demonstrations, whereas their Israeli counterparts are more
likely to spend a few hours at a detention center or in jail before being re-
leased (Bronner 2004; Mor 2005). Stakes are also higher for the Palestinians,
as they are often struggling for their land and livelihood in addition to uphold-
ing a sense of justice, morality, or ideology. The differing legal standards also
come to the fore when Jewish settlers are involved in confrontations, as Israeli
troops have a responsibility to protect Israeli citizens, even when they are the
ones with weapons.6
During the course of the second intifada, numerous checkpoints were es-
tablished throughout the West Bank as “temporary security measures,” accord-
ing to Israeli authorities. By 2004–2005, there were forty-seven permanent
checkpoints within the West Bank in addition to thirty-three “last inspection”
points between Israel and the West Bank and hundreds of “flying” checkpoints
(OCHA 2004; B'Tselem 2007a,b).7 These checkpoints have significant ramifi-
cations for joint activism as they impede movement of Palestinians within the
West Bank and can prevent Israelis from entering. In addition to these staffed
checkpoints, there are numerous earth mounds, cement blocks, and other
barriers that obstruct roads and otherwise impede transportation between
areas. Passage through these checkpoints is contingent on one’s identity card
and possession of the proper permits. Those with Israeli citizenship or per-
manent residency status (as in the case of East Jerusalemites) have a blue ID
card. During the second intifada, Israel passed a law prohibiting Israelis from
entering Palestinian areas. Thus, any Israeli (regardless of whether they are
Jewish or Arab) attempting to cross an Israeli checkpoint could be arrested for
up to three years. Palestinians living in the West Bank have a green or orange
ID, depending on whether it was issued by the Palestinian Authority or the
Civil Administration (established by the military to administer Palestinians
in the occupied territories). Palestinian ID cards are tied to where the holder
was living when the census was taken. Palestinians are forbidden by Israel
to change their official residency regardless of work or family circumstances,
and permits to travel to other areas within the West Bank are often required.
It is extremely difficult, if not impossible, for the vast majority of Palestinians
to obtain permits to enter Jerusalem or Israel (Goldenberg n.d.). East Jerusa-
lemites, who do not have Israeli citizenship (they are considered permanent
residents), have generally been free to travel throughout the West Bank and
Israel, although in 2004–2005 that situation had started to change.
The military checkpoints are only one part of the physical system of sepa-
ration within the West Bank. The separation barrier (also called the annexa-
tion wall or the security fence), which consists of roads, fences, walls, sand
traps, ditches, and electronic surveillance, and the Israeli bypass roads are
other components of this infrastructure that Israeli activist Jeff Halper calls
the “matrix of control” (2004). The separation barrier, which is more than
seven hundred kilometers long, creates a physical boundary that is crossable
only at a limited number of gates by those carrying a difficult-to-obtain permit
(OCHA 2004; B'Tselem 2007a,b; OCHA 2007). The boundary separates what
is deemed Israel (including many settlements) from what is deemed Palestine,
even though Palestinian-owned land (and Palestinian residents) are located
on both sides of the boundary (Mueller 2004; Godfrey-Goldstein 2005; Lein
and Cohen-Lifshitz 2005). Palestinians must obtain a permit to farm their
lands on the Israeli side of the barrier, which can be denied for unspecified
reasons. Under absentee-landowner laws dating to Ottoman times, the ab-
sence of Palestinian farmers on the land creates “empty” space for implement-
ing preexisting settlement expansion plans (Godfrey-Goldstein 2005; Lein
and Cohen-Lifshitz 2005). Consequently, the route of the separation barrier
reinscribes and reinforces geographical boundaries of identity. A system of
restricted roads in the West Bank also maintains separation between Israeli
settlers and West Bank Palestinians. These roads facilitate movement of set-
tlers between their homes and their workplaces in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem
without having to encounter Palestinians (B'Tselem 2004; PASSIA 2004; Tilley
2005). The road system, like the separation barrier, supports the maintenance
of separate boundaries of identity. For Palestinians, restricted roads dissect the
West Bank and prevent them from accessing neighboring villages or some-
times even their own land (it is illegal for Palestinians to cross some roads),
whereas they connect settlers with Israelis living within the 1948 boundaries.
This system impacts Israeli and Palestinian peace activism as it makes
transportation to demonstrations or actions difficult to coordinate. Palestin-
ians cannot travel on bypass roads unless they are in an Israeli vehicle; even
then, Israeli vehicles (designated as such by their yellow license plates) can
be selectively stopped at checkpoints. When this occurs, all passengers must
show their IDs, and sometimes Palestinian riders are asked to step out of the
vehicle for further inspection or because they lack the proper permit while the
vehicle is waved on. Because of the many roadblocks and checkpoints on the
Palestinian roads, it can sometimes (ironically) be easier for Israeli activists to
access Palestinian towns throughout the West Bank (via settler roads) than it
is for Palestinians from other towns. Yet the buses or vans of Israeli activists
are often stopped at the entrance points to the West Bank and can be denied
entry even when appropriate clearances were obtained in advance.
Sociocultural Obstacles to Peace Activism

Decades of conflict have left most Israelis and Palestinians with personal sto-
ries of suffering and loss at the hands of the Other. The general lack of contact
between Israelis and Palestinians (except at the checkpoint, where in 2004–
2005 soldiers and Palestinians came face to face in the exchange of IDs) has
aggravated stereotypes and misinformation about the other side. Many Pales-
tinian academic institutions and NGOs initiated a campaign to boycott Israel
in the wake of the second intifada, thereby reinvigorating the antinormaliza-
tion discourse that calls for cutting off social and professional relationships
between Israelis and Palestinians until the occupation is ended. Those against
normalization argue that Israelis and Palestinians cannot have a normal, equal
relationship when one is occupier and one is occupied and thus social activi-
ties or other partnerships that do not explicitly recognize and seek to change
this relationship legitimize or conceal the dynamics of the occupation. Other
contributing factors include the fact that a number of Israeli academics and
professionals see their Palestinian counterparts as less competent and less pro-
fessional, and more prone to discussing politics than the latest research tech-
niques. Israelis can generally escape the daily realities of the conflict, whereas
Palestinians are confronted daily with travel restrictions, curfews, and nightly
raids by the Israeli military, thereby causing different degrees of urgency and
emotional engagement when Israelis and Palestinians come together.
Additional obstacles stem from differences in language and culture, given
that Palestinians speak Arabic and Israelis speak Hebrew. While there are
some Palestinians who speak Hebrew and/or English (most Palestinians who
spent time in prison learned Hebrew during their time in jail, as did many
who worked in Israel when work permits were still available), very few Israelis
speak Arabic. Although Arabic is an official language of Israel (spoken by the
Palestinian citizens comprising approximately 20 percent of Israel’s popula-
tion), it is rarely used in an official capacity, and it is a language inspiring
fear on the part of many Israelis (Amara and Saban 2002). The Israeli school
system separates Arabs and Jews, and further separates the religious Jews from
the secular ones. Palestinian citizens have lost their jobs for speaking Arabic
in their places of work, as was the case in the 2004 firing of a McDonald’s em-
ployee (Cook 2004). Even in the “peace camp,” when Israelis and Palestinians
come together for dialogue groups or other cooperative ventures, Palestinians
are often forced to speak in Hebrew, putting them at a disadvantage when it
comes to communicating their thoughts and emotions (Feuerverger 2001).
In addition to language differences, numerous other sociocultural divides
separate Israelis and Palestinians, such as different customs around food. Is-
raelis who keep kosher, for example, cannot eat some of the traditional foods
Palestinians are likely to prepare, which affronts both parties for different
reasons. Different days of rest (Friday versus Saturday) create logistical dif-
ficulties for Israelis and Palestinians trying to coordinate a joint action, as do
sometimes differing orientations to time. Palestinians often find themselves
unable to plan in advance or control their time, given delays at checkpoints,
difficulties obtaining permits to travel, and so on, which can be misunder-
stood by those Israelis whose experience with checkpoints is limited to those
at the entrance to supermarkets and shopping malls. The militarization of
Israeli society and the presence of the soldier image throughout Israeli school
curricula, commercial ads, literature, and history and the portrayal of national
culture at official ceremonies normalizes war and military service within Is-
raeli society. It also poses an obstacle to cooperation with Palestinians, who
have a very different experience with the Israeli military (Hiller and Sandler
2007). The plastering of “martyr” posters on Palestinian streets is similarly an
affront to many Israelis, who interpret this as evidence of widespread Palestin-
ian support for suicide bombers. Regardless of the reason, many Israelis—like
the two girls who warned the tourists in Jerusalem—are terrified of Palestin-
ians and are certain that if they entered Palestinian territory they would be
immediately lynched. I heard this fear stated repeatedly from Israelis, even
moderate ones, who pointed to the lynching of Israelis (by some reports un-
dercover agents, and by others “lost” Israeli reservists) captured in Ramallah
in 2000 as supportive evidence.8
Conclusion
Numerous regulations, policies, and practices contribute to the division be-
tween Israelis and Palestinians and create barriers to peace activism. On a very
mundane level, this separation can be seen in the existence of separate (non-
overlapping) bus systems for West and East Jerusalem. The extensive Israeli
bus network does not extend throughout East Jerusalem, despite Jerusalem’s
status as a unified city. The only bus stops in East Jerusalem are at the Hebrew
University–Mount Scopus campus, which, although closed, remained an is-
land of Israeli presence throughout the Jordanian years of 1949–1967, and set-
tlements such as French Hill (built soon after 1967 to link Mount Scopus with
the rest of western Jerusalem), Ma'ale Adumim, and Neve Yaacov. A separate
Arab bus company provides transportation throughout the Palestinian sec-
tors of the city and to the remainder of the West Bank. One must walk across
the historical no-man’s-land in order to switch between the transportation
networks. Similarly, Israeli taxis will not venture into East Jerusalem except
for key seam line areas, such as the American Colony Hotel.
The institution of separate schools, separate road systems, and separate
bus networks creates distinct “geographies of affection”; in other words, the
process of “draw[ing] distinctions between those people that are close to us
and those that are further away . . . we make ‘insides’ and ‘outsides’ by draw-
ing lines between those places where we are ‘at home’ and those places where
we are ‘foreigners’” (Ringmar 1996: 78). For example, the settlement project
created islands of Jewish Israelis “at home” in a sea of Palestinian “foreigners.”
Furthermore, a road system connecting these islands of “Israel” with major
Israeli cities such as Tel Aviv, Netanya, and Jerusalem erased the Green Line
as a border demarcating “inside” and “outside” of Israel. So, although the Pal-
estinian villages (and, to an even greater extent, the Palestinians inhabiting
those villages) were seen as outside of Israel in terms of demography, social
services, and citizenship rights, those living in the settlements were consid-
ered full citizens of Israel with all the rights and privileges (plus additional
economic ones) of those living inside the internationally recognized borders
of Israel. Similarly, Palestinian citizens of Israel have refused to call newer
Israeli towns, such as Natzerat Illit, by their official names, dismissing them
with generic references to “housing estates.” This practice “dislodg[es] [them]
from local specificity . . . [and is] a manifestation of [Palestinian] resentment
against what they see as an unlawful invasion of their territory” (Rabinowitz
1997: 5).
The trend toward separation and unilateralism is also evident in the move
away from bilateral negotiations between Israel and the Palestinian Authority.
The construction of Israel’s separation barrier is one instance of addressing the
conflict—from Israel’s perspective—by taking unilateral measures to enhance
Israel’s security. Yet even as the barrier is built, it fuels Palestinian anger and
thereby perpetuates the conflict and provides a new symbol for Palestinian
dispossession and loss. The Gaza Disengagement Plan announced by Prime
Minister Ariel Sharon in 2004 is another example of unilateral measures taken
due to Israel’s determination that “there is currently no reliable Palestinian
partner with which it can make progress in a bilateral peace process.” The
process of disengagement was designed to “dispel claims regarding Israel’s re-
sponsibility for the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip” even as Israel continued to
“guard and monitor the external land perimeter of the Gaza Strip . . . maintain
exclusive authority in Gaza air space, and . . . exercise security activity in the
sea coast of the Gaza Strip.” Israel also reserved its right to act in “both preven-
tive and reactive” modes of “self defense” (Knesset 2004). The move was justi-
fied by the widely accepted “no partner” narrative prevalent after the failed
Camp David II negotiations, and the ongoing vilification of Yasser Arafat and
the Palestinian Authority by U.S. and Israeli officials.
Although widely seen as a move toward peace by the international com-
munity, given that it involved removing eight thousand Jewish settlers from
Palestinian territory, to many Palestinians the disengagement was simply oc-
cupation by other means given the ongoing Israeli control of Gazan borders
and the continued separation between Gaza and the West Bank (Hassassian
2006; Li 2008). Furthermore, while the international community was look-
ing toward the Gaza Strip, construction of the separation barrier and Jewish
settlements continued in the West Bank. Many Israeli activists felt paralyzed;
although they favored bilateral engagement to unilateral disengagement, they
were also in favor of dismantling settlements and were concerned that the
antidisengagement movement launched by settlers and their supporters might
derail the process. This created yet another obstacle facing Israeli and Pales-
tinian activism, as each community misunderstood the challenges facing its
potential partners in their respective sociopolitical environments.
Despite this challenging environment and the many obstacles facing joint
ventures, some Israelis and Palestinians did engage in ongoing peace and jus-
tice activism during the second intifada. In the course of their activism they
challenged numerous social, political, and geographic boundaries as well as
prevalent views of peace in Israeli and Palestinian societies. Chapter 4 intro-
duces seven of these groups and begins to study their efforts to reduce violence
and build the prerequisites for peace.
4
Peacebuilding as Process
Groups Studied and Their Approaches to Change
Although Israelis and Palestinians have significantly different understandings

of peace (as distinct from the content of peace agreements), political scientists
often discuss the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and efforts to resolve it, as if this
difference did not exist. To further muddy the waters, conventional interna-
tional relations (IR) theories are based on sovereign states, but neither Israel
nor the Palestinian Territories fit the definition of a sovereign state, which
requires a geographically defined territory with a stable population, a govern-
ment, diplomatic recognition, and supreme, independent control over that
territory and its boundaries (Mingst 2008: 99–100). The Palestinian Author-
ity lacks full control over any territory, as the Israeli military routinely enter
even the quasi–capital city of Ramallah, neither entity has defined borders,
and there are questions regarding the constituent population of each entity.1
Furthermore, IR scholars, particularly those of the realist school, have tended
to focus on state-led social change and the hard (military) power of state ac-
tors, overlooking nonmilitary definitions of security as well as the power and
impact of nonstate actors. For political realists, the defining characteristic of
international politics is the pursuit of state interests, namely, the pursuit of
power and security, with power defined as “how one state uses its material
resources to compel another state to do something it does not want to do”
(Morgenthau 1973; Barnett and Duvall 2005: 40). However, although military
power is an important consideration in international politics, the overwhelm-
ing military might of the Israeli army has been unable to “defeat” Palestinian
resistance (armed or unarmed). In fact, Richard Falk, an international legal
scholar and UN special rapporteur for Palestine, has argued that in the wake
of the 2008–2009 Israeli invasion of the Gaza Strip, Israel is losing the “legiti-
macy war,” a claim that points to the power of international law in shaping
state behavior and international interaction at the global level (2009).2 As this
example illustrates, power can operate not only through material capabilities
but also through international and domestic institutions, social processes and
structures that determine rules and agendas, the diffusion of cultural norms,
and the productive capacity to produce “subjectivity in systems of meaning
and signification” (Barnett and Duvall 2005: 43; Nye 2001). Within the con-
flict resolution literature, power is also manifested through valued relation-
ships, production and exchange, control of information, the ability to define
boundaries (of the problem or of constituent identities), and love (Aall 2001;
Boulding 1990).
Nonviolent peacebuilding activities cannot be considered in isolation from
the broader domestic and international power-political contexts as these con-
texts shape the opportunities available to activists, and often activists rely on
governmental or external assistance to reach their ultimate goals (Roberts
2009). This is particularly the case in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, where
Israel and the United States have what many politicians call a special relation-
ship, and where the Palestinian National Authority only has what powers it is
designated by the Israeli government. The context of the international political
system, notably the role of the United Nations, with its power limited in part
due to the veto power of permanent members of the Security Council, as well
as the strategic position of the Middle East in power politics during the cold
war and the contemporary “war on terrorism,” helps shape the strategies used
by the groups studied and the extent of their success. However, while IR schol-
arship offers useful concepts for considering how process-based lessons from
the groups studied in this book might be transferred to official peacemaking
efforts at the international level, the intrastate and intercommunal focus of the
peacebuilding and nonviolent resistance literature is more useful in studying
the dynamics and impact of these groups. Realist IR theory tends to give insuf-
ficient attention to the domestic level of politics and therefore does not suf-
ficiently engage with the diversity of state interests or the range of “soft” power
sources (institutional, relational, symbolic) that various actors possess. While
the liberal school of IR gives more attention to domestic structures and insti-
tutions, its emphasis on Western-style democracy and the free market often
causes it to neglect other important dimensions in the constructive (and cre-
ative) resolution of intractable, asymmetrical, identity-based conflicts, such as
the inclusion of traditional civil society actors in decision-making processes
or different cultural approaches to dealing with conflict (Ottaway 2008; Abu-
Nimer 1997).
Peacebuilding as Process: Groups Studied and Their Approaches to Change · 71
In situations with great asymmetries of power, nonviolent struggle is of-

ten one of the only available options for the weaker party (Roberts 2009).
Indeed, the power of nonviolent resistance is neither hard nor soft but rather
stems from its effort to deprive those with instruments of coercive power of
the very sources of that power by withdrawing the cooperation of the ruled
(Ash 2009: 375). In terms of their conception of power and their approach
to structural change (as opposed to preserving the status quo), peacebuild-
ing and nonviolent-resistance strategies fall along a continuum. Nonviolent
struggle as described by Gene Sharp, for example, seeks to rearrange power
relationships within society; nonviolent struggle seeks to empower those tra-
ditionally deemed powerless by focusing on their removal of consent to be
ruled. For Sharp, nonviolent struggle is a strategic endeavor; activists should
assess the strengths and weakness of the target regime, identify one of four
mechanisms for changing the power relationship between the ruler and the
ruled (conversion, accommodation, coercion, and disintegration), and then
purposefully apply selected nonviolent methods from Sharp’s three catego-
ries—protest and persuasion, noncooperation, and nonviolent intervention
(G. Sharp 2005; Helvey 2004; Lakey 1963). Just as the techniques of nonviolent
struggle differ in both degree and pace of change (from symbolic/gradual to
direct challenge/immediate), peacebuilding approaches also vary, from more
conservative efforts to preserve a peace agreement (which may reinforce status
quo inequalities) to more transformative efforts to rebuild society and remove
the causes of armed violence. Zelizer and Rubinstein (2009: 5–6) identify five
key areas of peacebuilding practice: relationship building, violence reduction/
prevention, capacity building, disentangling conflict topics, and institution
building/process creation. Many of the peacebuilding activities identified as
relationship building and capacity building, for example, overlap with meth-
ods of protest and persuasion, and strategically disentangling conflict topics
might be part of a broader effort to undermine a regime’s pillars of support.
Peacebuilding Processes: Mechanisms of Change

In my analysis of the seven groups studied, I draw upon the models discussed
above to create three ideal-typical processes (mechanisms) to analyze group
peacebuilding approaches: institution building (process or relationship con-
struction), awareness raising (disentangling topics), and constructive confron-
tation (fighting structural violence, usually through nonviolent direct action).
Creating ideal types allows for a better comparison and contrast across differ-
ent groups as it results in comparisons between each group and an artificial

construct rather than direct comparison between groups with different sets of
characteristics (Weber 1949). By focusing on processes rather than group attri-
butes, I am better able to examine how the groups operated. The mechanisms
explored here differ from Gene Sharp’s mechanisms of change, which analyze
the impact of nonviolent activism on the target society.3 Instead, I explore the
peacebuilding processes used by the groups in the course of their activism,
seeking to “expand knowledge and improve strategy” for nonviolent activists
and scholars alike, since, as Mary King notes, “the dynamics of what takes
place inside nonviolent mobilizations is poorly understood” (2007: 337).4
After briefly outlining the three mechanisms, I introduce the seven groups
of study. The remainder of the chapter engages in more extensive analysis of
how these processes played out in the course of group activities.
Institution Building
The process of institution building has its roots in the IR school of liberal
internationalism, which suggests that building formalized structures through
which states can solve problems is a better approach to peace than relying on
an anarchic system governed by military might and power politics serving
the interests of the few (Mitrany 1966; Deutsch 1957). This body of literature
assumes that if appropriate institutions are in place, humans can solve their
differences without resorting to violent conflict or war. Because of the joint
nature of such institutions, members of different groups gain confidence in the
process and the institutional rules and thus begin to trust the other and work
together (Kritz 2001; Zimmern 1936). Furthermore, international bodies can
help regulate power, by giving voice to those lost in the midst of Great Power
competition and by enforcing agreed-upon standards (Zimmern 1936: 2).
When this theoretical approach is adapted to examine microlevel processes,
institution building seeks to create an established space in which people can
engage in the adaptive resolution of social problems. In recent years, peace-
building scholar-practitioners have emphasized the importance of institution
building not only at the state level but also within civil society, arguing that
even informal social institutions such as cooperative associations or sewing
circles allow for the trust building and sense of shared purpose that are criti-
cal for durable peace.5 Institutions (when deemed legitimate and/or authori-
tative) can develop processes for solving differences and making decisions;
help regulate, perpetuate, and systematize activities; and take initiatives that
individual activists cannot do on their own (Hall-Cathala 1990: 139). In addi-
tion, institutions promoting dialogue, interaction, and cooperation can create

opportunities for relational changes that make “efforts to deal with the conflict
possible . . . by creating an environment in which productive conversations
can take place” (Zelizer and Rubinstein 2009: 5). The building of positive rela-
tionships requires sustained personal interaction between groups or individu-
als of equal status, with opportunities for building trust through partnerships
in reaching a shared vision or goal; this involves more than is often present in
one-time encounter programs (Rupesinghe 1996; Saunders 1999; Maoz 2000:
722).
Relationship-building institutions create the mechanisms for change by
reconfiguring patterns of social ties and providing opportunities to reenvi-
sion the conflict beyond exclusive us-them categories. They can also provide
processes for integrating diversity in decision making and setting the stage for
a new sociopolitical fabric.
Awareness Raising
The awareness-raising approach, common in human rights activism, appeals
to people’s values, beliefs, and moral stances and provides them with infor-
mation that counters their assumptions or visions of what is right and wrong
in an effort to motivate action. Specifically, awareness raising can involve ac-
tivities such as the distribution of relevant research and publications, holding
educational events, organizing face-to-face encounters, and informing people
of measures they can take to alleviate the discrepancy between the current
situation and their vision of what is right or good (Schirch 2006; Hajjar 2001). 6
In the course of sharing such information, activists can also make latent con-
flict (or structural violence) overt. To be effective, awareness-raising activities
depend on people taking action to change the situation in accordance with
their moral outlook.
Another aspect of awareness raising is what Zelizer and Rubinstein term
“disentangl[ing] topics” (2009: 6), which involves reframing and addressing
one particular aspect of a broader, complex conflict. This type of awareness
raising can involve efforts at discursive change through the creative adap-
tations of existing conventions (Fairclough 1992). In the case of the Israeli-
Palestinian conflict, for example, this can involve analyzing and reframing
conventional interpretations of security (as was done by the Israeli Coalition
of Women for Peace), the role of Israeli checkpoints in the West Bank (as was
done by Machsom Watch), or the role of human rights in Judaism (as is done
by Rabbis for Human Rights).
Constructive Confrontation
A third mechanism of change used by the groups studied involves reducing
or preventing violence through the use of nonviolent direct action (meth-
ods of noncooperation or intervention). While peacebuilding approaches are
typically nonviolent, they are often less confrontational toward existing socio-
political structures than strategic nonviolent approaches seeking to radically
rearrange power relations. Despite this difference, both approaches seek to
reduce or prevent violence, whether structural or direct (Curle 1995; Zelizer
and Rubinstein 2009).
Although constructive confrontation might seem to increase conflict by
rupturing existing patterns and confronting systems that many might take for
granted as part of normal life, it does not cause such conflict; rather, construc-
tive confrontation simply makes latent conflict overt and it does so without
causing physical harm. As with the mechanism of awareness raising, con-
structive confrontation appeals to the humanity of broader society, especially
when nonviolent demonstrators are targeted with coercive force. In contrast,
constructive confrontation does not depend on others to take action. While
varied in its specific tactics, strategies, and methods,7 creative confrontation
through nonviolent direct action refuses to contribute to cycles of violence
and oppression; it is no guarantee, however, that those in power will respond
accordingly (Beck n.d.; Stohlman and Aladin 2003). The groups studied here
used constructive confrontation to reconfigure power relations and reduce vi-
olence—at least temporarily—through methods including accompaniment of
Palestinian farmers, and refusing to recognize (or cooperate with) the moral-
legal claims put forth by the Israeli military and radical settler groups.8
Activists also refused to cooperate with dominant sociopolitical institutions
by planning and demonstrating together and by deploying what McAdam,
Tarrow, and Tilly call the “object shift mechanism” (2001: 144). Activists re-
configured their relationship with authorities by grounding their activities in
their own moral-legal claims, including interpretations of Jewish values, use
of international (not Israeli) law, and confronting authorities with demonstra-
tors that looked like them in an effort to moderate their response (Hallward
2008a). Israeli activists also sought to reduce violence between Palestinian
farmers and Israeli authorities (military or civilian) by acting as brokers (Mc-
Adam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001: 142–43), using their status as Hebrew-speaking
citizens of the state as well as their knowledge of Israeli law to alter relation-
ships (and reconfigure power dynamics) between the parties.
Introducing the Groups of Study

Not all of the seven groups described here would self-identify as peace groups,
but all could be classified as peacebuilding groups according to the definition
introduced in chapter 3. These groups worked actively to reconfigure Israeli-
Palestinian relations, renounced exclusivist aims, spoke out against violence
directed at civilians, including the structural violence of the Israeli occupa-
tion of the West Bank and Gaza Strip,9 and used entirely nonviolent means
of sociopolitical change that recognized the humanity of both Israelis and
Palestinians.
Alternative Information Center

The Alternative Information Center (AIC) is a joint organization founded in
1984 that currently has offices in Beit Sahour (a Palestinian village next to
Bethlehem) and West Jerusalem. It was one of the first explicitly joint Pales-
tinian and Israeli organizations established within Israel and is a descendent
of the Socialist Organization in Israel, better known as Matzpen (1962–82).10
The AIC is known for its critical analysis of the socioeconomic and political
situation within Israel/Palestine as well as its anti-Zionist stance that stems
from a Marxist interpretation of Zionism as an imperial-colonial project.11
Israeli and Palestinian staff members emphasize the uniqueness of the orga-
nization in terms of the extent of equality and partnership, as many of the
nominally joint groups created during the Oslo years did not withstand the
pressures of the second intifada and collapsed in 2000.12 Unlike much of the
Israeli Left, the AIC identifies the struggle against the Israeli occupation as
part of the broader struggle for global justice, and the organization has been
active in the World Social Forum (AIC 2009). The AIC has strong ties with a
number of progressive European organizations, reflected in the ongoing pres-
ence of international volunteers and interns in the AIC offices. Due to the
political situation, Israeli members of the AIC are not legally allowed to enter
the Beit Sahour office as Israeli law prohibits Israelis from entering Area A
(under nominal Palestinian Authority control), and it is virtually impossible
for Palestinian staff members to obtain permits to enter Jerusalem. Thus, in-
ternational staff members are the only ones legally able to travel between the
offices, although Israeli staff members engage in nonviolent noncooperation
by circumventing Israeli checkpoints in order to attend weekly staff meetings
in Beit Sahour.
The AIC has had a challenging relationship with the Israeli government
over the years, and at various points, such as the first intifada, its offices have
been closed or staff members arrested for their antioccupation activities or
“illegal” partnerships with Palestinian organizations (Warschawski 2005).13
Through it all, however, the organization has stayed alive, in part due to the
solid activist credentials of its founders and board members, such as Michel
Warschawski, also known as Mikado, (Hackbarth 2008). As its name suggests,
the AIC primarily engages in methods of nonviolent protest and persuasion
through its reports and analyses, although it also engages in noncooperation
through efforts to promote awareness and action regarding the economic, so-
cial, and political consequences of Israel’s policies relevant to the occupation
of the West Bank in international forums. In peacebuilding terms, the AIC’s
analytical reports and programs help build awareness within the local and
international activist communities and also propose solutions and alternatives
to particular issues, that is, disentangling the disparate threads that combine
to create the conflict.
In 2004–2005, major initiatives of the AIC included the regular publica-
tion of English, Arabic, and Hebrew magazines, the hosting of foreign groups
for informational sessions on the conflict, a settlement watch program, youth
leadership activities for Palestinians, and alternative tours. In 2008, the AIC
was no longer circulating print publications, but it had a much-expanded Web
site with regular commentary, analysis, video footage, and podcasts of speak-
ers, programs, and activities. In addition, the AIC had begun the AICafé in
Beit Sahour as a special outreach to internationals to promote a more critical
understanding of the dynamics of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.14 Although
the number of staff varied slightly during the time of study, it hovered around
ten (excluding volunteers and interns).
Machsom Watch
Machsom (Israeli term for “checkpoint,” also spelled mahsom) Watch began in
2001 with three women in Jerusalem: a human rights activist who had worked
on the Mexico-Guatemala border, a feminist scholar from the former Soviet
Union, and an Orthodox Jew. The three recruited heavily from Women in
Black, which has held weekly silent vigils against the Israeli occupation since
1988, and the group quickly grew to include several dozen of their friends.
Machsom Watch initially focused on a few of the checkpoints in Jerusalem,
and membership was limited to women due to both pragmatic and ideological
concerns.15 In the course of 2003–2004, the organization grew rapidly, by word
of mouth but also due to a profile in a leading Israeli newspaper. By 2004–
2005, Machsom Watch had close to five hundred members located across
Israel (although the majority lived in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv) with diverse
approaches to their shifts, the work, and the political situation. Due to the
increased numbers, the organization, run entirely by volunteers, conducted
twice-daily shifts at all of the major West Bank checkpoints including the Qa-
landia, Hawara, Bethlehem, Hebron area, and Container (Wadi Nar) check-
points.16 In 2004–2005, women were assigned to a particular shift each week,
usually in groups of three or four,17 during which time they would observe
the assigned checkpoint(s), often observing multiple checkpoints or barriers
in the same area,18 and document their findings as to number of people at the
checkpoint(s), what happened in terms of passage or obstruction of people,
any unusual activities or abuses, changing patterns of interaction, and army
procedure. After each shift, the women would write up a report later made
available on the Machsom Watch Web site (www.machsomwatch.org) in both
Hebrew and English.
Machsom Watch is intentionally a women’s organization. This is partly a re-
sult of the founders’ involvement in the Israeli feminist movement and partly
due to the role of military service in constructing Israeli male identity and the
fear that men would consequently be more confrontational in their interac-
tion with soldiers (Keshet 2005). Because of the extensive time commitment of
the shift work (which generally lasted for three to four hours and overlapped
with the traditionally workday), the vast majority of Machsom Watchers are
retirees, although some members I met were in college, had young families, or
had full-time jobs. Other than a general belief in human rights and a political
position against the Israeli occupation, Machsom Watch has no criteria for
membership and thus the nonhierarchical group includes members with a
wide range of experience with activism as well as varying perspectives regard-
ing the role (and goals)19 of Machsom Watchers at the checkpoints (Keshet
2005; Hallward 2008a).
Much of Machsom Watch’s nonviolent activity falls into Sharp’s category of
protest and persuasion, including issuing media releases, documentation and
report writing, and daily presence at checkpoints. However, some members
are engaged in more confrontational activities organized by other groups, and
break-off groups like Yesh Din engage in varying degrees of noncooperation
or nonviolent intervention.20 In addition, because of the wide disparity of po-
litical views within the organization, women engage in very different practices
during their shifts. For example, in 2004–2005, some of the women I accom-
panied to the Abu Dis area (where an eight-meter-high wall separates Jerusa-
lem from surrounding Palestinian villages, divides family homes, and bisects
major roads) drove their own car from al Bawabeh all the way around using
Israeli bypass roads to get to the Container checkpoint.21 On a different shift to
monitor the same series of checkpoints, the women parked their car, crossed
over from Jerusalem to az-Zariyya at al Bawabeh, and then took a Palestinian
servees (shared taxi) through Palestinian towns to reach the Container check-
point. Given bans on Israeli travel in Palestinian areas and official efforts at
separating Israeli and Palestinian societies, the act of riding in a Palestinian
vehicle was a form of noncooperation.
In peacebuilding terms, Machsom Watch seeks to reduce or prevent vio-
lence by raising awareness regarding the status of checkpoints as a cause of
violence rather than as a deterrent of violence. As one Watcher asserted, “By
waging a war of destruction against the entire civilian population of the oc-
cupied Palestinian territories, Israel is only breeding terrorism and not elim-
inating it” (Mayorek 2005). Others seek to reduce human rights violations
at the checkpoints in part due to the corrupting influence such actions have
on Israeli society and its “moral army.” Through what several have termed
the “grandmother effect,” the Watchers seek to change patterns of soldier ac-
tion through their presence and observation.22 Machsom Watch also disen-
tangles the issue of checkpoints from other conflict-related issues like ter-
rorism through extensive documentation of checkpoint activities, interviews
with Civil Administration officials, and interaction with Palestinians crossing
the checkpoints. In addition to their daily reports, Machsom Watch compiles
monthly summaries and yearly reports and has written extensive reports on
the permit system and other institutions involved in the Civil Administration
(the Israeli military unit responsible for coordinating government activities in
the occupied territories).
Al Mubadara (Palestinian National Initiative)

Al Mubadara, the Palestinian National Initiative, was founded in 2002 by
leading Palestinian moderates and reformers, notably Haidar Abdul Shafi,
Mustapha Barghouti, and Ibrahim Daqqaq, as well as such supporters as the
late Edward Said. Al Mubadara founders outlined a statement criticizing the
Palestinian Authority and institutions set up by the Oslo Accords, citing the
continued occupation and lack of improved sociopolitical and economic con-
ditions for the Palestinians. They called for Palestinian unity and grassroots
mobilization for nation building, economic growth, and the throwing-off of
Israeli occupation through nonviolent resistance. While al Mubadara’s mis-
sion statement severely condemned corruption and poor governance within

the Palestinian leadership, the organization was equally critical of the deter-
rence actions carried out by Israel that were framed as necessary for peace. At
the time of my research in 2004–2005, al Mubadara was a loosely organized
movement of volunteer activists; partway through my period of research—
during the lead-up to the 2005 presidential elections, when Mustapha Bargh-
outi ran as an independent candidate—they established a dedicated office (al-
beit without any regular staff) in Ramallah. By 2008 al Mubadara had formed
a political party with an official structure and platform and had recently been
accepted into the Socialist International. Although exact figures were pending
at the time of research, membership was estimated at around ten thousand
(al-Deek 2008).
Al Mubadara engages in a variety of peacebuilding activities using a range
of nonviolent methods. As a political organization, the activists I interviewed
emphasized the importance of having viable political institutions prepared to
engage in the difficulty of promoting and implementing peace. Furthermore,
they reflected the views of democratic peace theorists by asserting that a long-
term political solution depended on the existence of a Palestinian state that
provided freedom and equality for all of its citizens, and sought to mobilize
those marginalized by the current political leaders. Al Mubadara activists used
methods of protest and persuasion—tactics such as marches, demonstrations,
youth leadership training, election campaigning, and voter registration—in
order to reorder sociopolitical structures within Palestinian society. Other
methods included press conferences organized by Dr. Barghouti, circulation
of information via the Palestine Monitor electronic news source, and presen-
tations on the route of the separation barrier and its impact on health services
to audiences all over the world. At the same time, al Mubadara engaged in
noncooperation and nonviolent intervention vis-à-vis the Israeli government,
through supporting the nonviolent struggle against the separation barrier in
many Palestinian villages (while also building capacity in nonviolent methods,
political organizing, and emergency health response), or by Dr. Barghouti’s
insistence on campaigning in Jerusalem even when Israel refused to give him
a permit.
Panorama
The Panorama Center for the Dissemination of Democracy and Commu-
nity Development (Panorama) is a Palestinian NGO founded in 1991 with
its main office in Ramallah and branch offices in East Jerusalem and Gaza,
both being areas that staff from the Ramallah office cannot reach regularly, if
at all. While a moderately sized staff of about thirteen worked in the Ramal-
lah office, the Jerusalem and Gaza offices were staffed by just two or three
people, and coordinators for the southern and northern West Bank worked
out of their homes in Hebron and Jenin. Although the overall objectives of
democracy dissemination, community development, and civil society capac-
ity building were shared organizationally, each of the offices varied in its pro-
grammatic approach and priorities due to differences in staff expertise and
the sociopolitical contexts of each city. I was unable to reach the Gaza office
due to the difficulties of obtaining a permit from the Israeli authorities and
thus did not include their work in my study. Although I interviewed staff
members in the Ramallah office, which focused broadly on peacebuilding as
state building, with its concentration on capacity-building projects and de-
mocracy promotion (election monitoring, leadership evaluation), I primar-
ily studied the work of the East Jerusalem office, which directly coordinated
joint Israeli-Palestinian peace projects such as political dialogues and themed
conferences.
In contrast to groups like al Mubadara and Machsom Watch, both of
which emerged during the second intifada, or the AIC, which was created
prior to the first intifada, Panorama is one of many professional Palestinian
civil society organizations that emerged during the peace process that com-
menced with the 1991 Madrid Conference. Its orientation, therefore, has been
less confrontational and more directed at building a democratic Palestinian
state (Ramallah office) and building peace across Israeli-Palestinian divides
through people-to-people activities and Track II initiatives (Jerusalem office).
I primarily studied two projects operating out of the East Jerusalem office,
which reflected two of the peacebuilding approaches identified by Zelizer and
Rubinstein, namely, building relationships and creating institutions to address
conflict. In terms of nonviolent methods, these projects involved some per-
suasion efforts through dialogue activities and the circulation of reports deal-
ing with conflict-related issues.
The first project, Bringing Peace Together (BPT), was organized by Walid
Salem, director of Panorama–East Jerusalem, and Izhak Schnell, an Israeli
professor. The goal of the project was to move beyond mere encounter to
create a forum for sustained interaction between Israelis and Palestinians
involved in the pragmatic (as defined by the organizers) peace movements.
Each meeting was organized around a theme, such as the Gaza disengage-
ment plan or the Palestinian elections, and the group would discuss a range
of perspectives and possible avenues for action regarding these topics. By

creating a framework for discussing, strategizing, and coordinating efforts,
the organizers hoped that the various mainstream Israeli and Palestinian
peace organizations could network and avoid working at cross-purposes
(Schnell 2005). The group, which consisted of individuals as well as rep-
resentatives of organizations, met for full-day or half-day meetings several
times a year, including a two-day conference in December 2004 that laid out
expectations and goals for the group, and a conference in May 2005 on the
question of Palestinian statehood and the refugee issue. Although the May
conference was open to the public and included many more participants,
attendance at group meetings was usually around fourteen, mostly men,
and consisted of a mix of Israelis and Palestinians. Certain individuals were
consistently present at the meetings while others rotated through. Although
the meetings provided a forum for discussion and sharing of ideas and per-
spectives on current topics and contentious issues, in 2004–2005 (their first
year) the group rarely progressed from debates to collective action or shared
statements of principle. Part of the problem was the inconsistency of the
group in terms of who was present at any given meeting and another was
the challenge that the individuals came not just as themselves but also as
members of their respective groups, which put limits on what they could
and could not agree to.
A second Panorama–East Jerusalem project was done in partnership with
the Truman Institute for the Advancement of Peace at Hebrew University. This
project sought to develop a set of guiding principles for dialogue and coopera-
tion (often called a code of ethics by the organizers) between Israeli and Pales-
tinian academics and intellectuals. The principal investigators, Edy Kaufman
(an Israeli professor) and Walid Salem, explored the idea of developing such
a document within their respective constituencies. The basic idea behind the
project was that if Israelis and Palestinians could come together as academics
and agree to a set of common ethical principles, such as taking action to uphold
the academic freedom of all Palestinian and Israeli academics, it could eventu-
ally open space for cooperative projects and joint advocacy work. Like BPT, this
project also emphasized the relationship-building and institution-building as-
pects of peacebuilding. In addition to the primary researchers, who conducted
focus groups and interviews in their respective communities, an evaluation
team consisting of one Israeli and one Palestinian met with the researchers
regularly to discuss issues arising in the research process and findings.
One of the major challenges with the code of ethics project was the very dif-
ferent types of information gathering that took place in Israeli and Palestinian
societies. This divergence was partly due to the varying professional networks
of the lead investigators, and partly due to the different sociopolitical contexts.
For example, the major Palestinian universities maintain a policy of boycott
vis-à-vis Israeli institutions, given the role of Israeli academic institutions in
supporting Israeli government policies, and thus most members of these in-
stitutions were not interested in joint work on principle. Within the Israeli
context, a number of academics expressed disinterest in joint projects with
Palestinians as they felt it would lower the quality of their research in part due
to the lack of equipment and training available in Palestinian society. Thus, the
very process of gathering the information to feed into the statement of prin-
ciples involved an element of nonviolent persuasion on the part of researchers
as they engaged in dialogue with members of the academy, one of the Israeli
government’s social pillars of support (Hallward 2010).
Rabbis for Human Rights

Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) was founded in 1988, during the first in-
tifada, and is the only religious organization in Israel that brings together
more than one hundred Conservative, Reform, Orthodox, Reconstructionist,
and Renewal rabbis and rabbinical students. As an organization, Rabbis for
Human Rights is explicitly Zionist and committed to the Jewish tradition of
justice. Rabbis for Human Rights has a small paid staff (around five in 2004–
2005), several interns, a board of directors that guides the overall direction of
the work, and a cohort of associated volunteers. Although according to my
criteria RHR is engaged in peacebuilding work, the organization frames its
activities in terms of what it defines as an apolitical human rights agenda and
shies away from characterization as a peace organization. In discussions with
staff and board members on this terminological issue, they clarified that this
stance involves how “peace” and “political” are defined within Israel; because
of RHR’s diverse membership, it does not advocate any peace plan or politi-
cal party. However, in the course of its activism, many of RHR’s partners are
groups that are considered political and peace organizations. Within Israel,
those who speak about human rights are seen as pro-Palestinian, and so by
showing the basis of human rights concepts in Judaic texts, RHR pushes so-
ciopolitical boundaries. As an ecumenical organization, RHR also challenges
the state’s narrow definition of Judaism as dictated by the Orthodox Chief
Rabbinate (the state authority on matters related to Jewish law).
Although in this book I focus primarily on the work of Rabbis for Human
Rights as it involves cross-boundary work related to the Israeli-Palestinian

conflict, its work program includes an economic justice ministry within Is-
rael that serves those affected by the Wisconsin Plan in Hadera,23 educational
programs including a human rights yeshiva and seminars conducted in Is-
raeli schools, support for minority and immigrant communities, and accom-
paniment programs supporting Palestinian farmers. In peacebuilding terms,
these programs contribute to reducing violence, building relationships, and
disentangling topics (particularly issues of human rights and religion from
the broader conflict). RHR members and supporters use nonviolent meth-
ods ranging from protest and persuasion (statements to Israeli ministries or
lobbying against the Wisconsin Plan) to noncooperation (wearing a kipa in
Palestinian areas, challenging interpretations of the Chief Rabbinate). Execu-
tive director Rabbi Arik Ascherman has been arrested numerous times for his
nonviolent intervention, like “getting in the way” of home demolitions, and
has been physically injured by settlers when accompanying Palestinian farm-
ers.
Much of RHR’s work is aimed at reducing violence (direct and indirect)
through seeking to lessen human rights violations. It is also, however, con-
cerned with how Judaism is interpreted and used to violate the human rights
of Jews and non-Jews alike. As then chair of the board Ma'ayan Turner ex-
plained to me in 2005,
[Our work is] important both at the level of changing the wrongs that
are being done in society as well as the educational level of learning
[that] it’s our religious duty. For those of us who do the work, and hope
we can spread the message beyond ourselves that, as Jews, this [pro-
moting human rights] is what we should be doing. When we look at
the beginning of the Bible and it says, “All people are created in God’s
image,” you don’t have to go beyond that to know that all people should
therefore have equal rights. (Turner 2005)
Thus, like Sabeel (an ecumenical Christian organization), Rabbis for Human
Rights seeks to disentangle religion from broader conflict dynamics, pointing
to human rights violations and injustice rather than existential, metaphysical
incompatibilities as causes of violence. It also seeks to reframe human rights
as a Jewish concern as opposed to a tool used against Israel. One of RHR’s
basic messages is that pursuing justice is a better peacebuilding strategy than
military might or physical force, although it is not a pacifist organization and
recognizes the need for defense. At the same time, the organization lifts up
a religious voice (and associated concerns) in a largely secular Israeli peace

movement.
Sabeel Liberation Theology Center

Sabeel is an ecumenical Christian organization that uses liberation theology
to reinterpret the Bible, particularly the Old Testament, in a way that connects
scriptures to contemporary social issues and inspires people to action in the
pursuit of justice, peace, and reconciliation. The organization emerged out of
an ad hoc committee formed in 1989 to respond to the concern of Palestin-
ian Christians that the Bible was being used to justify their suffering at the
hands of the Israeli military occupation. Convened by Rev. Dr. Naim Ateek,
the committee of clergy and laypeople organized an international conference
to begin to explore how a Palestinian liberation theology might develop, draw-
ing on other liberation theologies. Like RHR, members of Sabeel believe that
the pursuit of justice is central to their religious teachings. Sabeel also draws
on the biblical teaching that all humans are made in God’s image; this concept
underlies their nonviolent activism, their ecumenical approach, and various
interfaith efforts with Muslim and Jewish communities. Sabeel seeks to make
the teachings of the Bible relevant to the spiritual and sociopolitical lives of
contemporary Christians in particular but also to the broader Palestinian
community, through their commitment to empower Palestinian civil society.
Sabeel strives toward a just, comprehensive, and lasting peace for all, and Is-
raeli Jews often speak at their international conferences.
Sabeel has a main office in Jerusalem that serves Palestinian Christians in
Jerusalem, Ramallah, and Bethlehem and the surrounding area, as well as a
branch office in Nazareth that serves Palestinian Israeli Christians in the Gali-
lee. The small paid staff is supported by a board and usually one or two inter-
national volunteers or interns. In addition, Friends of Sabeel chapters in coun-
tries throughout Europe, North America, and Oceana build bridges between
Palestinian Christians and the broader Christian community. To carry out its
work, Sabeel hosts international conferences (abroad and in Palestine/Israel)
to raise awareness regarding the challenges facing the Palestinian community
and build relationships of solidarity with Christian (and non-Christian) com-
munities abroad.24 Sabeel also hosts community forums on pressing social
issues, convenes a number of programs aimed at empowering youth, works
with clergy of different denominations to find common cause, and provides a
range of educational programs for Palestinians and foreign visitors alike.
In peacebuilding terms, Sabeel’s work focuses on building relationships

(between Palestinians, and between Palestinians and the international com-
munity), building capacity (for example, through its youth and women’s pro-
grams and through educational outreach), and disentangling topics (such as
the role of religion in the conflict). Sabeel uses a range of nonviolent meth-
ods to pursue its goals, primarily through protest and persuasion, its numer-
ous publications, regular newsletters, and international conferences. Sabeel
was a leading organization calling for morally responsible investment, and
has worked for selective investment in companies and programs that support
peace and justice rather than those that contribute to violence or Israel’s ongo-
ing military occupation.
Differences between Judaism and Christianity are reflected in the different
goals and orientations of RHR and Sabeel, even though they share a number
of underlying principles and objectives. Sabeel, for example, emphasizes the
importance of mercy, love, and reconciliation in addition to justice. As the
director, Reverend Naim Ateek, explained in a May 2005 interview, “Well,
peace for us means we need to give the Palestinians justice, in the way that the
Palestinians have defined justice. And give Israel security. So peace must meet
the demands of justice and security . . . [but] justice is only the first step that
leads to peace. And peace, again, is not the end of the road for us. The end of
the road is reconciliation.”
At the same time, Sabeel shared RHR’s concern with economic and social
justice, two facets of peacebuilding that were not as clearly emphasized by
many of the secular groups studied during 2004–2005. This concern is re-
flected in program coordinator Nora Carmi’s explanation of peace: “I think
peace is where every human being will be able to live, normally, as the human
rights declaration tells . . . [Y]ou’re not under the poverty line, you can enjoy
a normal life. . . . Where a Palestinian child and an Israeli child, Moshe and
Mohammed, can look at each other and play with each other without worry-
ing, are we going to kill each other the next day” (Carmi 2004).
Sabeel is unique among Palestinian NGOs in being an explicitly Christian
organization working on issues of sociopolitical justice. While many Christian
charitable societies exist, most are unidimensional and focus on humanitar-
ian concerns or local income-producing projects like handicraft work. Sa-
beel highlights the role organized religion plays in conflict dynamics and in
creating enemy images, even as it disentangles “religion” from the conflict’s
causes.25
Ta'ayush
Ta'ayush, which means “partnership in life” or “life in common” in Arabic, was
initiated by several Israeli Jewish and Israeli Arab (Palestinian citizens of Is-
rael) activists who started talking critically about the growing divide between
Jews and Arabs within Israel in the wake of the second intifada. In 2000, when
Jewish activists came to participate in the annual commemoration of the 1956
Kfar Qasem massacre, Palestinian Israelis said to them, “What is going on?
We have been ignored, and here you come to look at us and to listen, so this
is like a cinema? You look, and all is happy and you go home? Shu hadda? Shu
hadda al yasar?”26 After some challenging discussions, Ta'ayush was formed
for the purpose of doing something more than attending demonstrations or
simply talking. The choice of name itself was political, since for many Jewish
Israelis, Arabic is a “dirty” or “scary” language, even though it is one of Israel’s
official languages. Even in the Israeli peace movement, Arabic is rarely used,
as many dialogue sessions are held in English or the dominant Hebrew, which
Israeli Palestinians need to learn in order to navigate the state. Thus, the choice
of name reflected Ta'ayush’s vision of radical equality, a vision reflected in its
nonhierarchical structure as well as its definition of members as those activists
taking part in its activities and decision-making processes (Shulman 2007). In
2004–2005, Ta'ayush had branches of volunteers in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and
the North, and regular meetings, or meli'as, were held to decide collectively
what projects to pursue and how to organize.
Members I spoke with asserted that the group sought more than the su-
perficial form of coexistence usually spoken about within Israel, emphasizing
that they intended a genuine partnership for life, a commitment to working
together and appreciating differences rather than forcing assimilation. As a
direct action group, Ta'ayush members time and again stressed that they speak
through their actions rather than through written visions or peace plans. They
maintained that their vision of peace is in what they do and how they decide to
do it rather than in what they say or what political plan they support. As a Tel
Aviv–based activist explained, “We try not to have a very well-defined agenda,
and not go into a lot of details since this can exclude people who actually do
want to be part of the group. So we don’t go into things like do we believe in
two states or one secular state. We don’t go into that. We define ourselves more
in terms of action, not vision. And we really try to have our actions speak for
us” (Isadora 2004).
Because of this lack of institutional structure, each Ta'ayush group had a
different character and focused on its own particular projects, even though
members of different clusters supported each other and worked together on

big projects or campaigns, such as the olive harvest, which also brought to-
gether a number of other Israeli organizations. Each Ta'ayush organizational
meeting was facilitated by a different individual or pair, and each item on the
agenda was discussed extensively until all were satisfied with the outcome,
even if not in total accordance with it. Individuals could block a decision if
they felt strongly enough, but they could also stand aside; no votes were taken.
Committees were formed to carry out the agreed-upon work, and standing
committees reported back to the broader group at each meeting. The process
of collective agenda setting and consensus-seeking discussion emphasized
joint ownership of decisions and the importance of all opinions, and gave
more weight to minority viewpoints than in conventional majority-rule vot-
ing procedures. While most business was conducted in Hebrew, there were
times when members spoke in Arabic.
In the first years of its existence, Ta'ayush was active in Israeli Palestinian
villages and organized major food convoys to the West Bank. This was in
the early years of the intifada, when Palestinians were put under curfew and
West Bank cities were closed off from each other. However, in 2004–2005,
Ta'ayush activities (particularly in Jerusalem, where I was based) focused
more on resisting the construction of the separation barrier and its de facto
annexation of Palestinian land to Israel, and supporting Palestinian cave
dwellers and farmers living in the South Hebron Hills. Ta'ayush had many
partnerships with Palestinian communities and organizations throughout
the West Bank, and only worked in the West Bank if invited to do so by the
local community. As one member explained, this “kind of action together is
both a means and a kind of symbolic goal. . . . A lot of the activity is plan-
ning together. We go to Budrus or South Hebron or go to wherever. We sit
with the people and we get to know them and we try to plan and work to-
gether. . . . We do things together” (Bronner 2004). In order to create space
for such relationship building, Ta'ayush intentionally sought ambiguity in its
beliefs and goals apart from core principles. As a Palestinian Israeli member
stated,
Ta'ayush is a movement where lots of Jew[s] and Arabs are sitting to-
gether, but most of them, okay, they think differently about issues . . . [but]
we have the same principles, like the main ones, which is end the oc-
cupation, peace now, two states, equality for all. But at the same time we
also have Zionist Jews and you have nationalist Palestinians, you have
radical Left and you have in the center. . . . What makes us united is the
action that we made, which is equal for all but all of us taking part in it
as the same. (Badawi 2004)
As this quotation emphasizes, one of Ta'ayush’s major peacebuilding ap-

proaches was institution building in the sense of creating space for decision-
making processes that were inclusive and aimed at resolving conflicts cre-
atively. Through its joint demonstrations and activities, Ta'ayush also sought
to reduce violence through constructive confrontation, as soldiers (especially
in the early years of the intifada) were less likely to shoot at mixed groups than
they were at Palestinian-only groups. In terms of tactics of nonviolent strug-
gle, Ta'ayush tended to use noncooperation and nonviolent intervention, chal-
lenging official dictates regarding where Israelis were and were not allowed to
travel (by going into Palestinian areas to meet with Palestinian groups) and by
civil disobedience, such as planting olive trees despite soldiers’ orders to the
contrary, in Palestinian-owned fields uprooted by settlers.
Peacebuilding in Action: Group Activities in 2004–2005

It is not possible to fully document all of the peacebuilding activities of the
seven groups studied in the space of this chapter, nor can I adequately capture
the diversity of views held by individual members of these groups. Group po-
sitions and approaches to peacebuilding vary in time and space as new events
and relationships alter the structure of conflict; this is evident in the shifts seen
between 2004–2005 and 2008 (discussed in later chapters). My discussion
here provides one snapshot of how groups worked for peace in a context of
increased violence, loss of faith in the peace process, and the prevalence of the
“no partner” myth on both sides.
Institution Building
A key characteristic observed in the institution-building processes of the
groups studied was the effort to build space for relationships simultaneously
based on equality and recognition/acceptance of difference. One feature of
this process was often the creation of categories of identification based on
non-national grounds, such as Panorama’s effort to create a code of ethics
based on professional affiliation, or the action-based definition of Ta'ayush
membership. As this process is particularly relevant to binational endeavors—
the AIC, Panorama, and Ta'ayush—my discussion here focuses on these three
groups.
Working together, on an equal basis, for a common goal is a primary con-
cept of institution building. These two parameters were emphasized repeat-

edly, particularly by activists in the AIC and Ta'ayush. When presenting to
visiting groups, Connie Hackbarth, director of the AIC, would often explain
that most of the peace organizations founded during the Oslo years were not
truly joint ones. They did not share power and decision-making responsi-
bilities equally, and the parties’ relationship was not strong enough to ensure
the continuance of the relationship once the political situation was challeng-
ing or funding became an issue. For Connie, peacebuilding involves “helping
people see that they can work together from a basis of common understand-
ing. Not just so someone from the Israeli side can feel good about themselves,
but actually working together for a common goal” (Hackbarth 2004). This
statement reflects an overall emphasis by AIC staff members on being a joint
institution in practice and not in name only. Michel Warschawski, a founding
member of the AIC, noted the constitutive nature of relationships of equality.
He explained that the organization was created as “the result of these [Israeli-
Palestinian] contacts, and years of confidence building, which is not an easy
and obvious matter whatsoever” (Warschawski 2004a). Although the AIC has
not been able to address the systemic sociopolitical, legal, and economic in-
equalities between Israeli and Palestinians, it has sought to create a largely
nonhierarchical institution in which all are seen as equal contributors to the
organizational mission. Decisions are made in a consensual, discussion-based
manner rather than through voting or elite decision making, and extensive
time is dedicated to the furthering of staff relationships.27 Staff members
repeatedly emphasized the distinctiveness of the AIC vis-à-vis other Israeli
peace groups, such as Gush Shalom, which one Israeli staff member described
as “an Israeli organization that works with Palestinian organizations. They
[Gush Shalom] morph the Palestinians to the Israeli. We’re not an Israeli or-
ganization, we’re a joint Palestinian-Israeli [organization]” (Atinsky 2004).
Similarly, a Palestinian staff member criticized Peace Now, explaining, “They
say they are for peace, etc., but at the base they are Zionist, they are part of the
military establishment. There is no place for a Palestinian country within the
Zionist movement . . . and there is no real relationship between the Palestin-
ians and Zionists. But at the same time there are our friends who are Israelis
[fellow AIC staff] who are for freedom. And not just freedom for Palestinians,
but freedom everywhere” (A. 2004).
The institutionalized equality and acceptance of diversity has allowed the
AIC to function as a respected joint organization in Palestinian society; work-
ing at the AIC is not seen as “normalization” by other Palestinians, and staff
members underscored that the AIC “is like a bridge between the two societ-
ies” (Jaradat 2004). The AIC’s explicit stance on equality and its commitment
to engaging divergent views in critical analysis contribute to its acceptance
within the Palestinian community (it has more difficulty in Israeli society) as
well as its long tenure as an organization (it was established before the first in-
tifada). As the outgoing director asserted, “Equality is a prerequisite of peace,
it is not an outcome of peace. . . . It is very hard to have peace between people
who have nothing to eat and people who are affluent and have everything in
the world, so you need some equalization of economic resources, access to
water, it’s not, you know, only diplomatic agreements between politicians of
both sides” (Behar 2004).
A similar focus on equality and bottom-up peacebuilding through relation-
ship building was expressed in my interviews with Ta'ayush activists. Lacking
any formal institutional structure or paid staff, Ta'ayush consisted of indi-
viduals bound together in their effort to “live together” in an affirmation of
diversity and through the use of “a language in common” (R. et al. 2004).
This was not a literal language but rather a practical language grounded in
action. As one activist suggested, Ta'ayush contributed to peace efforts by ac-
tively modeling what it means to work “in partnership” using group processes
grounded in equality, dignity, human rights, and recognition (Badawi 2004).
Several activists described Ta'ayush’s peacebuilding efforts as an institutional-
ized process of relationship building. According to one, peace is about “[be-
ing] responsible for each other. And it goes together with all the other positive
aspects of relationship” (Nir 2004), while another suggested that “the lack of
any relationship [between Israelis and Palestinians] fuels the demonization on
both sides” (Lecker 2005). In 2004–2005, Ta'ayush was one of the few Israeli
organizations regularly entering into Palestinian areas (usually at the invi-
tation of Palestinian partners) and engaging in solidarity actions and joint
demonstrations.
Like the AIC, Ta'ayush not only sought equal partnerships between Israelis
and Palestinians but it also affirmed pluralism. As one Palestinian Israeli re-
marked, “living together” should not entail segregation. She stressed that “by
equal rights I don’t mean ‘separate but equal.’ I mean ‘equal but not separate’”
(Butheyna 2005). This commitment was reflected in the way Ta'ayush activ-
ists engaged in partnerships with West Bank Palestinians. Ta'ayush was one
of the few Israeli organizations in 2004–2005 whose members regularly went
into the Palestinian Territories to meet and plan with Palestinian partners. At
these joint strategy meetings (which often took place in West Bank offices and
thus signified an act of noncooperation by the Israelis), Israeli and Palestin-

ian activists took turns speaking, shared in setting the agenda, and alternated
between Arabic and Hebrew so that all could understand. Such actions, while
seemingly mundane, were not the normal course of Israeli and Palestinian
activism, certainly not in a time of heightened physical and psychological
separation. The regular use of Arabic (although not always consistent across
activities) was especially noteworthy given the tendency of joint activism to
be conducted exclusively in Hebrew or English.
The joint projects conducted out of Panorama’s East Jerusalem office were
explicitly focused on building institutional processes for resolving conflicts
and establishing new patterns of relationships. The Israeli co-organizer of the
Bringing Peace Together (BPT) project was critical of the reactive tendencies
of mainstream peace movements like Peace Now (to which he belonged) and
noted that institution building, in the form of regularly bringing the same
group of peace activists together to form a strategy and coordinate efforts, is
a key step in the peacebuilding process (Schnell 2005). In contrast to the AIC,
which was more than twenty years old, and Ta'ayush, which had been around
for four years, BPT was in its infancy, and thus its institutional structure and
processes were still quasi-experimental. Because it was a networking body
comprised of representatives rather than a stand-alone organization, BPT did
not have the same capacity as the AIC or Ta'ayush to arrive at a shared plat-
form of action, nor did its members engage in the same kind of sustained
interaction, since they met roughly once every month or two and spent sig-
nificant time listening to presentations. Nevertheless, BPT provided space for
Israelis and Palestinians to air a diverse range of perspectives on highly con-
tentious topics and test the feasibility of new ideas or approaches; often there
was more disagreement among members of the same national group than
there was between groups. While this might have helped break down some
popular misconceptions of the Other, it contributed to the challenge of reach-
ing consensus and to a sense of futility.
The process of devising a set of guiding principles for dialogue and coop-
eration (often called a code of ethics) established another institutional frame-
work intended to build cross-national relationships based on professional af-
filiation. However, the process highlighted the impossibility of “separate but
equal” approaches, as the Israeli focus groups and interviews were conducted
by a team led by the Israeli investigator, and the Palestinian focus groups and
interviews were conducted by the Palestinian investigator. Although this
choice was made for a number of pragmatic reasons, including issues of access,
language, and existing patterns of social ties, it had several negative implica-
tions; most important, perhaps, was the fact that the research teams framed
the project, and consequently their questions to the focus group participants,
differently. This divergence led to results that were difficult to synthesize as
they dealt with different topics (one focusing on the conditions for dialogue
and the other focusing on a code governing dialogue). As a result, in the first
stage of the project no institutions were even begun to be built, although a
document that could serve as the basis for a future institution based on jointly
agreed-upon “guideline principles for dialogue and cooperation” was drafted
by the principal investigators (Salem and Kaufman 2007; Hallward 2004).
The code of ethics project provides an excellent example of the many practi-
cal challenges to institution building that exist in the context of ethnonational
conflict, and the importance of clear communication, equality, and commit-
ment to work through differences creatively. Furthermore, as one of the Israe-
lis working on the project suggested, perhaps the process of institution build-
ing (and not the resultant institution) was the more critical peacebuilding
mechanism. She opined that “the work together is the success,” maintaining
that by working on the project she was able to “hear the other side, to know the
other side, to see that they were people like me and they are the same like me”
(Levanon 2005). At the same time, however, the separate-but-equal approach
indicated more than mere logistical pragmatics, reflecting a dominant trend
toward separation prevalent in Israeli society. This tendency was seen (in mild
form) when the researcher continued by saying, “I don’t think that we [Israelis
and Palestinians] need to be good friends, but we need to be neighbors. I want
for us to live our life and them to live their life” (Levanon 2005).
Despite trends of separation, a number of rabbis involved in Rabbis for
Human Rights underscored Jewish teachings, emphasizing the importance of
remembering the stranger and treating him, the Other, well. At its root, this
teaching is about building relationships across differences. As Rabbi David
Rosen stated,
The goal of almost all peace groups [is] to overcome the barriers, physi-
cal and psychological, that keep us apart and enable us all too easily to
dehumanize one another. And that’s exactly what I mean when I speak
of our ethical values first and foremost is that every human being is cre-
ated in the image of God. And I would go further than that and say, if
we don’t behave in accordance with that value, we are not truly Jewish.
(Rosen 2005)
A similar emphasis on relationship building across differences was also shared

by a Sabeel board member, who suggested that the only way to build peace
“is for both peoples to make the problem of the other side their own” (Cedar
2004). To bring about these two radical visions of engaging with the Other
as one’s equal, however, requires extensive outreach work within Israeli and
Palestinian societies.
Raising Awareness and Disentangling Issues

Most of the Israeli groups studied spent considerable effort trying to edu-
cate Jewish Israelis (and the international community) about the situation
in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, since governmental policies of separa-
tion, weariness regarding the conflict, and the dominant narrative portray-
ing Palestinians as terrorists contributed to a mix of apathy, ignorance, and
distrust toward Palestinians on the part of the mainstream Israeli public.
The need to build a larger group of committed activists to instigate change
was part of the underlying motivation for awareness-raising efforts. As one
AIC staff person noted, “Our main aim in the AIC is to build a larger group
of these people [Israelis] who will work together with the Palestinians to do
something in the future. . . . This is our vision, this is our dream. To build a
larger group” (Amira 2004). Part of the AIC’s awareness-raising activity was
conducted through magazines published in English, Arabic, and Hebrew
(News from Within, Mitsad Shni, Rouiya Oukra), longer reports like one they
published on the wall, and films, speakers, and conferences focused on the
interconnections between the occupation, the global economy, and social
discrimination in Israeli and Palestinian societies. Yet the AIC also raises
awareness through alternative tours and regular events targeting interna-
tionals in Beit Sahour, which seek to disentangle the image of “terrorist”
from Palestinian society in the eyes of foreign visitors. Not only do such
events provide an opportunity for obtaining factual information regarding
the causes and manifestations of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but when
mediated through firsthand experience, listeners (and viewers) are better able
to appreciate the vast discrepancy between the reality they see and their
prior assumptions.
One of the goals of Machsom Watch was to raise awareness within Israeli
society regarding what was happening at checkpoints. In the process of in-
creasing their own awareness, the Watchers gained a great deal of information
about how checkpoints—and the broader issues associated with restrictions
on Palestinian movement (permits, road closures, and so on)—contribute to
the conflict. Although the organization managed to raise the profile of the
checkpoint issue in Israeli and international public opinion, they achieved
mixed results. As one Watcher lamented, “Conditions in this checkpoint [Hu-
warra] have gotten better, no question, but that’s not the point” (Devorah,
Dvorka, and Dalia 2005). When pressed further, she clarified that “the point”
was to end the occupation, to reorder relationships, power structures, and the
distribution of resources between Israelis and Palestinians, and not simply to
make the checkpoints more humane. Many women expressed their remorse
at the army’s use of the term “humanitarian lane” for the separate concrete
passage designated for women, children, and the elderly. Although there were
divisions within the group regarding “humanitarian” or “human rights” orien-
tation, most of those I interviewed noted that there is nothing humanitarian
about making humans stand in the cold and rain for hours to get from home
to work, thereby shifting the discourse.
A primary focus of Machsom Watch was disentangling the issue of the
checkpoints from Israeli discourses around national interest and also security.
In their various awareness-raising activities (publications, e-mail updates, and
speaking engagements), Watchers sought to challenge the Israeli conception
of checkpoints as measures that enhance security by reframing the situation
using information and personal observations to demonstrate that checkpoints
can hinder peace and ultimately diminish security due to the humiliation,
resentment, and socioeconomic stagnation they cause Palestinians. This ap-
proach to peacebuilding through awareness raising is evident in the following
statement made by a Watcher to an Israeli audience:
Even if you are crossing [the checkpoint] and people [soldiers] are po-
lite, just try to calculate how much time is being wasted. People are late
to their job if they are lucky enough to have one. People cannot really
study, work, or live because every inch of their autonomy is being con-
trolled by someone else. . . . I can decide when I eat, when I study, when
I work. I can decide who comes in [to my apartment], where I go, how
I do it. . . . Those things that are very trivial to us are not trivial at all to
two million people. (Sagi 2005)
Because Machsom Watchers were rooted in Israeli society, and most had ei-
ther themselves served in the military or had family members who had served
or were currently serving, Watchers did not discount security concerns, nor
did they dehumanize the soldiers (despite claims of their detractors). How-
ever, they did challenge conventional wisdom that all checkpoints were legiti-
mate contributors to Israeli security. While stopped during a shift in the South
Hebron district, one woman commented that “normally a roadblock stopping
traffic is bad, but if it is stopping a terrorist attack, it’s great. It’s a complicated
and gray area. The soldiers say we cannot go in; they are responsible for our
safety. But if they were not there, our safety would probably be increased” (Ella
and Shlomit 2006).
A number of those I spoke with also emphasized the negative impact of the
checkpoints on Israeli society, pointing to the connection between frustrated
young soldiers with so much power and control in remote checkpoints and
increased domestic violence and other social ills; many were concerned by the
human rights record of the army, wanting to maintain its popular domestic
image as the “most moral army in the world.”
Machsom Watch members used their relational power to bring about
change, as many of the women were well connected to establishment figures
in political, civic, and military life. Women went to their shifts armed with lists
of phone numbers to use should egregious abuses occur during their watch.
More generally, however, the Watchers used the large quantities of data they
collected to chart out patterns and share this information with Israeli officials
as well as international human rights organizations. Although there was orga-
nizational tension between those seeking reform and those seeking more radi-
cal political change, by and large Machsom Watch worked within established
channels, acting as brokers between different segments of the population, and
gradually acquiring informational power as they accumulated extensive docu-
mentation on what was happening at checkpoints across the West Bank.
The brokerage of Machsom Watchers brought some limited success. At the
checkpoint, for example, the Watchers sometimes used their knowledge of
army procedure and international law to mediate between individual soldiers
and Palestinians seeking to cross. Through their published reports, and ongo-
ing contacts with Israeli government and military officials, the women exerted
pressure for change at the official policy and procedural level which some-
times resulted in adjustments on the ground. Unfortunately, however, their
efforts often did more to improve the checkpoints than to remove them.
The two religiously based organizations, Sabeel and Rabbis for Human
Rights (RHR), were both engaged in extensive awareness-raising efforts with
domestic and international audiences, seeking to disentangle religion from
the broader conflict. RHR sought to raise awareness of alternative interpreta-
tions of Jewish texts, teach Israelis about the Jewish basis for human rights,
and show Palestinians that not all kipa wearers intend them harm.28 The
awareness-raising role of RHR members who show Palestinians religious Jews

who act out in pursuit of justice for Palestinians is significant. In Landrum
Bolling’s film Searching for Peace in the Middle East, for example, RHR’s execu-
tive director, Rabbi Arik Ascherman, shares the powerful experience of over-
hearing a young Palestinian tell a family member, “and then a man in a kipa
came and rescued me.”29 Ascherman regularly stresses that Jewish Israelis are
best placed for breaking down negative stereotypes about themselves through
their own demonstrated behavior (just as he says Palestinians are best suited
to breaking down stereotypes about themselves). On numerous occasions I
saw Palestinian parents bring their children up to Machsom Watchers, telling
them, “Look, these, too, are Israelis.”
In addition to seeking to disentangle the image of Judaism from settler
violence by accompanying Palestinian farmers and working against adminis-
trative home demolitions,30 RHR seeks to redefine the relationship between
Israelis, Jewish law, and Palestinian rights. Given that Jewish teachings are
used by settlers and their advocates to lay claim to all of historic Palestine (and
to negate Palestinian land rights), RHR’s awareness raising regarding alterna-
tive interpretations of Hebrew scripture is a form of brokerage mediating the
relationship between Palestinian rights and Jewish law. Rabbi Jeremy Milgrom
stated, “It’s such an important thing to remind the public, the Israeli Jewish
public, the Palestinian public, the world public, that you can be a conscien-
tious, devout Jew and be open to territorial compromise” (Milgrom 2005).
Former RHR chairperson Ehud Bandel, leader of the Conservative (Mesorti)
movement in Israel, quoted the Bible in Hebrew, citing “Because my house
of worship would be the house of worship for all nations” to demonstrate the
importance of sharing the land and its resources (Bandel 2005). Chairperson
Ma'ayan Turner also conveyed the relevance of Jewish teachings for the route
of the separation barrier, explaining that according to Jewish teaching, if one
wants to build a fence between neighbors, one should build the fence on the
boundary between the two neighbors. However, if one of the neighbors does
not agree to the fence, the neighbor who wants the fence must build it on his
or her own property (Turner 2005). Such interpretation is in direct contradic-
tion to the actual route of the barrier, which goes deep into the West Bank,
providing space for settlement expansion (Lein and Cohen-Lifshitz 2005).
As religious organizations, RHR and Sabeel share several similarities in
their awareness-raising strategies, including the development of educational
materials that draw on their respective religious traditions. RHR designed a
curriculum that explores the human rights implications of the Israeli Declara-
tion of Independence through studying it as a Talmudic text surrounded by

interpretation, commentary, and historical references. This curriculum, the
Tractate Independence, is an example of RHR’s efforts to constitute a different
social reality in Israel, one in which religious and secular discourses on human
rights and democracy are in dialogue, by selectively drawing on historic texts,
including selections from the Mishnah, quotations from Zionist leaders, and
international treaties, and “redrawing the boundaries between old elements”
(Fairclough 1992: 70). The Tractate Independence exemplifies the practice of
“intertextuality” (Fairclough 1992: 84) as it responds to previous texts (like the
Talmudic commentaries used by rabbinical students and Israel’s Declaration
of Independence) and explicitly brings select historical documents into the
conversation. Similarly, Sabeel has designed a Contemporary Way of the Cross
modeled on the fourteen stages of the cross (the stages of Jesus’ suffering and
crucifixion) visited by many Christian pilgrims that contrasts the injustice of
the Roman occupation in Jesus’ time to the present Israeli occupation. Simi-
lar to the Tractate Independence, which draws on Jewish religious teachings,
the Contemporary Way of the Cross explicitly draws on the Bible and other
Christian teachings, as well as past and present sociopolitical struggles of the
Palestinian community, to convey its sociopolitical and human rights mes-
sage. Using a variety of texts, including personal narrative, the program is
recrafted as new issues or concerns rise to the fore.
While RHR sought to disentangle Jewish faith and practice from violence
in the eyes of Palestinians, Sabeel sought to disentangle Christianity from the
West by raising awareness about the long heritage of Palestinian Christians
and their current plight. Sabeel seeks to apply the lessons and stories of the
Bible to the current political situation, thereby reframing the unquestioning
support of some Christians for Israeli policies by providing eyewitness ac-
counts (and the option of firsthand experience) to the often unseen human
consequence of such policies. Sabeel’s local and international conferences,
books, reports, and regular newsletters seek to reconfigure the relationship
between the international Christian community and the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict. Not only does Sabeel encourage Christian pilgrims to visit the “liv-
ing stones” (Palestinian Christians) in addition to the stones of the holy sites,
but it also challenges popular categorizations of Palestinians as the Muslim
Other. Because Sabeel conferences and publications often include Israeli Jew-
ish voices, such as Jeff Halper, the director of the Israeli Committee Against
Home Demolitions, they also shake zero-sum assumptions that presume Pal-
estinians and Israelis necessarily disagree on the road to peace.
Constructive Confrontation
Many of the groups studied used constructive confrontation in at least some
of their activities, such as Sabeel members taking part in a spontaneous prayer
service at the checkpoint when soldiers did not let them through to Jerusalem
on a religious holiday, or RHR members standing in the way of bulldozers
charged with demolishing Palestinian homes.31 Israeli members of the AIC
engaged in constructive confrontation through noncooperation when they
violated Israeli laws prohibiting Israelis from entering Bethlehem,32 and when
they refused to seek money from donors (like the U.S. government) whose
agenda was not consistent with their own principles. One could also make a
case that groups like the AIC, RHR, Panorama, and Sabeel were engaged in
constructive confrontation through nonviolent intervention (as classified by
Gene Sharp) to the extent that they developed alternative social institutions
that challenged official policies and practices dictating who counts as a Jew
or as a Christian and separating Palestinians from Israelis regardless of their
efforts for peace, justice, and cooperation.
During the period of research in 2004–2005, of the groups studied it was
mainly Ta'ayush and al Mubadara that I observed more regularly engaged
in what Sharp calls the “methods of disruption,” or nonviolent intervention
(2005: 62). These methods of nonviolent struggle “can pose a more direct and
immediate challenge to the opponents” but are also more difficult to sustain;
indeed, in 2005 the energy of Ta'ayush activists was already waning. One of
the major aims of constructive confrontation is to reconfigure relationships
of power by withdrawing support for and participation in current patterns of
socioeconomic and political relations undergirding the control of the target
regime and by creating new, alternative institutions. In their support of and
participation with Palestinian popular committees demonstrating nonvio-
lently against the wall (which cut off many villagers from their lands), these
groups challenged sociopolitical power arrangements between Israeli troops
and unarmed protestors and also within Palestine between rural villagers and
urban government officials.
While part of the work of al Mubadara involved raising awareness about the
Palestinian cause in international circles, this outreach work often included an
effort to institutionalize economic and other forms of noncooperation, such as
boycotting Israeli settlement goods or educating U.S. taxpayers about the dev-
astating impact (physical, psychological, and economic) of “made in the USA”
weaponry on Palestinian civilians.33 Much of al Mubadara’s domestic efforts
sought to reconfigure political power within the Palestinian Authority by cre-
ating new political institutions that reflected the concerns of the marginalized,
including women, youth, and those in rural areas. In 2004–2005, this work
was still fluid and locally based, as described by one activist, and there was
little opportunity for interaction and exchange between activists in different
areas (Christo 2005). At the time of research a major focus of al Mubadara was
getting out the vote for the first Palestinian elections (municipal and presiden-
tial) since 1996 and empowering people to take this nonviolent step to affect
change on the national level. In the course of the campaign, Dr. Barghouti
often engaged in constructive confrontation by violating Israeli law (which
he deemed illegitimate) by campaigning around the Palestinian Territories
without Israeli-issued permits, including in Jerusalem, his place of birth. On
several occasions he was beaten by Israeli security forces in the course of these
travels.
Al Mubadara sought to decrease both direct and indirect violence in the
course of its work by training Palestinian villagers in nonviolent methods and
by highlighting (and resisting) the structural violence of the Israeli occupa-
tion. For many of the activists I spoke with, the choice to use methods of non-
violent direct action was a strategic move to highlight the inequality between
Israelis and Palestinians and to help put foreign pressure on Israel to change its
policies and practices. In order for the Palestinian case to be seen as just in the
world community, one affirmed, Palestinians needed to use nonviolent modes
of struggle (to disentangle the image of the Palestinian from that of terrorist;
Mawakib and Ramzi 2004).
Constructive confrontation was also an available method for sociopolitical
change, given al Mubadara’s lack of infrastructure or formal access to power.
Those I interviewed repeatedly mentioned the role of al Mubadara activists
in reconfiguring Palestinian modes of resistance, such as supporting the non-
violent demonstrations against the wall in villages like Bil'in or in the Beth-
lehem district.34 Activists differentiated their resistance efforts from Hamas’
use of violence and from Fateh’s “misguided” negotiation efforts, neither of
which had brought about peace. As one activist stated, “We need to think
of our struggle in a different way. . . . We need to think about how to get our
rights given to us by international law” (R. et al. 2005). Another contrasted the
struggle of Palestinians in the West Bank with armed movements in a Pales-
tinian refugee camp in Lebanon. He explained that “while I am living under
occupation here, I am fighting in a different [nonviolent] way. If I were in Ein
Hilweh, maybe I would be supporting armed struggle. But we have to analyze
it on the spot [according to context]” (R. et al. 2005).
In many ways, al Mubadara activists were waging two nonviolent struggles,

one against the corrupt and nonrepresentative Palestinian Authority and
one against the oppressive Israeli military occupation. Ta'ayush was simi-
larly waging two struggles, one against institutionalized racism and segrega-
tion between Arabs and Jews in Israel and the other against ongoing Israeli
policies in the occupied territories including land confiscation and settler
violence. In the course of its work, Ta'ayush not only directly challenged the
social, political, and geographic boundaries dividing Israelis from Palestin-
ians, both within 1948 Israel and across the Green Line, but it also challenged
the passivity of the Israeli peace movement. As one Jewish activist remarked,
most Israeli leftists “sit on the couch and watch TV and say, ‘I want peace.’ But
they . . . are not committed to any action. They won’t go to demonstrations,
they live most of their nice life . . . they want peace somewhere there but they
are not willing to do anything in practice. Not give anything” (Nir 2004).
Ta'ayush did more than just organize demonstrations; it gave individuals
“the chance to go and do something. And you had the chance practically ev-
ery weekend” (Ezra, Anat, and Liat 2004). Activists explained how the action
orientation of Ta'ayush empowered them to take responsibility for their (in)
action and claim the power that they did have. A Palestinian Israeli mem-
ber confirmed she was drawn to Ta'ayush because it was doing something in
the field rather than just talking about politics. She shared the general sense
among Ta'ayush activists that “okay, we have to stop crying and stop saying
[how bad it is], we will accept that we have to make the change inside and we
have to take responsibility within our community” (Butheyna 2005).
Much of the power of Ta'ayush came from its members’ intentional ef-
forts to reorder relationships of power, not only by positioning themselves
alongside (or between) Palestinian villagers and armed Israeli soldiers and/
or settlers (thereby also hoping to reduce physical violence) but also by creat-
ing bridges bringing people together across dividing lines. Ta'ayush activists
worked to break down “all kinds of walls,” not only the physical wall built since
2002 but also psychological barriers, roadblocks, and divided communities.35
An Israeli Jew shared how going out to the olive harvest with Palestinian farm-
ers sows the “seeds of true peace,” not only by reducing the threat of settler
violence but also by challenging status quo social patterns and forging connec-
tions between Israelis and Palestinians based on more than the paradigm of
“helping” the Palestinians. These bonds were evident on the many trips I took
with Ta'ayush activists to the villages in the South Hebron Hills. They were
also evident in the way that Ta'ayush activists resisted their own desire to take
action on certain issues (in the West Bank) until local Palestinians initiated
a request for solidarity. Because of its stress on the importance of equal part-
nership, which one activist described as giving “the right to live to others and
ask[ing] for the right to live at the same time” (Badawi 2004), Ta'ayush was a
highly respected organization within the Palestinian community and helped
(re)institute a form of radical solidarity that defied sociopolitical institutions
aimed at divide-and-rule.
Ta'ayush activists were not always successful in reducing physical violence,
although on many occasions the threat of physical force was defused by the
presence of the Israeli activists, who were often able to mediate between sol-
diers, settlers, and Palestinians. In the course of my research I had the oppor-
tunity to witness activists engaged in constructive confrontation, and there
was a distinct difference in the behavior of Israeli soldiers toward Palestinians
when there were Israeli activists present, since the soldiers have a relational
obligation to protect all Israelis (although, in practice, some tend to favor the
settlers and view the nonviolent activists as provocateurs). The consequences
of this radical challenging of boundaries could be seen most severely in dis-
cussions with Palestinian Israeli activists, who were more frequently arrested
than their Jewish counterparts for their participation in nonviolent resistance
activities and also were criticized by their home communities for “supporting
the Jews.”
There was an implicit division within Machsom Watch between those who
were more oriented toward reform and humanitarian activity and the self-
defined political activists who were concerned with reconfiguring Israeli-Pal-
estinian relationships beyond those at the checkpoints. While some of these
women joined in the actions organized by Ta'ayush or other groups, some
acted on their own to engage with Palestinians they met during their shifts and
carry out joint action. This practice, however, was contentious, and I heard
several debates between Machsom Watch members over whether such activity
was a diversion from their main purpose (that is, documenting and observing
checkpoints) or a useful and necessary mechanism for learning and change.
A new breakaway group, Yesh Din, formed in part out of the desire of some
Watchers to engage on a more substantive level with Palestinians than was
possible in the several-hour time span at the checkpoint; this example is illus-
trative of the tension in the group regarding their orientation to peacebuild-
ing.36 When formed, such Israeli-Palestinian relationships challenged patterns
of social relations. One Watcher told of a friendship she had with a family in
Bethlehem. She noted that visiting her friends is risky for both her and the
family; it is illegal for her to be in Bethlehem, and her presence could cause
problems for the family because of many Palestinians’ stance against the nor-
malization of ties with Israelis.37 Despite these obstacles, an active subgroup of
Machsom Watch regularly visited various Palestinian communities, including
at-Tuwani, Hebron, and Walaje and villages outside of Nablus, to find out the
challenges facing residents and strategize plans of action.
The orientation toward constructive confrontation could also be seen dur-
ing regular shifts at the checkpoints, as some Watchers operated in a mode of
noncooperation. These women defied the authority of soldiers or the legiti-
macy of the checkpoints, traversing all around the structures in the course of
their observations. They also tended to see the existence of the checkpoints
themselves, as opposed to the degree of “goodness” of the soldiers’ behavior,
as the target of activity, and sought to eliminate the structural violence caused
not only by the checkpoints but also by broader systemic restrictions on Pales-
tinian movement. Some of these women devised alternate systems for dealing
with the repercussions of these issues, such as helping Palestinians pay fines
due in locations inaccessible to Palestinians without permits, since Palestin-
ians could not get permits to travel to these locations due to the fine owed.38
Conclusion
Table 4.1 provides a snapshot of some of the methods of nonviolent struggle
used by the seven groups studied, broken out by mechanism of change. How-
ever, simply looking at a list of activities or methods used does not convey the
import of the processes or mechanisms through which these methods were
used for the purpose of changing patterns of relationships between Israelis
and Palestinians (from conflict to coexistence) and bringing about sociopo-
litical change oriented toward a just, lasting, and secure peace for all involved
parties.
The study of group processes raises several important considerations for
scholars and activists interested in processes of peacebuilding in divided soci-
eties. First, in such contexts it is very difficult for activists to reconcile compet-
ing goals and strategies that are at odds with the wider sociopolitical context.
For example, Ta'ayush sought equality of members, inclusive pluralism, and
a shared identity through action. However, due partly to the different socio-
economic and political reality of Arab Israelis (who did not have the same
socioeconomic opportunities as Jewish Israelis and also dealt with different
cultural patterns including familial duties), the group was faced with declining
Table 4.1. Illustrative group methods by mechanisms of change
Constructive
Group Institution building Awareness raising confrontation
AIC Working together for a Publication of magazines in Israelis entering Bethlehem
common goal English, Arabic, and Hebrew against Israeli law
Nonhierarchical Films, speakers

structure, equality
Joint staff meetings Alternative tours
Machsom Reports on checkpoints and Engaging in joint action

Watch permit process with Palestinian villages
E-mail updates and speaking Facilitating the payment

engagements of fines
Challenges to conventional
“security” narrative
Mubadara Talks and presentations to Unarmed protests against

international audiences separation barrier
Challenges to power
relationships within
Palestinian society
Nonviolence training in
villages
Panorama Code of ethics project

with coinvestigators
Bringing together
representatives of
peace groups to discuss
contentious issues
RHR Relationship building Disentangling “religion” from Standing in the way
across differences conflict of bulldozers at home
demolitions
Teaching the Jewish basis of
human rights (e.g., Tractate
Independence)
Showing there are Israeli Jews
concerned with justice
Sabeel Relationship building Disentangling “religion” from Pray-ins at checkpoints
across differences conflict
Hosting groups of Christian
pilgrims
(continued)
(continued)
Constructive
Group Institution building Awareness raising confrontation
Contemporary Way of the Cross
Ta'ayush Working together for a Demonstrations against the

common goal separation barrier
Developing a practical Entering West Bank against

“language in common” Israeli law
Pluralism, consensus- Solidarity activities with

based decision making Palestinian activists and
farmers
numbers of Arab Israeli members. One suggestion for addressing this was to
create a paid staff position that would help facilitate activism by coordinating
the cost of phone calls and subsidizing (for at least one individual) the time
spent on activism work. Proposals for paid positions, however, were rejected
by many Ta'ayush activists, in part because of fears this would upset the or-
ganizational culture and would not address the root of the problem. Gene
Sharp notes that nonviolent intervention is difficult to sustain and can spawn a
harsh response from authorities. Indeed, the experience of both Ta'ayush and
al Mubadara demonstrates both of these characteristics. As discussed in later
chapters, by 2008 both groups had undergone dramatic reorganization ef-
forts, with Ta'ayush all but disappearing. The practices and goals of the emer-
gent institutions remained consistent with the overall approach of nonviolent
intervention as outlined by Sharp, however, as they were political organiza-
tions that challenged conventional Israeli and Palestinian party structures and
sought to transform their political environments.
Group processes also highlighted the power available in alternative pat-
terns of relationships. Activists demonstrated the power available by with-
drawing consent from governing regimes, yet they also demonstrated the
inadequacy of such efforts when conducted on a small scale absent an over-
all strategy for undermining the regimes’ “pillars of support” (Helvey 2004).
While RHR and Sabeel sought to undermine the unquestioning support of
religious organizations (primarily those abroad) for Israeli state policies, both
organizations were small and divided their attention between multiple pro-
grams. Al Mubadara sought to mobilize Palestinian youth in new ways of po-
litical activism through their youth camps as well as through Dr. Barghouti’s
association with the Union of Palestinian Medical Relief Committees, which

empowered many youth to take action in response to Israeli violence.39 Joint
activism between Israelis and Palestinians in Ta'ayush, as well as the presence
of Israeli women at checkpoints, at times undermined military support for the
Israeli regime of control in the occupied territories.40 Such interactions also
contributed to breaking down exclusivist stereotypes of the Other as Enemy
facilitated by policies of separation in which the only Israelis most Palestinians
encounter are soldiers and settlers, and the only Palestinians most Israelis see
are poor, largely uneducated day laborers or media images of terrorists.
Yet observation of the seven groups also shows that despite group efforts to
institute equality or to create safe space for relationship building, macrolevel
relationships continue to affect peacebuilding efforts and challenge efforts to
draw and sustain significant numbers to the work. Rabbis for Human Rights,
for example, had difficultly regularly recruiting volunteers to go to the fields
with Palestinians given the fact that many Israelis work full time and can-
not leave work to plant trees with farmers except on the weekend, when they
want to relax. Ta'ayush also faced difficulties recruiting and maintaining large
numbers of active volunteers. The AIC effort at balancing inequality actually,
in some ways, reinforced the inequality given that Palestinian staff members
cannot visit the Jerusalem office. While Jerusalem staff members see the long,
somewhat risky (they could potentially be arrested) trip to the Bethlehem of-
fice as a way to go meet the Palestinians “on their own turf,” it could also be
seen as a privilege that the Palestinian staff does not have. Similarly, radical
decentralization and nonhierarchical organizational patterns, such as seen in
Machsom Watch, Ta'ayush, and to some extent al Mubadara, contributed to
a lack of focused strategy and coherent platform of action to bring about sys-
temic change. The regional clusters of Ta'ayush, for example, tended to have
their own projects, and Machsom Watchers engaged in very different practices
on their shifts.41
The research also emphasized the importance of process, as many of the
groups had no stated political platform or vision but rather a shared commit-
ment to particular values (such as pluralism and equality) and finding space
for joint action promoting those values. At the same time, it underscored the
need for peace works and an action-oriented approach toward achieving co-
constituted objectives rather than peace words. Several of those I interviewed
shared the deep pain and frustration they have experienced in dialogue groups,
not only because “it’s always discussions, discussions, discussions . . . to no
point” (Sadiq 2004) but also, as one Israeli said off the record after our formal
interview was over, because of a “feeling that it is for no good.” One of the
criticisms regularly raised concerning dialogue projects was that, in contrast
to Ta'ayush, such groups did not provide space for recognition and acceptance
of divergent political views because the focus was often on “conversion” and
“beliefs” rather than finding space for acting in pursuit of common interests.
One Israeli veteran of dialogue projects, who wished to remain nameless
in this context, expressed his desire that Palestinians would recognize that
“Zionism is not a colonial force that was only in order to oppress the Palestin-
ians . . . [but] it is the national liberation movement of the Jewish people,” just
as he has recognized that the PLO is the national liberation movement of the
Palestinians and “is not just a bunch of terrorists.” To use his own words, he
wanted “reciprocity” and affirmation that he was a Zionist who also wanted
to work for peace with Palestinians. An almost exact mirror image of this
frustration was articulated by another Palestinian, a participant in interfaith
dialogue since 1975, who spoke with me in Ramallah in 2005. She noted:
They didn’t want me to say Palestinian, they didn’t want me to say West
Bank on my name tag in anything international. . . . [Another chal-
lenge is that] you have to accept the self-understanding of the Jewish
people and their connection to the land of Israel. . . . If dialogue is not
to transform hard reality, it is no dialogue. . . . We have to focus on is-
sues rather than spend our time trying to understand [each other’s posi-
tions]. . . . There are problems in the world that are common to all of us.
Both of these activists highlight the need for active, inclusive pluralism
that affirms (rather than imposes) self-definitions, and a focus on shared in-
terests rather than rigidly inscribed positions, all of which were manifested
(to greater and lesser degrees) by the seven groups studied. Although struc-
tural inequalities made it difficult to uphold and enforce the practical equal-
ity of Israeli and Palestinian members in all forms of activity, activists in the
groups studied made concerted efforts to offset such differences by devising
and implementing group processes that not only upheld equality but also val-
ued diversity and created spaces for polyvocality. How these tendencies played
out in the course of group activities and the consequences for group identity
formation is the subject of chapter 5.
5
Identity in Action
Peacebuilding as Category Formation
This chapter explores the mechanisms and strategies through which Israeli
and Palestinian peacebuilding groups define and transcend geopolitical and
identity boundaries in the course of their activities.1 The analysis includes a
look at the relationship between geopolitical boundaries (such as those defin-
ing areas A, B, and C and pre-1967 Israel) and conceptions of identity within
Israeli and Palestinian civil society groups engaged in efforts to secure a “just
and lasting peace” in Israel/Palestine. Although I explore the extent to which
group boundaries coincide with government-sponsored peace plans, my focus
is primarily on the mechanisms through which the groups I studied chal-
lenge, maintain, or transcend these boundaries in the course of articulating
and enacting visions of peace and constituting the boundaries of Israeli and
Palestinian identities. Part of this boundary-drawing exercise involves look-
ing at how the groups act within the environment mapped out in previous
chapters, but it also involves how groups interact with other groups and how
members relate to each other within each group and in the process make the
group who (and what) it is.
In this next section, I examine how the groups studied contest, challenge,
and create boundaries through their interactions and activism. I wish to high-
light upfront the particular boundary dynamics of the three binational groups
I studied (AIC, Panorama, and Ta'ayush) because of the constant identity
negotiation (category formation) occurring internally within these groups,
which poses a particular set of challenges for working within political, so-
cial, and geographic space. The boundary negotiations for Machsom Watch
are also worth mentioning, since the group’s primary job involves monitor-
ing border crossings (territoriality in practice), and this has repercussions for
negotiations within the membership as well. The two religious NGOs I stud-
ied, Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) and Sabeel, were often oriented toward
a different set of boundaries—those of broader religious communities—and
a different set of “legitimate” laws (that is, religious as opposed to political
dictates), which is reflected in how they deploy commonplaces (tropes) and
articulate legitimate claims. Finally, my interviews with al Mubadara activists
demonstrate the challenges of building a nationwide movement in the West
Bank given geopolitical and social obstacles like checkpoints, roadblocks, and
ID cards.
Negotiating the “Binational”
The Alternative Information Center
The Alternative Information Center is unique in the sociopolitical space of

Israeli and Palestinian activism. Started jointly by Israelis and Palestinians
in the early 1980s, in 1992–93, when closure was imposed on the Palestinian
Territories, the AIC had to open an additional office in Bethlehem, as Pales-
tinians could no longer get to Jerusalem easily. For a while it was still possible
for Israelis to get to Bethlehem and for Palestinians to sneak into Jerusalem;
in 2004, though, founding member Michel Warschawski (Mikado) remarked
that “now I wouldn’t suggest to anyone [Palestinian] to come in illegally, unless
it’s a matter of life or death. Because he would put himself at too much risk”
(2004a). Instead, during the period of research, staff from the Jerusalem of-
fice would sneak into the West Bank using a series of trusted taxi drivers and
crossing at a border-straddling property.
Physical obstacles such as these are an ongoing challenge for the AIC as
it wrestles with what it means to be a joint organization in the face of having
two separate offices with local staff who cannot legally visit one another.2 In
an e-mail circulated on behalf of the AIC, the director asked, “What are the
very ‘technicalities’ of joint work when Palestinians from the West Bank and
Gaza Strip are not permitted entry into Israel and Israelis are prohibited by
Israel from entering the West Bank and Gaza Strip?” (Hackbarth 2005). Mi-
kado noted how the challenge of “how to make cooperation possible despite
the intent” of closure brought the organization back to its original point of
departure, which was “opening the first bridges of an invisible wall, a wall that
was only in the mentality” (Warschawski 2004a). Indeed, much of the work
of the AIC is still aimed at breaking these invisible mental walls between Pal-
estinians and Israelis. During 2004–2005, public events held in the Jerusalem
Identity in Action: Peacebuilding as Category Formation · 109
office included a showing of a documentary on Matzpen, a progressive social-

ist Israeli group that worked with Palestinians in the 1960s and had a vision of
a single, binational democratic state, and a lecture by Meron Benvenisti, who
shared his alternative vision of peace based on “soft borders.” In Beit Sahour,
programs included a presentation on the biblical basis for a progressive Jewish
peace witness and a documentary on the Israeli Anarchists Against the Fence.
Events such as these demonstrate the ways in which the AIC seeks to break
down barriers and stimulate discussions on contentious, taboo issues within
each society, such as the issue of a single, binational state for some Jewish
Israelis and the issue of cooperation with Israelis (normalization) for some
Palestinians.
The AIC was the only group I studied that consistently spoke of its de-
sire to see a “secular democratic state for all wanting to live here” (Atinsky
2004) in addition to the assumption of “cooperation and not of separation”
(Warschawski 2004a). Yet, despite the AIC’s borderless vision, the daily real-
ity of the Palestinian staff is that they are “living in a prison. A little bit big
prison” (Amira 2004). This creates a tension within the AIC, even though
both Israeli and Palestinian staff members reported feeling equal with each
other and spoke like one organization despite the two offices. Although the
two staffs are physically separate, they act as if they were one unit, with one
letterhead and one organizational name, and they attempt to hold regular staff
meetings that bring together as many as possible in the Beit Sahour office.
That such meetings and joint activities continue to go on is a testament to the
effort of the activists who continue to plan and carry out these events, since,
as Mikado aptly noted in our conversation, “Building a joint initiative in a
situation of occupation and domination is not natural. It’s not obvious. And
friendship and comradeship and working together is a permanent challenge”
(Warschawski 2004a).
It is this physical action, the orientation of Israeli and Palestinian staff
members to the AIC as a single organization temporarily operating out of two
offices, that is a unique boundary-transcending mechanism. The staff in both
offices act as if they are one organization, planning and publicizing events as
if they were one organization, although daily practicalities within each office
are understandably different, with different office spaces, different locations,
and different work styles and patterns of daily interaction. While both com-
munities are oriented toward the other staff and include the other staff, the
challenges of maintaining a single organization with two offices are great. Mi-
kado, for example, shared the intensive debates the AIC had in the early 1990s
when they were contemplating their reaction to the closure, and Connie men-
tioned how difficult it was to get over the Israeli push to get things done and
move along with business in staff meetings, as the Palestinian staff members
are more inclined to offer hospitality, to offer tea and coffee, and to welcome
their guests prior to discussing business matters. Both mentioned how it was
a constant effort to incorporate two different approaches to work and to avoid
replicating the power dynamics of the broader Israeli-Palestinian conflict in
their own interactions. Despite their best efforts, Mikado noted,
the permanent challenge . . . to Israeli-Palestinian cooperation, [at]
whatever level, [is that] even with the most elaborated joint vision, and
trust . . . [full equality] is never achieved. It’s never obvious. We are
coming from two different societies. I’m not speaking about the cultural
differences, I’m speaking about the reality. We are from the society of the
occupier, the one with power, we have relative freedom of movement, or
we used to have until recently, we can cross a checkpoint and say to the
soldier ‘fuck you’ if we want and nothing will happen. We have all the
behavior of the colonial society whether we want it or not. It’s part of
our . . . since we were children, our way of speaking, the way of behav-
ing, the self-confidence. Palestinians are part of the oppressed society,
of the society which is dominated by my own society. They are much
more at risk, and we should never ignore this reality. We can be the best
friends in the world, the best comrades in the struggle, and the same
staff members in the same staff meeting, we are not the same. And if we
don’t keep it in mind, at one point or another we’ll have a crisis. . . . Take
a staff meeting, you will see always, when there is a point on the agenda,
you have six Israelis, seven Palestinians sitting at the meeting. The six
Israelis will speak first. Automatically. They are more self-confident, it is
part of the culture to immediately express yourself, the Palestinians will
wait and listen. And if you don’t [notice], if you’re not aware that we’re
in an uneven situation, then we will have pure Israeli domination. In the
meeting of people who share the same values, the same objectives, the
same organization. (Warschawski 2004a)
Connie referenced a similar dynamic:

In a situation of ongoing occupation it’s very, very difficult, and there
will never be equal relations. . . . We, the Israelis on staff, really have
to make a big effort to work with Palestinians. We are the ones going
to Beit Sahour. We are the ones making the phone calls, you know, hi,
how are you, and initiating things more often, [making opportunities
for] meeting. Making things happen. But once we get there, listening
more. Because there are cultural differences, there are gender issues that
come up. So when I sit with my Palestinian colleagues, [I try to] let them
set the agenda, let them talk. Bring myself down in that sense. And it
certainly hampers, our let’s say, Western efficiency. We’re not efficient
in that sense. If I have to spend half the day going to the other office,
drinking coffee and all that, so okay. But it’s very important long term.
(Hackbarth 2004)
These two extended quotations demonstrate two of the major challenges the
AIC faces as it deploys the mechanism of institution building: power and cul-
ture. As Mikado stated, Israeli power comes in part from the culture in which
they were raised: Israelis “have all the behavior of the colonial society . . . it’s
part of our [being].” Culture is not manifested simply in Israeli and Palestin-
ian communication styles (that is, being “high” or “low” context) but rather
it is constitutive of the ways in which Israeli and Palestinian staff members
approach organizational life, including issues like how the workday should
be structured and the purpose (goal) of having a meeting. In contrast with
most Israelis, who are not aware of the “ideological investments” embedded
in existing conventions present in “their normal practices” (one could com-
pare this with “white privilege”), AIC staff seek to “restructure positioning
practices and structures” (Fairclough 1992: 90–91). Despite their best efforts to
build an institutional culture, as Mikado notes, “we are not the same.” Yet, this
difference is treated as an asset to the organization, as something that should
be creatively engaged with and remembered rather than being “dealt with.”
Both Connie and Mikado emphasize the importance not only of this cultural
negotiation but also of remembering the role of power involved in it; while
there may be short-term frustrations due to differing goals in terms of com-
pleting a meeting agenda, for example, the process of relationship building is
what is “important [in the] long term.” The reflections also highlight the issue
of power in joint work and the importance of equal status between members
of the different communities who are coming together. Both Connie and Mi-
kado demonstrate an awareness of the institutional power differential between
themselves as Israelis with relative freedom of movement and the Palestin-
ians as “oppressed”; both articulate a desire to work to offset this imbalance
through strategic choices regarding modes of interaction, such as trying to
listen rather than speak immediately. Ironically, because of this status as the
“oppressed” and “dominated” society (to use Mikado’s words), the Palestinians
have the power, among other things, to set the agenda (for example, to drink
coffee first before doing business).3
These reflections on power and modes of interaction within the AIC are
connected to the geopolitical bounding issues discussed previously. Although
both offices are located in what was demarcated as the International Zone in
the partition plans proposed by Peel in 1937 and the United Nations in 1947, in
recent years, the boundaries of the practical international zone have shifted.
While many still speak of the internationalization of Jerusalem as a practi-
cal solution to the competition over the capital city,4 Bethlehem is off-limits
to many international tourists. The Israeli Ministry of Tourism warns tour
groups against going to Bethlehem for security reasons, and groups like the
Christian Embassy take religious delegations on tours to holy sites all over
Israel but do not venture into Bethlehem. Many religious pilgrims I met dur-
ing my field research also expressed their avoidance of Bethlehem; conse-
quently, the Church of the Nativity and Manger Square were usually empty of
tourists, and Beit Sahour rarely drew visitors, despite its being the site of the
Shepherd’s Fields. In contrast, the Jerusalem office is located in the center of
downtown West Jerusalem, on a bustling street, a hub of Israeli activist activ-
ity. People are always coming and going, dropping in to talk, to plan actions,
to find out what is happening with the staff members. Restaurants, cultural
events, other organizations with similar ideals are located within a short walk
of the office. While international volunteers and activists frequently travel
between the two offices, the two offices have very different “geographies of
affection” (Ringmar 1996: 78), drawn from different geographic and cultural
constituencies. The staff seek to break down these boundaries to create one
organization, but the realities of checkpoints, permits, public transportation
schedules, and demands on time make it very difficult (if not impossible) for
the Jerusalem staff to attend evening events in Beit Sahour and vice versa.5
However, the “imagined community” of the AIC persists (Anderson 1991),
largely due to the continued insistence of staff members in both offices that it
is one organization and not two.
Panorama
Like many Palestinian organizations, Panorama has offices in multiple cit-
ies throughout the West Bank and Gaza as a way to circumvent the travel
restrictions placed on Palestinians. Although staff members cannot always
move between offices, the organization itself can conduct work in each locale
in the name of the entire organization. E-mail, telephone, and fax provide
telecommunications linkages where personal contact is virtually impossible.

At the time I conducted my fieldwork, it was still possible for Walid Salem,
the Jerusalem director, to travel to Ramallah using his Jerusalem ID. There
were, however, reports from multiple organizations and officials that in recent
months Jerusalem residents would need permits to travel to Ramallah, Bethle-
hem, and other areas. Cities like Nablus already required permits for Jerusale-
mites, even if they had family members living in the city. Other than one other
staff member, who is a Palestinian citizen of Israel and can therefore travel to
Israel (although the challenge of crossing the boundaries means she stays in
Ramallah most of the time), staff members generally remained in the cities
where their offices were located. Similarly, Panorama activities were generally
in the cities where they worked, although during the Palestinian elections,
for example, staff members traveled around the West Bank and Gaza Strip as
election monitors. Here, rather than focus on the geopolitical obstacles fac-
ing Panorama as an organization, I focus on the geopolitical difficulties of
conducting the two joint (binational) projects undertaken by Panorama’s East
Jerusalem office in conjunction with Israelis: Bringing Peace Together and the
code of ethics project.6
One of the major challenges facing joint work in Israel/Palestine is deter-
mining a location to meet. Most Israelis are not comfortable traveling into the
West Bank, and it is illegal for them to be in Area A (cities like Ramallah or
Bethlehem). Most Palestinians are unable to travel outside of the major cit-
ies due to issues of permits and travel restrictions. Some Palestinians refuse
to apply for permits out of principle, arguing that travel to other Palestinian
cities should not require a permit; this action is a form of nonviolent nonco-
operation as it indicates a refusal to be governed by the rules of the occupy-
ing power and dismisses them as illegitimate. Jerusalem, due to its contested
status as both Palestinian and Israeli capital and its relatively central location
(although in some ways Jerusalem is on the periphery, as Israeli activists tend
to prefer the more secular Tel Aviv and most Palestinians cannot reach Jeru-
salem), is often the default locale for Israeli-Palestinian interaction, and often
this interaction occurs in the two major high-end Palestinian hotels just east
of the seam line: the Ambassador and the American Colony.7 All but one of
the Bringing Peace Together meetings occurred at the Ambassador Hotel. The
code of ethics project, which involved a smaller working group comprised
of two principal researchers (one Israeli, one Palestinian), an Israeli research
assistant, two evaluators (one Palestinian, one Israeli), and two volunteers
(myself and another woman from the United States), met once at the Hebrew
University for a presentation by peace scholar Johan Galtung and subsequent

focus group discussion with Israeli academics, once in Shu'afat at the office of
the Palestinian evaluator when the responsible party from UNESCO was in
town for a meeting,8 twice at the American Colony Hotel, once at the Aroma
coffee shop by Hebrew University, and two or three times at Panorama’s East
Jerusalem office.
I mention these meeting places because of their significance in the politics
of Jerusalem. The meeting at Panorama’s office was the first time Yonit, the
Israeli research assistant, had ever been into East Jerusalem (other than for
her activities at the Hebrew University, which is geographically in East Jeru-
salem but politically, socially, and psychologically in West Jerusalem), and it
left a significant impression on her.9 After the meeting she remarked that she
had never been to this part of the city before, and that it was like traveling
in another country. She commented on this again when I interviewed her
personally several months later. Meeting at Hebrew University was difficult
because those without university IDs needed a permit to enter the campus and
required an official invitation, approved in advance by university officials, to
present at the heavily guarded gate.
All of those involved in the code of ethics project carried the blue Israeli
ID or international passports; in contrast, the meetings for Bringing Peace
Together were more geographically challenged as they sought to gather a di-
verse array of groups. Inevitably, all but the organizers were thirty minutes to
an hour (or more) late to the sessions, and many Palestinians were unable to
come at all due to permit issues or other conflicts. Many of the Israeli mem-
bers came from Tel Aviv, as the Israeli Left (which is mostly secular middle
class) tends to avoid Jerusalem and its religious politics. However, there was
no question of these meetings ever being held in Tel Aviv or Ramallah, where
most of the Israeli and Palestinian participants respectively were coming from,
due to political complications and psychological obstacles.
Unlike activists in the AIC, who envision a secular, democratic, binational
state (or no states at all) as the ideal political configuration, all of those in
Bringing Peace Together openly advocated a two-state solution. The group
broke down into chaos when discussions moved toward topics such as the
separation barrier, and participants spent extensive time discussing the mech-
anisms, issues, and practical details related to the Gaza disengagement plan.
Much of the discussion during these meetings focused on unilateralism versus
coordinated efforts, with limited discussion on the impact the disengagement
was having on the West Bank. Unlike other groups I studied, the Bringing
Peace Together group was not as critical of the Gaza disengagement plan, and
generally saw it as a positive step forward, albeit with a process that could be
improved. Many of the Israelis in particular were concerned by the threats
facing Israeli democracy as a result of what was perceived by the religious
nationalist camp as a top-down process; many feared significant conflict be-
tween groups loyal to rival religious and secular authorities. As a result of this
focus, Israeli members of BPT insisted (much to the chagrin of the Palestin-
ian members) that they could not be asked to pay attention to current issues
in the West Bank. Consequently, geopolitical issues such as settlements, the
status of Jerusalem, and the separation barrier were hardly discussed by this
group, although the issue of refugees was the focus of a day-long conference
held in May 2005. In contrast to many of the other groups studied, BPT did
not challenge existing boundaries, other than those dividing Israeli and Pal-
estinian peace movements; instead, they generally sought to reinforce official
discourses on a two-state solution, even while avoiding discussion of specific
formulations. In any event, the goal of the group was not to propose or agree
upon a peace proposal but rather to forge relationships and create a space for
devising strategies regarding how Israeli and Palestinian civil societies could
better influence the peace process and cooperate with each other rather than
work separately—in other words, “institution building.”
Panorama’s work with the Bringing Peace Together and code of ethics proj-
ects did not seek to modify official bounding mechanisms calling for par-
tition but rather sought to maintain adherence to those boundaries in the
face of threats from Israeli and Palestinian groups calling for either a Greater
Israel or a Greater Palestine. Group members did not seriously contemplate
the possibility of a secular binational state as a valid option, although several
expressed willingness to have an open or shared Jerusalem. In their meet-
ings, conferences, and discussions, Bringing Peace Together and code of eth-
ics participants emphasized the 1967 boundaries with mutual land exchanges
as a general guideline for a two-state solution. Official negotiations, such as
Oslo and Taba, as well as Track II agreements like the Geneva Accords, were
pointed to as guideposts that should be the basis for implementation. Gen-
erally speaking, the two groups sought to buttress existing mechanisms for
moving forward (or restarting) the peace process through official negotia-
tions, Track II agreements, international resolutions, or proposals such as the
Road Map—rather than challenge them or propose new ones. In selecting
their places to meet, the two groups sought to reinforce the notion of Jeru-
salem as a city for both Palestinians and Israelis, although the specific politi-
cal arrangements of the city were never the source of much discussion. One
exception was Walid’s insistence that the code of ethics group should meet in
“our own offices” rather than in hotels or cafés, a step pushing the boundaries
of much Israeli-Palestinian interaction, which tends to occur in neutral out-
side spaces rather than in the territory of either party. By holding meetings
in Israeli and Palestinian offices, the group broke the tacit boundary between
East and West Jerusalem, and pushed the comfort zone of group members by
bringing Israelis into Palestinian East Jerusalem and Palestinians into Israeli
West Jerusalem.
Ta'ayush
Israeli Arabs and Jews alike stressed the importance of Ta'ayush as the first
peace movement within Israel aimed at the relationship between Jews and
Palestinians within Israel. Previously, most Arab-Jewish or Palestinian-Israteli
partnerships (related to the “international” Israeli-Palestinian conflict as op-
posed to “domestic” Arab-Jewish coexistence projects) involved Israelis and
West Bank Palestinians. Although at the time of my research most Ta'ayush
activity was carried out in the West Bank (as the Palestinian citizens of Israeli
agreed it should be, since that was where direct action was currently most
needed), the group was created out of a desire to “improve . . . life for the Pal-
estinians inside Israel” (R. et al. 2004). In particular, Ta'ayush was unique be-
cause cooperative efforts with the Israeli peace movement had previously al-
ways been—as one Palestinian citizen of Israel explained—“you [Arabs] over
here and we [Jewish leftists] over there, you alone and we alone. Ta'ayush said
the end of this. Yes, there are two people, etc., but at the same time we know
each other. We know the Other” (R. et al. 2004). Those who began Ta'ayush
had been friends and activists together in the 1980s and early 1990s, before the
Oslo peace process, and rekindled their relationships after many years of sim-
ply maintaining contact (Leibner 2004). The movement was simultaneously
challenging two boundaries, one more explicitly than the other: the boundary
separating the international from the domestic conflict (i.e., Palestinians re-
siding within the 1967 versus 1948 boundaries) and the ethnonational bound-
ary separating peace movements within Israel.
While Arab-Jewish dialogue groups and Arab-Jewish joint projects have
been running in Israel for decades, Ta'ayush was the first to take on an Arabic-
only name, to collectively engage in planning and carrying out direct action,
and to intentionally avoid any ideology other than that espoused in its name:
living together in partnership for life (as opposed to mere coexistence). In
the Central region, where Ta'ayush began, meetings alternated between Tel
Aviv and Arab towns like Kfar Qasem, Tireh, or Taibeh as a way of seeking
broader participation, because Arab Israelis were more likely to attend meet-
ings in their own town. Given that most Israeli Jews do not go into Arab
Israeli towns very much (many Arab Israeli towns are not even serviced by
Israeli public transport), this practice challenged geosocial boundaries while
also providing the opportunity for the activists to become better acquainted
with each other’s environments. Although the organization is diverse and
geographically spread out, the activists knew each other across clusters, com-
municated by e-mail and telephone, and often saw each other through work,
activist activities, or attendance at each other’s meetings. Although the group
was bounded by a similar belief in the need for Arab-Jewish partnership
and breaking down the walls of racism, economic disparity, stereotypes, and
physical separation within Israel, each geographic subgrouping had its own
unique personality, and the membership was quite diverse in their ideologies,
with both Zionist and non-Zionist members (Bronner 2004). Demographi-
cally each group differed as well; the Jerusalem branch was quite young and
mostly Jewish, with very few Palestinian members, the Central branch was
older, and the Haifa branch was the most evenly mixed in terms of Arab-
Jewish membership.
Partnership in Life
Although the name chosen by Ta'ayush, “Partnership in Life,” points to the
organization’s desire to transcend the racism, segregation, and hierarchical
power relations often found in Israeli society and frequently replicated in joint
activities, such distinctions are not easily overcome. Indeed, the members of
Ta'ayush whom I interviewed expressed their identity—as well as their un-
derstanding of the group’s identity—differently depending on their own “na-
tional” origin.10 Many I interviewed noted the strategic value to having, as a
group, a mixed identity, as it made it difficult for the Israeli military to know
how to respond to them. Since there were Jewish Israelis intermingled with
Arab Israelis, the activists said, it was more difficult for the soldiers to shoot
on unarmed protestors. While by 2004–2005 many Jewish Israeli groups had
adopted this practice and were going into the West Bank to protest alongside
Palestinian villagers, this practice was initiated on a broad scale by Ta'ayush
in the early months of the second intifada. As several of those I interviewed
said, if the soldiers know there are Jews in the crowd of protestors, they do not
shoot. Such mixing “makes the soldiers confused. [When] there are Arabs,
there are Palestinians, it is easy to shoot. But if it is mixed with Jews, it is not
easy to shoot” (R. et al. 2004).
Ta'ayush sought to forge a new configuration of social ties different from
that previously found within Israeli activist groups. As one activist stated,
“Ta'ayush is living between the people . . . we should live together you and
me together, and we should have a language in common . . . the language
together . . . if there is not this kind of language between us, we cannot live
together” (R. et al. 2004). In saying “language,” the activist did not mean He-
brew or Arabic but rather a shared orientation toward the rules for interaction,
a framework for joint action. This was not always easy to achieve, however,
especially for the Arab members of the group, who recounted their peculiar
piece in the puzzle, especially given the widespread preference for a two-state
solution. My informants shared how they are the Other in both societies and
do not really fit in either Israel or Palestine. In Palestine, they are seen as Is-
raelis, and in Israel they are seen as Palestinians. They are more likely to be
arrested, beaten, or lose their job as a result of their activism than their Jew-
ish partners. Furthermore, they are seen as “with the Jews” by their relatives
because of their joint protests, even when those protests occur in Palestinian
communities like Biddu. Reconfiguring social ties is also challenging because
of the broader socioeconomic context within Israel. As Arab Israelis in Israel
felt increasingly depressed and helpless, group membership was affected. Fur-
thermore, it was difficult for Ta'ayush to work with certain other Israeli activist
groups because those groups’ Zionist symbols and ideas were seen differently
by the Arab members of Ta'ayush. One Israeli Jewish member noted that a
particular partnership “didn’t work well” because “they like to demonstrate
with a lot of Israeli flags and things like that, and that is very difficult, espe-
cially for our Arab members. . . . We have to make sure we don’t look like a set-
tlers’ demonstration, but a leftist demonstration” (Bronner 2004). While many
Jewish Israeli activists see no conflict between their peace activism and their
Zionist credentials, for many Palestinians, Zionism is a contributing factor to
the conflict, having stimulated the immigration that led to their dispossession.
Having a common spoken language posed a challenge as well. Language is an
oft-cited marker of identity, and it is particularly relevant in Israel/Palestine,
where Hebrew and Arabic are intimately connected to constructions of na-
tional identity. Although all Israelis must eventually learn Hebrew, Palestin-
ian citizens of Israel do not begin Hebrew in school immediately but proceed
through the first several years entirely in Arabic. Jewish schools do not teach
Arabic except for mandatory Arabic language classes for a few years in which
only the classical Arabic is taught. This practice was viewed as a colossal waste
of time by many of the activists I studied, who yearned for the colloquial,
spoken Arabic language so that they would be able to interact with Palestin-
ians on the street and in joint organizations. While most of Ta'ayush business
was conducted in Hebrew, some of the plenary meetings and activities, when
they occurred in the West Bank or one of the Arab villages, were primarily in
Arabic. Ta'ayush activists saw such diversity and bilingual practice a sign of
strength rather than weakness, and affirmed that it meant they could protest
successfully and engage with local crowds and local authorities regardless of
whether the demonstration occurred in the occupied territories or within Is-
rael (Bronner 2004).
While both Jewish and Palestinian members of Ta'ayush pointed to weak-
nesses and flaws within the organization, they all affirmed the group’s success
at making large strides toward bridging the gaps between exclusive Jewish and
Arab communities within Israel through the creation of social ties. Although
they noted there was much more the group could do to model an effective
and equal joint partnership (and indeed, throughout the time of my research,
a committee was working to provide suggestions for ways the organization
could reorganize in an effort to attract and sustain more Palestinian mem-
bers), those I interviewed shared that they felt free to speak out from a minor-
ity perspective for the first time in their experience in joint work. While some
majority-culture elements continued (and affected membership), such as the
time and place of plenary meetings and language of discussion, efforts were
made (albeit on a sometimes uneven basis) to have Arabic-Hebrew translation
as needed and to move around some of the meeting days and times to better
accommodate the Palestinian membership. Identity as a member of Ta'ayush
was predicated on coming and participating in activities, on taking owner-
ship of planning and coordinating events, and attending the plenary meetings.
Diversity was welcomed and encouraged, although members recognized this
also made decision making at meetings a more difficult and lengthy process.
Perhaps most importantly, Ta'ayush introduced a new concept into the Israeli
media discourse, an Israeli organization comprised of Jews and Arabs with
an Arabic name. The group was well known in the Palestinian media, where
some journalists even shifted from talking about harikat as-salaam (peace
movements) to harikat at-Ta'ayush (Bronner 2004). In such a way, Ta'ayush
constituted not only a new social subject but also contributed to the forma-
tion of a conceptual framework that affords new “conditions of possibility”
(Fairclough 1992: 38).
Personalizing the Map
As a result of its activities, Ta'ayush created a network of social ties not only
spanning Jews and Arabs within Israel but also linking Israeli activists with
Palestinian activists in the West Bank. These activities took a variety of forms,
from accompanying farmers to their fields in the South Hebron hills to plant-
ing trees in a demonstration against the separation barrier in Jayyous, to edu-
cational tours aimed at raising awareness within Israeli society. Ta'ayush activ-
ists, in partnership with the Israeli Women’s Coalition for Peace, organized a
series of tours along the route of the separation barrier in which they visited
with communities impacted by the construction and whose livelihoods were
at risk. These tours included educational background on the status of Jerusa-
lem, maps showing the different boundaries of Jerusalem (pre- and post-1967
municipal boundaries), and charted out the difference between these unilat-
erally defined municipal boundaries and the route of the wall (for it is a wall
in most of Jerusalem). After the factual overview, the group traveled to one
of the affected communities, where they spoke with local residents about the
situation and then engaged in a question-and-answer session before returning
to the starting point for a debriefing. I traveled on several of these tours, one
to the Jerusalem neighborhood of Issawiye, which is literally across the street
from Hebrew University–Mount Scopus. However, since the outbreak of the
second intifada, the Israeli authorities blocked off the entrance to Issawiye
with large cement blocks and road dividers, so that if one did not know where
to look, one would not realize that an entrance to this community was literally
within fifty meters of the main gate to campus.
The other community I visited on these tours was Nu'aman, whose land has
been designated “Israeli/Jerusalem” but the residents living on that land have
been designated “Palestinian/West Bank.” Through “impersonal” mapping
and census techniques, Israeli authorities have made the Palestinian residents
illegal in their own homes. By referencing the law, Israeli authorities displace
the relationship between the controller and the controlled; by having Nu'aman
residents tell their personal stories, these relationships are made visible to
the visitors. The only way to access Nu'aman village was to climb over and
through a garbage dump, created by Israeli contractors looking for a cheap
place to dump their refuse left over from such activities as building the ever-
expanding settlement of Har Homa. After climbing over the dump, we then
had to walk another kilometer or two before reaching the small community,
which is cut off from the east by the construction of the separation barrier, and
which was to be cut off from the north (where currently a beautiful stretch of
cultivated orchards lies) in the near future by a new Israeli road linking the
eastern settlements with the heart of West Jerusalem. The valley was also go-
ing to house a brand-new terminal for Palestinian trucks wishing to transport
goods between the various parts of the West Bank and Israel. Members of the
tour could very vividly see not only the encirclement of Palestinian communi-
ties by settlement infrastructure but also the lack of options available to the
community, which Israel had physically separated from both the West Bank
and Israeli West Jerusalem.
Visits to such villages offered a unique opportunity for “narrating the land-
scape.” Within Israeli popular history one often hears of “a land without a
people for a people without a land,” and demographic issues greatly influ-
ence city planning and boundary drawing within Israel. Israeli scholars and
activists have pointed to Israeli official strategies that seek to maximize land
while minimizing Palestinian population (see, for example, Kimmerling 1992;
and Halper 2004). The Ta'ayush activists leading the wall tours provided an
alternative narrative of the landscape to that usually heard by Israeli Jews.
Their narration highlighted the intersection between politics and demogra-
phy by using maps to orient tour participants prior to departure. Specifically
the guides showed how the route of the wall coincides with (and diverges
from) political boundaries (the 1967 municipal boundary of Jerusalem) and
demographic ones (locations of Palestinian communities and Jewish-Israeli
settlements). Their argument, repeated elsewhere by groups such as B'Tselem,
was that the route of the separation barrier was designed for reasons other
than security, and has geopolitical, demographic consequences. Linking the
academic discussion of these boundaries with a firsthand encounter with Pal-
estinians living with the consequences of them gave the weight of truth to a
geography lesson that might have otherwise been dismissed.
By superimposing different sets of historical, sociopolitical, and cultural
boundaries on the same map, Ta'ayush activists provided an alternate frame
for conceptualizing the issues at hand, one that countered mainstream Israeli
logic. For example, the barrier “bounds out” the Palestinian neighborhood of
Kfar Aqab, which, according to the Israeli post-1967 maps, is part of Jerusa-
lem.11 Thus, Ta'ayush tour guides seek to combat the territorial tendency of
emptying space by telling tour participants that Jerusalemites living in Kfar
Aqab must cross the wall daily to get to schools, work, and so on, even though
they technically live in “united Jerusalem,” which nationalist Israeli leaders
vow never to divide. In some areas, such as around Pisgat Ze'ev settlement
in East Jerusalem, the wall annexes more land to the Jerusalem municipal
borders, land owned by neighboring Palestinian villages but empty of build-
ings and people. By building the wall between the villagers and their land,
Israel prevents the villagers from accessing their lands and keeps the village
from expanding. At the same time, the Jewish settlements are provided with
extra space for their own “natural growth,” which comes mainly from new im-
migrants to Israel, who are given heavy subsidies to live in these comfortable
Jerusalem neighborhoods.
Wall tours such as these, along with the other areas where Ta'ayush regu-
larly worked, illustrate how Ta'ayush activists challenged conventional under-
standings of boundaries within Israeli society. Ta'ayush selectively challenged
and sought to maintain different boundaries of significance than mainstream
Israeli society. For example, like Panorama, Ta'ayush sought to highlight the
significance of the Green Line as a boundary separating Palestinian and Is-
raeli areas of jurisdiction. While Ta'ayush had no stated platform on political
issues, its mode of operating and its activities themselves defined a political
platform of sorts. Part of this protocol involved needing an invitation from
local Palestinian individuals or groups prior to carrying out any activity in
the West Bank.12 Ta'ayush will support and join in the planning of events
(marches, demonstrations, olive picking, tree planting, and so on) in the West
Bank if they are asked to do so (and members consent to the invitation), but
they will not independently plan and carry out activities anywhere but within
Israel as a way of recognizing (legitimating) the area east of the Green Line as
Palestinian territory and that consequently Palestinians should decide what
happens there. The culture/power tension mentioned earlier in the discussion
of AIC business practices was, on several occasions, seen in Ta'ayush meetings
as well. At times Ta'ayush activists wanted to plan an event or demonstration
to protest some Israeli policy or action that they disagreed with, but they re-
frained from following through because it was not their terrain. The frustrated
conversations and debates that sometimes occurred during Ta'ayush meetings
reflected members’ awareness of the power differential between Israeli and
Palestinian activists as well as their desire to do something. Ta'ayush activists
noted that Palestinians living in the West Bank had additional restrictions
placed on their freedom to protest—by the Palestinian Authority as well as
by the Israeli government—as well as economic and other realities that lim-
ited their time and resources for planning and implementing activities. At the
same time, however, Ta'ayush members were frustrated that Palestinians did
not do more. This example clearly demonstrates territoriality at play: a bound-
ary was defined (the Green Line) and access across it was enforced not only by
Palestinian groups, who were in charge of inviting (or not inviting) Ta'ayush to
partner with them, but also by Ta'ayush activists who policed other members
of their group from overstepping their bounds.
The ABCs of Activism

Because, for Ta'ayush, the Palestinians have the territorial authority to en-
force control over the boundary separating Israel from Palestine, Ta'ayush
challenges the Israeli government’s enforcement of differential access across
these same boundaries, particularly in regard to the restrictions limiting Is-
raeli travel in Palestinian areas. Consistent with their recognition of Palestin-
ian jurisdiction over West Bank lands east of the Green Line, most Ta'ayush
activists did not formally recognize Israeli bans on travel to Area A. While
many Ta'ayush activists did not go to Area A because of the administrative
risk it entailed (the possibility of jail, fines, lost jobs or visas), a sizable num-
ber did enter repeatedly into Palestinian areas, affirming the authority of the
Palestinian Authority in the process. Ta'ayush activists regularly challenged
these boundaries, driving on “Palestinian” roads and in “Palestinian” trans-
portation, and visiting “Palestinian” parts of Jerusalem. For example, although
the Lutheran-owned Augusta Victoria Hospital complex was literally a stone’s
throw from Hebrew University–Mount Scopus, most Israelis would not drive
by the hospital, fearful of its location in Arab East Jerusalem. Living at the Au-
gusta Victoria guesthouse and taking classes at Hebrew University, I traveled
constantly between these two completely different worlds, simply by walking
the quarter-mile from gate to gate (which continues to manifest its historical
identity as a no-man’s-land from 1948 to 1967). While most Israelis would
drive no further than the university grounds, Ta'ayush activists gave me a ride
to the gate of Augusta Victoria after a meeting, interview, or day-long activity
on more than one occasion. Similarly, Ta'ayush activists drove with their own
cars, on multiple occasions, to the Palestinian town of a-Ram, which borders
Jerusalem to the north, to meet with local Palestinian activists and plan joint
activities. Given that Israelis and Palestinians usually travel on separate road
networks using separate public transportation systems, this seemingly trivial
event was hugely significant. Traveling with Ta'ayush and other activists to pay
a solidarity visit to the besieged Palestinian residents living on Tel Rumeida
in Hebron, for example, we had to get out of our yellow-plated Israeli tran-
sits, climb over a dirt mound, and get into green-plated Palestinian services
(shared taxis), because we were alerted that a flying checkpoint ahead on the
road would make it impossible for us to continue our journey. Several of my

fellow passengers (who were not regular Ta'ayush activists) remarked to me
nervously that they had never traveled in a Palestinian vehicle before. When
I commented, “Aimen and the others [the drivers who had taken us as far as
the dirt mound] are Palestinian,” they replied, “But they have yellow plates!”
For these non-Ta'ayush activists, the color of the license plates is a significant
boundary marker, one that did not bear as much weight for those who regu-
larly engage in Ta'ayush-organized activism. For the rest of our journey, the
same individuals constantly asked, “Are we in Area A yet?” since the boundary
between A, B, and C areas is not visible to the naked eye, yet marked the point
beyond which they were committing an act of civil disobedience.13
In contrast to the joint efforts of Panorama and the AIC, which were lim-
ited primarily to the Jerusalem-Bethlehem region, in 2004–2005 Ta'ayush had
a much wider geographic reach. Table 5.1 shows the various types of areas in
which Ta'ayush conducted activities during the course of my research. This
chart illustrates how Ta'ayush challenged conventional boundaries, not only
by acting on both sides of the Green Line (when invited) but also by acting in
areas unrecognized by Israel even though most of the so-designated villages
predate the founding of the state of Israel. By engaging in the same types of
activities within Israel as they did in the Palestinian Territories, Ta'ayush chal-
lenged the separation of sociopolitical issues into those related to “1967” and
those related to “1948,” although this challenge was often implicit rather than
explicit.
Table 5.1. Ta'ayush activities by area type

Palestinian Frontier region/
Type of area Israel Territories contested Unrecognized
Place Name Wadi Ara Batir Abu Dis Al Sdeir
Lud Biddu Anin Dar al Hanoun
Tel Aviv Bil'in Beit Hanina al Balad Um al Hiran
Kfar Qasem Budrus Issawiya
West Jerusalem Hebron Nu'aman
Tireh Jayyous Silwan
Haifa Marda Wallaje
Ramleh Ram
Susya
Tuwani
Machsom Watch: Challenging Territoriality at the Checkpoints

Israeli military checkpoints represent territoriality in action: soldiers enforce
differential access across a boundary that demarcates by area rather than
type. Many of the checkpoints monitored by the Machsom Watch women are
deep within the West Bank and thus separate Palestinian villages from other
Palestinian villages, or they encircle major cities like Nablus (where medical
facilities, jobs, markets, and universities are located) so that it is difficult for
residents to enter or leave or for local villagers to access much-needed goods
and services. Whether or not Palestinians are able to cross the checkpoint
depends largely on their ID card and their permits but can also depend on the
whim of the soldier or a computer error.
Machsom Watch women use their positional power as middle-class women
with connections to Israeli authorities to document the daily effect of Israeli
occupation on Palestinian society. Many of my informants noted that what
they saw and what they raised awareness about was not necessarily sensa-
tional human rights violations, although those happened from time to time
and they did what they could to avert them. Rather, they sought to reveal the
creeping consolidation of Israeli occupation and control through twice-daily
documented observations of the same places over a period of years. Machsom
Watch women worked for the removal of the checkpoints, particularly those
within the Palestinian Territories, as they accepted that most in the world be-
lieve states have the right to patrol their own borders. Most of the checkpoints,
however, are not on the 1949 borders of Israel as recognized by the United Na-
tions but rather separate Palestinians from Palestinians. The sites monitored
by the women of Machsom Watch include dirt mounds and unofficial crossing
points, like al Bawabeh in Abu Dis near one of the several monasteries of Az-
zariya (Bethany). The stretch of wall in Abu Dis, which crosses the old Jericho
road (a new Israeli bypass road to Jericho, which also links Jerusalem with
Ma'ale Adumim, was built in stages, starting in the late 1980s)14 at a height of
over eight meters (twenty-six feet), is incomplete, dropping to a series of gates
and fences and small cement barriers down to al Bawabeh and monastery.
The women let me know that the gates were the responsibility of the Palestin-
ians living there. The Israeli authorities said that they would be allowed to
remain on the Jerusalem side of the wall if they policed their houses and land
and ensured that none from the Palestinian side were able to cross until the
wall was completed. Thus, the Palestinians were forced to police their own
people at their own expense or else they would suffer the consequences of
also being walled off from Jerusalem. Despite the tall fences and solid gates,
in places you could see old men and women or small children climbing over
the walls, easing through the bars where they had been bent. Most of the time
this allowed them to carry on their lives to a certain degree, but sometimes the
Israeli border police arrived and arrested those who sought to pass this way.
In sharing explanations such as these, the Watchers underscored relations of
power inherent in the building of the wall and delegation of policing efforts.
They also emphasized that walls cannot ever be hermetically sealed and thus
are an insufficient approach to security.
Deploying Shifting Identities

I observed the dynamic interplay of identity categories, the broader environ-
ment, and territorial tendencies exercised by Israeli officials (military or civil)
in the daily practices of Machsom Watch women conducting their weekly
shifts. I also had the opportunity to experience them directly in a field trip
I took with Machsom Watch women (who came primarily from Jerusalem
and Tel Aviv) to learn about the challenges facing the Machsom Watchers in
the southern region. Hebron (al-Khalil in Arabic) is the only West Bank city
with Jewish settlers living inside the city (instead of on surrounding hilltops),
about five hundred Israeli settlers in a Palestinian population of approxi-
mately 150,000 (Swisa 2003).15 The 1997 Wye River agreement divided the
city into areas of Palestinian and Israeli control (H-1 and H-2); Israelis are not
allowed in the Palestinian-controlled areas of the city according to Israeli law,
although they are technically allowed in the Israeli-controlled areas, which
include the settlements, the Ibrahimi Mosque/Cave of Machpelah/Tomb of
Abraham, and part of the Old City of Hebron, sections of which are more
than eight hundred years old.16 While Palestinians enter the city from a road
passing through the town of Halhoul, Israelis can only enter the city via the
Kiryat Arba settlement. All other entrances to Hebron have been blocked off
by the Israeli military.
Like many places throughout Israel and the Palestinian Territories, the city
has two names (one Hebrew/Israeli, one Arabic/Palestinian), and the central
religious site has two names (one Palestinian, one Israeli), each tying into rival
sociohistorical and religious narratives that are often used to claim prior own-
ership. Since the 1997 Wye River Accord, Hebron acquired additional labels—
H-1 and H-2—designating different areas of the city with different types of
political and military control; although one could call them “Israeli” and “Pal-
estinian” areas of the city, Palestinian residents were the vast majority in both
areas (Swisa 2003). During the trip, we were required to actively deploy and
rebound our identities multiple times in response to various policies that de-
clared certain areas of Hebron off limits to certain categories of people. As we
were a heterogeneous group, we were particularly challenged by the narrow
categories with which we were forced to identify. Our schizophrenic experi-
ence began when we drove into the Kiryat Arba settlement and were stopped
by a guard patrolling in a large white van. Upon checking to ensure that none
of us were “Arab,” he opened the gate to “Worshipper’s Way” and allowed us to
drive out of Kiryat Arba and into the city of Hebron on a road allowed only for
Jews (and not the Palestinian families living along it). We drove the short dis-
tance to Ibrahimi Mosque/Cave of Machpelah (where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac,
and Rebekah are buried), and there we met with our Christian Peacemaker
Team (CPT) hosts and a Palestinian translator, who encouraged us to pretend
to be Christian (all in the group were nonpracticing Jews with the exception
of me) and to speak English rather than Hebrew so that we could bound our
identity as tourists and thereby better negotiate the divided city.
Crossings between Jewish/Israeli and Palestinian parts of the city were
marked by concrete blocks, scaffolding, and armed soldiers or by electroni-
cally controlled turnstiles. A soldier controlled the movement of the turnstile
from a distance, and from his smile seemed to enjoy the power of trapping us
in the turnstile between the bars, unable to go forward or backward until he
pushed the button again. After walking through the Old City we ventured out
toward the Jewish settlements in the heart of town by walking along Shuhada
Street, the former main street of Hebron, which for years had been closed to
non-Jews (although the United States spent millions of dollars to repave the
street and renovate surrounding buildings in the late 1990s for the purpose
of bolstering Palestinian business in the area),17 including those with foreign
passports, toward the Beit Hadassah settlement. Once we approached the be-
ginning of the street, we suddenly all became “Israelis” in order to complete
the tour. In the presence of the Jewish Israeli activists, the members of CPT
and our Palestinian hostess were also permitted to walk the stretch, which
they had not been able to do in years despite living practically on top of the
road. The heterogeneity of the group yet again allowed certain members access
that they would otherwise have been denied; to the soldiers monitoring our
progress, allowing the passage of a few non-Israelis seemed less threatening
than the possible consequences of prohibiting a number of Israeli Jews.
In Hebron, in contrast to Jerusalem, the lines separating the Palestinian
and Israeli parts of the city are far from tacit; not only are they physically
closer than much of sprawling East and West Jerusalem, but the difference
between the two is starker. Where the Israeli army is in control, Palestinian
shops are deserted, empty or closed, the area is generally run-down, with graf-
fiti proclaiming “Death to Arabs,” and hardly any Palestinians in sight since
life is unpredictable, prone to settler attacks and twenty-four-hour curfew,
and living in the area requires the time-consuming ordeal of passing through
the checkpoints all of the time. In addition to the deserted Palestinian streets,
one also sees shiny, modern Israeli Jewish houses and apartment complexes,
newly paved roads, and settlers walking around with their hands on their large
guns.18 Later, we moved to the Palestinian-controlled areas and could feel an
immediate shift in the atmosphere. The quiet tension of the Israeli areas was
replaced with the noisy sound of traffic and vegetable markets. The streets
were livelier, bustling with people, vendors, and small shops. Although em-
ployment opportunities were limited and industry hurt by the road closures,
one could also see large construction projects underway (in part because
Palestinians could only get permits to build in Palestinian-controlled areas,
yet another territorial strategy of the Israeli government to “empty space” by
limiting the presence of Palestinian development). Because we were with CPT
and a local translator, both trusted as part of the Palestinian community, we
were able, yet again, to defy the typical boundary demarcations of Hebron,
where most Jews are soldiers or settlers. By deploying our Israeli and tourist
identities throughout the trip, we were able to see parts of the city most do
not. Not only do most tourists avoid Hebron, those who do visit do not ven-
ture beyond the mosque/synagogue complex. Further, by crossing back and
forth between Israeli and Palestinian portions of the city, the Machsom Watch
women in effect rebounded the city as one, rather than as two cities, one for
Israeli Jews and one for Palestinians, superimposed on each other.
The Checkpoint: An Exercise in Territoriality

While the Machsom Watch shifts are focused on the permanent, staffed
checkpoints, they include all the activity involved in travel to and from the
checkpoint and often the surrounding area (see map 5.1 for the location
of major Israeli checkpoints). On the way to Huwarra from Tel Aviv, for
example, the women would stop at flying checkpoints if they encountered
any, or observe roadblocks set up on the Palestinian roads that go under the
Israeli-only road connecting Ariel settlement with Israel. Since Palestinians
(unless they have yellow license plates) are not allowed to drive on the set-
tler roads, the road effectively serves as a wall separating Palestinian com-
munities to the north and south of the road. In some places, Israel has dug
Checkpoints and Settlements – June 2002
Map 5.1. Major Israeli staffed checkpoints and settlements in the West Bank as of 2002.
Map created by Nancy Hoalst Pullen, based on an earlier map by Jan de Jong. By per-
mission of the Foundation for Middle East Peace.
a tunnel under the Israeli road to allow for Palestinian passage from side to
side, but even on these roads, there are occasionally flying checkpoints. The
Machsom Watch women also stopped to watch and document the passage of
traffic at the Tapuach/Zatara junction, where Israeli soldiers stop Palestinian
traffic and allow Israeli traffic to flow unimpeded. One of the women I was
with counted the number of cars waiting and then timed how long it took
for cars to reach the soldiers, who were checking all passenger IDs against
their list.
During the shift, while observing the checkpoint, the women talk in order
to pass the time and to process events. In addition to speaking with each other,
they also speak with Palestinians crossing through the checkpoint or being de-
tained at the side. Through conversations like these, one gets to see territorial-
ity in action by seeing which categories of people are allowed access across the
boundary (the checkpoint) and which categories are not. During my various
shifts at Huwarra, some with women from Jerusalem and some with women
from Tel Aviv, we spoke with Palestinians being detained by soldiers in the
concrete holding cell, one a Bedouin from the Negev who was held as he left
since he had an Israeli ID and was “illegally” in Nablus. Another woman, with
a Jerusalem ID and three children under the age of six, was detained for over
an hour for visiting her mother. A man who was a driver for the Red Crescent
was prevented from driving back into Nablus after his day at work because
his car did not have the proper permit. After much checking with the district
coordinating office (DCO) and the soldier on duty, and drawing on previous
experience, the women confirmed that it was not possible for a Palestinian
to get a permit for a small car (which is what he was driving) and that there
was no process for getting one. Although the man had a permit and had his
papers all in order, he was not allowed back home for the evening. Eventually
he drove around to the western checkpoint of Nablus, Beit Iba, and made his
way through there. The women from Machsom Watch observe, document,
and interfere when necessary in cases like this. But they also speak about these
events, distribute their reports, and share their stories about how often the
checkpoints are not about security. Michal Sagi, speaking one night to a group
of Israelis and internationals, asked, “How is the fact that this [Palestinian]
woman is not allowed home to her family providing me with security? How
is lots of Palestinians crowded together between one Palestinian area and an-
other providing me with security? How is not allowing people to go from their
village of Huwarra to Nablus, two Palestinian areas, giving me security?” (Sagi
2005).
Shifts also provided an opportunity for seeing the various ways Israelis
and Palestinians narrate the landscape. Traveling around the West Bank, the
women from Machsom Watch often pointed out the different settlements and
noted their names along with the names of the Palestinian villages nearby. Of-
ten they bore the same name, such as the Palestinian village of Semoa beside
the Jewish settlement of Shima, or the two Karmiels, and the women often
highlighted Palestinian place names rather than Israeli ones in their reports.
The Machsom Watch women, though, must negotiate a difficult boundary as
they conduct their work at checkpoints and roadblocks. For example, on many
occasions when I accompanied the women on shifts, we saw the lines of Pales-
tinians walking from roadblock to roadblock, switching cars each time, while
settlers in their fancy cars zipped along the highway without being stopped at
all. The women of Machsom Watch often expressed mixed feelings when faced
with such roadblocks. On the one hand, they were annoyed by the incon-
venience and the hassle of stopping and waiting, and often documented the
flying checkpoints, earth mounds, and other obstacles obstructing Palestinian
movement. At the same time, some of the women noted that they could not
be too upset because they could not know the purpose of the checkpoint and
maybe there was a tip on a bomb threat and so the checkpoint was actually
protecting them. Often, the women would take advantage of their privileged
Israeli status to zip around the long line of Palestinian cars at the Tapuach/
Zatara junction, even while remarking that this really was not fair and against
the spirit of their documentation and observing activity. Laughing cynically,
one woman joked about “how easy it is to be corrupted” (Nina, Hannah, and
Aliya 2005).
Although on occasion the Machsom Watch women took advantage of
their status as Israelis to bypass obstacles (like roadblocks) faced by Pales-
tinians, they also traversed boundaries and crossed lines rigidly upheld by
most Israelis. For example, on almost every shift I participated in, the women
walked around on both sides of the checkpoints (their organizational badge
gave them clearance to remain within eyesight on the “Palestinian” side);
wandered through Palestinian neighborhoods abutting the separation barrier,
settlements, or checkpoints; and bought food and other items from Palestin-
ian vendors; a few women even rode in Palestinian public transportation on
Palestinian roads. While this may seem somewhat trivial, it is significant in
light of my experience with other Israeli groups and the extreme nervousness
of Israeli activists riding in a green-plated “Palestinian” car for the first time on
the way to Hebron. Riding in public transportation puts one at the mercy of
an unknown driver and can be uncomfortable physically as many Palestinian

services are old, lack shocks, and require squishing together in tight quarters.
At times, however, this transportation was more convenient for the Israeli
women, as they could (like the Palestinians) pass over (literally) the check-
points without waiting in their cars, and be driven to the next checkpoint
without having to then worry about parking their vehicle somewhere while
they did their shift. Not all women carried out their shifts this way, but some
did. Such actions on the part of Machsom Watch women transcended offi-
cial geopolitical boundaries and led to the drawing of boundaries inclusive of
those others (Palestinians) who were also climbing over the barrier or riding
in the servees.
One pair of women I accompanied went even further over the line than
most, venturing far down a road toward the Qalandia refugee camp and
quarry on the Palestinian side of the checkpoint as dusk fell. This same pair
worked to counteract the territorial tendency of impersonality by providing
the personal stories of Palestinians affected by Israeli bureaucratic proce-
dures. The women noted that while on the surface the permit system was
very civil (“impersonal”), upon closer examination it was not, since five
hundred thousand Palestinians could not get permits due to lack of security
clearance and were never told the reason. Machsom Watch investigation
discovered that reasons for this blacklisting included having a relative who
was shot or tried to cross a checkpoint without a permit. The women also
shared that Palestinians cannot change their place of residence to a place
other than where they were the day the census was taken, even if they have
lived there for decades. Their ID will always reflect where they were that
day, which complicates life since the West Bank is divided into nine can-
tons, and travel from one canton to another often requires a permit. Many
workers go early in the morning (some as early as 3:00 or 4:00 a.m.), hoping
for the best, that they will be allowed back through the checkpoint in the
evening (many checkpoints are unidirectional, so that you are only checked
going in one direction), since they have been split from their place of em-
ployment. Families, workplaces, and schools have been separated from each
other, paralyzing daily life. As one Machsom Watcher remarked, this “forces
[Palestinians] to transgress” as they must commit a crime (illegally crossing
a checkpoint) in order to live and feed their family (Nora and Ronni 2004).
By telling me (and other Israeli citizens through their reports and presen-
tations) such stories, the Machsom Watch women seek to counteract the
impersonal tendency of the permit system.
Tensions and Contradictions: Humanitarian versus Political Activity
The women I accompanied on shifts mentioned several tensions in their work,

one of which was the tension between the long-term goal of ending the occu-
pation and removing internal checkpoints, and short-term strategies for cop-
ing with current realities. The women’s work at the checkpoints has resulted in
some “improvements,” such as metal sheltering roofs in places like the Con-
tainer checkpoint and “humanitarian lanes” that come and go at most of the
major checkpoints. While the women speak of these changes as proof of their
impact, most noted these successes with regret, as they further institutionalize
and concretize the checkpoints. Furthermore, the women noted that in many
ways the military establishment needs them to give a humanitarian seal of ap-
proval on their work, a mission that many of the women I spoke with found
distasteful. These women emphasized their desire to see the eradication of the
checkpoints and the constant tension between making the situation better
in the present (such as working for one-meter-wide turnstiles instead of the
sixty-centimeter ones found in most West Bank checkpoints, so that Palestin-
ians carrying shopping bags or those in wheelchairs could pass) and working
to eliminate checkpoints completely. While Machsom Watch has succeeded
in raising the profile of the checkpoints and spreading awareness of the fact
that many of them are not on the border between “Israel” and “Palestine,” they
have not prevented the building of large, expensive, permanent “terminals” in
Bethlehem and Qalandia.
The humanitarian versus political tension was evident in organizational
dynamics as well, a tension that reflected those in the broader fabric of Israeli
peace activism more generally. Like Ta'ayush, Machsom Watch was decen-
tralized and nonhierarchical, and run entirely by volunteers (although there
was a very contentious plan underfoot during my period of research to hire
a paid public relations person). The original model of consensual decision
making became more difficult as the original group of politically oriented
Jerusalem-based activists expanded to include not only geographic but politi-
cal diversity, which, according to the women I interviewed, included Zionists
and non-Zionists, proponents of a single binational state, and proponents of
a two-state solution. In group shorthand, the humanitarian-political divide
was generally framed as the Tel Avivis versus the Yerushalmis, which meant,
practically speaking, the new recruits versus the old guard. This terminology
reflected broader patterns in Israeli society between the generally more secu-
lar, more cosmopolitan Israelis living in modern beachfront Tel Aviv, more
removed from the conflict, and those living in the generally more religious,
more conservative, historically and politically sensitive Jerusalem.19 Unlike
Ta'ayush, which had regional clusters with their own subidentity, organiza-
tional meetings for Machsom Watch were still held as an entire group (for
whoever would come; many did not attend), although the making of shift
schedules was decentralized into the various regions.
As one Jerusalem woman stated, “We are political. . . . The Jerusalem hard
core is out here to protest the checkpoints, not to make them easier. . . . We
want to get rid of them, disband them . . . it is [activism] and not human rights”
(Nora and Ronni 2004). In contrast, many of the newer Tel Aviv recruits saw
the group as being humanitarian, and this orientation turned several of their
daughters off as, in the daughters’ words, they wished to protest the Israeli
occupation of the West Bank. However, many Machsom Watch women stated
that they go out to the checkpoints, document what they see, and engage in
research to find out what is happening behind the scenes, precisely because
they wish to protest (and eradicate) the Israeli occupation of the Palestin-
ian Territories. This tension illustrates a broader tension in the Israeli peace
movement, between reform-oriented change (remove the bad apples from the
system) and radical structural change (remove the system). It also reflects the
historical ties between the military and the Israeli peace movement, which
tended to argue that the military should be held accountable for upholding
moral principles but that its role in defense should not be overly questioned
(Hall-Cathala 1990).
To provide overly simplified, ideal-typical renderings of the “humanitarian”
and the “political-activist” orientations may help shed light on the relational
dynamics involved in the two identity configurations. The “humanitarian” ori-
entation does not necessarily question the validity of the government’s policy,
but suggests that it could be improved upon in order to be more humane; the
relationship with Palestinians is one predicated on sympathy, even pity, and
a desire to help. Humanitarianism often provides band-aids, temporary re-
lief, but does not work to advocate revolutionary or lasting systemic change.
One could draw a parallel to economic plans for improving relations between
Israelis and Palestinians, which aim to increase living standards and thereby
reduce the potential for violence. The relationship is often one that is tempo-
rary or fleeting; aid workers stay until the crisis abates and then they leave.
The relationship with the soldiers in this model is often one of mothers to
children; in some areas some of the Machsom Watch women brought cookies
for the soldiers when they went to their shifts, others became involved in the
work out of concern for the souls of their children currently serving in the
military.
In contrast, the “political-activist” orientation assumes that the govern-
ment’s policy is misguided and needs to be changed. Consequently, the activ-
ists worked to raise awareness of the problems resulting from the occupation,
and the checkpoints in particular, and documented what they saw on their
daily shifts, including press reports and phone calls to supervisors and Knes-
set members when egregious abuses occurred. These women also sought to
raise awareness about the reality of the occupation and its policies and thereby
reduce some of its social pillars of support. For example, Machsom Watch
activists investigated what happened in the “black box” of the district coor-
dinating offices (DCOs), which “administer” the Palestinians and make deci-
sions regarding permits. Political activists recognize and seek to highlight the
institutionalized inequality of Israeli-Palestinian relationships (Israelis have
citizenship, which Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza Strip lack, for ex-
ample), which is often “displaced” by government-speak. Despite differences
in terms of power and privilege, many of the Jerusalem members of Mach-
som Watch had long-term relationships with Palestinian families and engaged
with them as fellow human beings rather than as “Israelis with power” and
“Palestinians needing help.” Several women spoke of families they visited on
holidays in Palestinian cities like Bethlehem and the risks involved for both
parties. Others regularly bought fruit from the same vendors at the check-
point they visited and inquired after their families, assisting with the reading
and filling in of legal documents (which are often printed in Hebrew only)
as necessary.20 While many of the political-activist women could empathize
with the soldiers, they expected the soldiers to do their job professionally and
with compassion rather than aggressively and with an aim to exert power and
control over the Palestinians. Although few spoke of it explicitly, there was
an implicit understanding among some of these activists that alienating the
soldiers through harsh words would not contribute to either humane treat-
ment of Palestinians or sociopolitical change vis-à-vis military support for
government policies.
Regardless of whether the Machsom Watch women were Tel Avivis or
Yerushalmis, humanitarian or political activists, they focused on systemati-
cally questioning the impersonal tendencies of the Israeli checkpoint regime
that displaced attention from the power relationship between occupier and
occupied. As one woman noted, “We need to see Palestinians in all of their
differences just as we have so many differences in Israeli society. . . . Society is
a mix of types of people” (Devorah, Dvorka, and Dalia 2005). Through their
investigative reports, conversations, and regular observations, the women col-
lected stories of the mix of people constituting the Palestinian society and
their experiences with Israeli policies of control and used this data in an effort
not only to humanize the Palestinian Other but also to promote sociopoliti-
cal change through challenging the displacing and impersonal tendencies of
Israeli occupation policies done in the name of security.
Bridging Religious Divides, Putting Belief into Action

Sabeel: An Ecumenical Vision
Sabeel Ecumenical Liberation Theology Center seeks to be a prophetic voice
that works to empower and liberate human beings regardless of their particu-
lar identity, although their primary constituents are Palestinian Christians.
Many of those involved in Sabeel hold Israeli citizenship or are East Jerusalem
ID holders; those board members with West Bank IDs were often isolated
from activities and programs that occurred in the Jerusalem office, but they
maintained contact through telephone and e-mail. In a land where different
kinds of Christianity are clearly demarcated and where each sect has its own
corner in the echoing Church of the Holy Sepulchre,21 Sabeel is unique in forg-
ing a kind of ecumenism, where the specific “brand” is less important than the
general “type” of religion practiced. Sabeel works to create a pluralist identity,
one grounded in a particular orientation to the world based in a belief of the
humanity of all. Their interpretation of the Bible allows it to be a tool of libera-
tion rather than a tool of oppression, as the Hebrew scriptures (Christian Old
Testament) are often used to justify Palestinian dispossession from the land at
the hands of the Israelis.
Most of those I interviewed from Sabeel spoke in universal terms, advo-
cating the importance of standing up in the face of injustice and struggling
nonviolently for human rights and reconciliation. They, like Rabbis for Hu-
man Rights, engaged with religious discourses that articulated the belief that
every human being is made in the image of God, taking this a step further to
connect this passage to Israeli-Palestinian relations. One board member ex-
plained that solving the problems of the world required “commitment to love,
and respect[ing] the otherness of the Other” (Zaru 2005). Another spoke of
how, under the occupation,
[All of] us as individuals are losing a little bit of this humanity, are los-
ing the moral values, are losing the principles on which we all should
be living . . . if people can rejoice at the suffering of others, then there’s

something wrong within us. And that beautiful creation in the image
of God, something is really destructed in that. . . . How do we raise our
children to recognize that yes, the Israeli soldier is the only Jew they
know . . . okay, but if the situation was reversed, would our children act
the same way as the Israeli soldier, humiliating us? . . . How do you really
try to see the Other as a person, as an equal who has wronged you, who
has to admit that he has wronged you, but on both sides we cannot keep
blaming each other. (Carmi 2004)
Unlike some of the others I interviewed, Sabeel members did not equate na-
tional identity with rigid conceptions of political and geographic boundaries.
For instance, when speaking about settlements, they expressed a willingness
to allow those settlers who wished to do so to remain in the future Palestinian
state and become Palestinians citizens bound by Palestinian law. Although
they would have to be disarmed, the settlers could become Palestinians just as
Palestinian Israelis have become Israeli citizens who abide by Israeli law even
while remaining Palestinian. In addition, those I interviewed were careful to
distinguish between “the government of Israel” and “the people of Israel” in
their speech. Several of those involved in Sabeel were able to remember when
the “Palestinian” was the Muslim, Christian, Jew, or foreign national living in
the “Holy Land” before 1948. A Sabeel staff member defined Palestinians as
“anyone who was born on the land or who has connection to the land. And,
who sees the responsibility of being part of [the land’s] rebuilding. And in
that I include some Jewish friends, definitely, who were, at least my genera-
tion, the Yossi Beilins and others who were born at the same time as I was.
Who were born in the country, from the country” (Carmi 2004).
This definition, like the definition of a Ta'ayush member, is predicated on a
commitment to take action for peace (rebuilding) based on one’s connection
to the land. This definition also reflects territoriality, as it defines Palestin-
ians by area (Mandate Palestine) rather than by ethnonational or religious
type. This definition also challenges the discourse of the two-state solution,
which separates Palestinians from Israelis along the pre-1967 Green Line bor-
der, highlighting the ambiguous identity status of Palestinian Israelis (who
had been included in pre-1988 PLO efforts to liberate all of the former man-
date territory). The Sabeel member noted how sociopolitical changes in Israel,
brought about in part due to the second intifada, had contributed to the recon-
sideration of identity on the part of Palestinian citizens of Israel. Continuing,
she said,
I think we [Palestinians under occupation] are still a bit luckier than

the Palestinians who have become Israeli. At least for us we know
what we want as Palestinians. We want a sovereign state of our own, a
democratic state. We want to be recognized as a people with rights. For
the Palestinian Israelis, their problem is bigger. They are no more . . . I
mean they are Palestinians, definitely, but having become citizens of
Israel they are fighting to be recognized as Israeli citizens . . . anybody
living in Israel, under the state, in the state, of Israel is an Israeli. But
there’s this difference, okay, there’s this difference between how you
relate. . . . It’s a different mentality, it’s a different commitment than
that. (Carmi 2004)
She went on to explain the difference in terms of how Palestinian citizens

relate to the state of Israel, highlighting the relational (as opposed to essential-
ist) nature of identity within the sociopolitical context of Israel as the state of
the Jewish people. Sabeel’s director spoke about “two Palestinian communi-
ties,” that is, one community with Israeli citizenship and another living under
Israeli occupation, which engage in two different struggles oriented to two
different relational goals. Palestinians inside Israel, he explained, are “seek-
ing equality, they are seeking equal democracy, they are seeking, or they are
fighting, struggling against Israeli discrimination . . . against the concept of a
Jewish state that differentiates between its own citizens.” The Palestinians liv-
ing in the West Bank and Gaza, in contrast, “are struggling against the occupa-
tion . . . they want Palestinian identity, Palestinian citizenship” (Ateek 2005).
While they are all Palestinian, their orientation toward Israel and their rela-
tionship with other Palestinians differentiates them into separately bounded
Palestinian communities.
Consequently, struggles over the framing of national identity are political
struggles over the power to define categories of belonging. A Sabeel staff per-
son described the difference between Israeli and Palestinian bounding prac-
tices as follows:
Of course, for Jews, I mean you can be a German Jew and still be an
Israeli if you have an Israeli passport. In my family, my mother was
born in Haifa. And Haifa has become Israel, but for her, she is Palestin-
ian . . . she’s not an Israeli, she doesn’t want to be an Israeli. And for her,
Haifa will always remain part of Palestine. The land of Palestine, the
vision of Palestine, and not the political state of Palestine. (Carmi 2004)
This quotation directly challenges territorial conceptions of identity as it cre-

ates categories of identity as the result of social ties and relational patterns
rather than geographic area. One is an Israeli or a Palestinian not because
of where one lives at present or as a result of one’s citizenship. One is Israeli
or Palestinian because of the way in which one relates to the communities
defined as Israeli or Palestinian, although relations of power can determine
whether one’s self-selected identity is officially recognized. Consequently, so-
ciopolitical change related to shifting zero-sum categories of identification re-
quires relational change, particularly—in an age of separation—through the
formation of social ties based on mutual exchange and equality, as well as
systemic change involving relationships of power. Such efforts are (partially)
circumscribed by prevailing sociopolitical conditions and discourses and ex-
isting categories of analysis (Fairclough 1992). A member of Sabeel’s board
who was born during the Palestinian mandate, in a city now part of Israel,
recounted how she and her family exchanged visits with their Jewish neigh-
bors, borrowed from each other, and shared a relationship that was “perfectly
okay.” The domain of possibility has shifted over time, however, and she noted
with sadness that “the gap now, the divide is so wide, and it is getting wider,
and the wall . . . it doesn’t look like we’re [Israelis and Palestinians] going to
get together. But I have hope for the future because I remember how it was”
(Cedar 2004).
Sabeel works for sociopolitical change through efforts to challenge a va-
riety of boundaries, particularly those based on restricted categorizations of
Christian and Palestinian. During the time of research, Sabeel was working
to overcome divides within Palestinian society through interfaith dialogue
between Christians and Muslims as well as social programs addressing con-
temporary challenges. In May 2005, for example, I attended a program that
dealt with a recent spate of violence related to Muslim-Christian marriages.
The speakers focused on elements of connection between the two communi-
ties and ways to further strengthen social ties in order to avoid future in-
cidents. As one panelist shared, Muslims and Christians have the same set
of social problems and the same responsibility for addressing them, thereby
emphasizing the common boundary of “Palestinian.” Sabeel also worked to
counteract the equation of “Palestinian” with “Muslim,” which is often done
in characterizations of the conflict as one between Jews and Muslims, while
also raising the profile of the local Christian population, who are the “living
stones” often ignored by Christian pilgrims visiting the “holy stones.” Sabeel’s
Contemporary Way of the Cross is one effort to inject the “living stones” into
the experience of Christians on biblically based tours; its international con-

ferences are another. Programs oriented toward the international community
also reflect Sabeel’s effort to reconfigure relations of power by creating bonds
of solidarity that can be mobilized to pressure international governments (es-
pecially the United States) for policy change vis-à-vis the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict.22 Thus, Sabeel intentionally sought to disconnect the boundaries of
“Israeli” and “Palestinian” from religious affiliation, geographic location, and
citizenship (for example, official categories of classification based on govern-
ment structures or passports), focusing instead on relational configurations
rooted in communities of practice and felt affiliations.
Rabbis for Human Rights: Challenging Orthodoxy

Founded by two Orthodox, two Conservative, and two Reform rabbis, Rab-
bis for Human Rights (RHR) is overwhelmingly comprised of Conservative
and Reform rabbis, although a disproportionate number of Orthodox rabbis
serve on the organization’s board. Several of the rabbis I interviewed shared
that they are criticized more for their work across Jewish denominational dif-
ferences than they are for their work on behalf of Palestinian human rights.
One rabbi explained that “the criticism of me and other Orthodox Rabbis is
mostly for working with Reform rabbis, which is seen as some kind of legiti-
mation . . . toward Reform Judaism, which is seen by the [Orthodox] establish-
ment as heretical” (Rosen 2005). Thus, the work of RHR can be seen in terms
of redrawing sociopolitical boundaries to include those usually excluded in
three different areas: including the non-Orthodox (that is, Reform and Con-
servative traditions) into the category of “Jew,” including Palestinians into the
category of “human” (as opposed to “terrorist”) and therefore made in the
image of God, and raising the profile of the poor and marginalized into Israeli
consciousness. In doing this work, RHR challenges institutional practices and
structures that enforce these boundaries, such as government policies that do
not recognize marriages performed by non-Orthodox rabbis, media portrayal
of Palestinians as backward, irrational, or somehow subhuman, and regula-
tions that assume social services recipients are lazy rather than being indi-
viduals caught in socioeconomic patterns that prevent them from obtaining
meaningful, well-paid employment.
The outgoing RHR chairman articulated that an enormous challenge for
Israeli Jews is how to “treat . . . the outsider once you are a member of the ma-
jority . . . and this is a big challenge we have because Israel, for the first time,
the Jews have their own country in two thousand years. . . . And our challenge
now is how do we relate to the outsider, the non-Israeli, the non-Jew in our
own country” (Weinberg 2004). One of the major strategies members of RHR
use in this regard is the reinterpretation of scripture. Acknowledging that
scripture can be used to support a variety of positions, including racist and
chauvinistic ones, rabbis I interviewed stressed the need to reframe prevailing
sociopolitical interpretations in accordance with what they saw as Judaism’s
essential message. As one shared,
The challenge, once you regain power, is how you use it. I don’t think
we have lived up to our own standards in the way we use power. So, it is
always how you see yourself, how you see the relationship between Jews
and non-Jews. . . . I believe it is up to us to read carefully and try to distill
the racist and chauvinist elements from our own tradition. We should
reread and rewrite some of it or at least reinterpret it. (Bandel 2005)
As evident in this statement, the reframing of discourses requires power, but it

is also itself a form of power. Using their positional power as rabbis, as well as
the power of their heterogeneity (so they cannot be fully discounted as non-
Orthodox, although they often are dismissed as such), RHR seeks to reshape
relationships with Israel’s Others. Rabbi Newman, for example, showed me a
piece he wrote that went back to the original Mishnah (early rabbinic code)
in an effort to challenge more nationalist interpretations of a passage from the
book of Sanhedrin that states, “If any man has caused a single soul to perish
from Israel, scripture says to him as if he had caused a whole world to perish.”
Rabbi Newman stressed that the original terminology reflected a more univer-
sal “single soul” but had been reinterpreted to reflect a more particular Jewish
identity than was intended (Newman 2004). In making this change, Rabbi
Newman expanded the boundary of humanity (whose life was sacred) from
“Jew” to include non-Jews. The implication of this boundary shift reflected
a more general orientation to peacebuilding. For Rabbi Newman, one of the
major barriers to peace is the absence of relationships based in equality across
religious and national divides. He explained that meetings between Jewish
Israelis and Palestinians had become increasingly rare in recent years, and
he expressed regret that discourses of religious superiority had become more
dominant among both Jews and Muslims. He expressed the importance of
meeting not simply to talk but also to build relationships grounded in equality,
affirming that “in the best of our Bible, the other person . . . the other religion
must be treated in the same way as our own at least” (Newman 2004).
The emphasis on the humanity of all is part of a broader RHR strategy
shifting the focus in Israeli Judaism from ritual observance to moral obli-
gation by speaking of the mitzvoth to humans in addition to the mitzvoth
regarding kashrut or keeping Sabbath. Included in this moral orientation
was a concern for “treatment of every human being, regardless of his/her
faith, origin, nationality, every human being is as equal and as sacred as God’s
creature” (Weinberg 2004; Bandel 2005). One explanation of RHR’s more
humanistic orientation stems from the fact that most of its members come
from pluralist democratic (Anglo) societies, such as the United States, Great
Britain, and South Africa; less than one-fifth of RHR membership consists
of native Israelis. This social background has shaped the discourse of these
rabbis and their understanding of Jewish identity. It also shapes the religious
texts used by RHR members, as many draw on the prophets (for example,
Isaiah, Micah, and Amos), which are not studied in most Israeli yeshivas.
As multiple people that I interviewed pointed out, many Israelis come from
countries without democratic histories, such as Eastern Europe, the former
Soviet Union, and the Middle East or North Africa. Perhaps because many
of them are from “outside” and from marginalized denominations, those I
interviewed in RHR were quick to note the heterogeneity of the categories of
“Israeli” and “Jew,” recognizing that within Israel there are Jews and Arabs,
as well as a mix of religious, secular, and traditional people belonging to a
variety of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian denominations (Weinberg 2004).
This recognition was unique among the Israeli Jews I encountered in the
course of my daily interactions, as many equated Israeli with Jew and Jew
with Orthodox.
The reconfiguration of such boundaries was constitutive of RHR’s work,
as evident in its efforts to link human rights with Jewish teachings, which
involves a reformulation not only of the human (by including Palestinians),
but also a reconfiguration of Israeli identity (bridging different religious
backgrounds, including the secular-religious divide), and Jewish teachings.
Through educational efforts like the human rights yeshiva and the Tractate
Independence program, RHR strove to root the idea of human rights (often
deemed anti-Israeli) in Jewish-Israeli tradition through having historical and
religious texts “speak” to each other and thereby strengthen both discourses
within the Israeli context. This effort to influence religious discourse had
some unintended results because, although the Tractate Independence was
intended to help infuse human rights language into the religious community,
it was more difficult for RHR (as a heterodox movement) to gain access to
religious schools, and thus the curriculum was used more in secular Israeli
schools, where the students had little prior experience with Talmudic inter-
pretation. Consequently, the Tractate Independence encouraged relationship
building between religious and secular Jews within Israel while also examin-
ing the Jewish Israeli tradition of human rights as evident in historic texts.
Members of Rabbis for Human Rights repeatedly reflected the tension be-
tween particular manifestations of Israeli Jewish identity as the “chosen peo-
ple” and more universal understandings of Judaism more in sync with human
rights discourse, such as the obligation to the stranger or the creation of hu-
mankind in God’s image. Almost all of those with whom I spoke boiled down
the essence of Judaism to a relational dynamic: how one treats the Other, the
stranger, the non-Jew. Each and every one of the rabbis I interviewed under-
scored the relational dynamics of power, emphasizing the obligation of those
in power to remember how it feels to be the underdog and act accordingly.
Because of this teaching, RHR seeks to intervene in power relations deemed
unequal, upholding the moral obligation to relate to others as human beings
and not on the basis of national or religious classification. At times, this meant
RHR members engaged in nonviolent noncooperation, refusing to honor gov-
ernment rules deemed in contradiction with divine law. While interpretation
of what this meant in practice varied among those I interviewed, all sought to
balance an affirmation of universal humanity with the particular security and
justice needs of Israeli Jews as mandated by current political realities, histori-
cal events, and religious principles.
Al Mubadara
In contrast to Rabbis for Human Rights, which worked for sociopolitical
change through efforts to expand relatively narrow categories by challeng-
ing prevailing assumptions regarding human rights and Jewish identity, al
Mubadara worked to create a new category, a “third democratic way” that
fit the needs of the “silent majority” of Palestinians unhappy with either of
the two major sociopolitical movements (Fateh and Hamas) in the occupied
territories. In creating this category, the activists I interviewed were not just
bounding their social movement (which, in 2004–2005, most activists dis-
tinguished from a political party) but rather sought to create a Palestinian
identity that surpassed the territorial (and consequently social) fragmentation
occurring in the West Bank as a result of the separation barrier, the check-
points, and the ID system. Al Mubadara activists were unique among those I
interviewed in being the only group whose members continually included the
Palestinian Diaspora in their definition of who the Palestinians were. While
all the Palestinian organizations I studied included the Palestinian refugees

in their bounding of Palestinian identity, they tended to differentiate between
Palestinian refugees and Palestinians living in the West Bank and Gaza Strip
in a way that Mubadara activists did not. Furthermore, al Mubadara activists
included Palestinians with citizenship in other countries, particularly Europe
and the United States, in their bounding of the Palestinian Diaspora, in effect
mirroring the Israeli strategy of linking with the Jewish Diaspora in order to
broaden the government’s support structure and power base. Those I inter-
viewed regularly mentioned their intentional efforts to consult with Palestin-
ian refugees and to work with Palestinians in the Diaspora when drafting their
program of action and when raising awareness in the international community
about events occurring in the West Bank and Gaza Strip. While the activists
I interviewed noted that al Mubadara was a young, local movement and they
only knew Mubadara activists in their own region, they also emphasized how,
despite that fact, they were all together as one. This situation was similar to that
of the AIC, which acted together despite maintaining separate offices due to
geopolitical circumstances.
Indeed, the strategy of having local autonomy within a bounded whole was
intentional on the part of al Mubadara organizers, a mechanism for dealing
with sociopolitical fragmentation within the Palestinian community. As one
activist who had been with al Mubadara from the beginning said, “Because
of the situation and . . . the restriction of movement, we cannot communicate
very well all around, and also the rural and urban differences, so we thought of
having groups working in each area” (Christo 2005). Another activist quanti-
fied Palestinian geographic fragmentation for me, stating:
Do you know how many checkpoints [there are in the West Bank]? . . . 742.
We thought there were just 300 and then we checked carefully, and we
were astonished. We were shocked to find 740-something. . . . There are
about 580 [Palestinian] communities [in the West Bank]. This means
that each Palestinian village has a checkpoint . . . the strategy of the Is-
raelis is to establish Palestinians like in South Africa Bantustans, ghettos
for Palestinians. (Khaled 2004)
Another activist shared,

For example, I have the Ramallah ID card. I’m not allowed to go out
from Ramallah. I’m not allowed to go to a city, a Palestinian city. . . . I
can’t visit my family anywhere, if they are in a village in Ramallah [dis-
trict], I can’t go even. If they are in Nablus I can’t go, if they are in Jeru-
salem of course I can’t go. . . . If you want to go to Hebron it used to take

forty-five minutes. Now it takes nine hours. And each time you have, I
think, eleven checkpoints you have to go down and around. (Shuaibi
2004)
In addition to the physical fragmentation, in 2004–2005 several activists also

described an increasing sense of division within Palestinian society. As one
explained, “More than 50 percent of the Palestinian society have no voice.
They think [the mainstream] movements are not expressing [their views]”
(Mawakib and Ramzi 2004). This sentiment reflects the analysis made by
some Palestinian thinkers that the second intifada was as much an uprising
against the Palestinian Authority as it was against the Israeli occupation. There
was a sense among many that the PLO leaders who came back from exile were
not in touch with the needs and concerns of the local Palestinians who had re-
sisted in the first intifada, and that the various Oslo agreements effectively dis-
inherited large swaths of the Palestinian community, particularly the refugees.
To counteract this feeling of disempowerment, al Mubadara has “started to
be their voice” by working for change on a local level while also maintaining
national and international connections binding the groups together. Local vil-
lage organizers were connected to broader groupings and committees based
on profession, age, or interest, such as the councils for engineers, students, and
civil society leaders. Al Mubadara activists bounded their vision of Palestin-
ian society in terms that specifically included “the marginalized groups, like
women and children and people who live in villages. This is the most important
thing, not concentrating on only the big places” (Mawakib and Ramzi 2004).
Several of the youth I interviewed who were from outside Ramallah remarked
that either there was no branch of al Mubadara where they were from or it
was very small. There was evidence, however, that new branches were in the
process of being formed, as I met several men at a demonstration in Salfit (be-
tween Ramallah and Nablus) who proudly announced that they had recently
established an al Mubadara group in their village. In a separate encounter, one
activist told me I should not ask “how many people are in al Mubadara, [but]
how many people support al Mubadara . . . [There are] lots of people who don’t
know exactly what is al Mubadara, but [like] the idea itself ” (Khaled 2004).
During the time of my fieldwork, al Mubadara’s strategy of category for-
mation involved sharing this idea of al Mubadara through door-to-door elec-
tion registration campaigns, which encouraged Palestinians to deploy their
citizenship as Palestinians and let their voice be heard through voting, and
through consulting widely with Palestinian communities in the Diaspora
as well as in local villages (Khaled 2004; Mawakib and Ramzi 2004; Shuaibi
2004). Al Mubadara activists thus linked rural Palestinian villages isolated
from health care and other services with Palestinians in the Diaspora through
their consultative process. Not only did al Mubadara reach out to Palestinians
in refugee camps in Lebanon and Syria, but it also reached out to Palestinians
in the United States and Canada “because after Oslo they found themselves
isolated, they found that there is a special group that controls everything here
in the West Bank and Gaza Strip . . . now we are doing the opposite. We consult
them” (Mawakib and Ramzi 2004). This strategy directly confronted territori-
ality by rejecting boundaries based on area and insisting on those defined by
type.
By creating an inclusive “third democratic way,” al Mubadara sought to
maximize its access to relational power resources available through partner-
ship with Palestinians “outside” while also building a stronger, more cohesive
Palestinian society, as one said, by “renovat[ing] the texture of Palestinians all
over” (Khaled 2004). By drawing the Diaspora Palestinians into the bounded
community envisioned by al Mubadara, their power (as citizens with voting
rights and as taxpayers contributing to foreign aid budgets) was no longer out-
side. Outreach to the Diaspora involved nonviolently resisting the occupation
through raising awareness about what was happening in the occupied territo-
ries as well as how their governments were involved, in the hopes that those in
the Diaspora would remove their consent from their respective governments
and put pressure on them for policy change. In keeping with their nonviolent
strategy, al Mubadara had a democratic, relational view of power that was
rooted in local resistance campaigns against the wall, civil disobedience, and
an undermining of the international pillars of support for the Israeli occupa-
tion. As one Mubadara activist said, “Some people fight with rocks. Some
people fight with telling other people our story. I have gone to some places
to give medical assistance because I have first aid training . . . there are many
ways to fight the walls and to do things against [the occupation]” (Mawakib
and Ramzi 2004).
Conclusion
Geography and identity are inextricably intertwined in the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict as Israelis and Palestinians bound their social, political, and national
identities in terms of connections to the land, connections to God, and con-
nections to the people around them. While the boundaries of 1948 and 1967
are critical markers in defining geopolitical borders for Israel and the Palestin-
ian Territories, they are also critical markers for bounding Israeli and Palestin-
ian identities. Most of the Israeli groups that I studied (and, for that matter,
Israelis in general) treated the occupied Palestinian Territories as if they were
a foreign land in one of two ways. The first was by avoiding the area altogether,
either because it was too dangerous, or illegal, or peripheral to their daily pat-
terns of activity and movement. The second was by entering the West Bank
(the Gaza Strip was practically impossible to enter at the time of my research)
only at the invitation of local Palestinian leaders or activists, which recognized
Palestinian authority and “control” over who accessed their territory. Most
Palestinians similarly acknowledged that Israel was a state located on the other
side of the Green Line, although many also laid claim to the Palestinian heri-
tage and history of major Israeli centers such as Haifa, Jaffa, and Beersheva.
In recognizing Israeli national jurisdiction (if not historical ownership) over
these cities, Palestinians are implicitly admitting to the foreignness of Israel,
since the cities that were once their home have been transformed over the
decades since 1948 during which they could not visit. For Israelis, crossing the
Green Line involves major logistical operations and advanced coordination,
as activists often risked arrest, discomfort, and long periods of waiting and/
or walking in the course of traveling to and participating in group activities.
For Palestinians, the coordination involved obtaining (if possible) the neces-
sary permits for entering Israel, although many refused to participate in this
process for pragmatic (a waste of time) or strategic (noncooperation) rea-
sons. In either case, the activists acknowledged the existence of the boundary
through their actions or inactions, and thereby reinforced and maintained it
even while they sought to erase, transcend, or challenge that same boundary.
The territorial tendencies emanating from Israeli officialdom have further
bounded Israeli and Palestinian identities in geopolitical ways, through im-
personal policies governing access to certain areas and a “legal” process for
obtaining permits to travel from place to place. Israeli and Palestinian activists
have used a number of strategies for combating the territorial regime and for
creating boundaries that include rather than exclude, but inevitably boundar-
ies leave some in and some out. Boundary or frontier regions continued to
be the place where most joint work occurred, particularly Jerusalem, which
although technically accessible to both Palestinians and Israelis is in practice
only accessible to certain categories of Palestinians, who are actually consid-
ered permanent residents of Jerusalem with Jordanian passports rather than
Palestinians. Ironically, the other major site of joint activism was the separa-
tion barrier, where Israelis and Palestinians came together every Friday to
demonstrate against the annexation of land from Palestinian villages along
its route.
Israeli and Palestinian activists used a number of strategies to combat the
official policies of separation and category making, including creating new
categories of membership, such as al Mubadara’s third democratic way, or by
widening existing categories. Joint groups like the AIC, Panorama’s Bringing
Peace Together, and Ta'ayush sought to create new identities as groups rather
than as individual members of separate societies, but they were not always en-
tirely successful due to differences in power, differences in culture, and differ-
ent daily lived realities. Furthermore, while the practices and meeting sched-
ules of some groups, like the AIC and Bringing Peace Together, reinforced
boundaries legitimating the Bethlehem-Jerusalem area as an international
zone, other groups engaged in bounding practices that challenged existing
boundaries and sought to yoke together new ones. Al Mubadara, for example,
reached out simultaneously to Palestinians in the Diaspora and Palestinians in
isolated West Bank villages; Ta'ayush had a network of social ties that spanned
Israel and the West Bank yet it maintained the boundary of 1967 as a critical
“red line” to be breached only at the invitation of Palestinian partners (Hur-
witz 1992).
One of the most basic strategies used by all of the groups on some level
was personalizing the effect of the impersonal policies of the occupation and
reinserting the Palestinians into the “empty” or otherwise “legally” off-lim-
its land. Activists did this using a number of different techniques. Ta'ayush,
for example, worked with the Women’s Coalition to take educational tours
along the route of the separation barrier, providing opportunities for Israelis
to speak with Palestinians whose lives were directly affected and to see for
themselves the ways in which identity, space, and political aims intersected.
Machsom Watch used their shifts as opportunities for documenting the daily
territorial tendencies exercised at checkpoints and for collecting stories from
their encounters with Palestinians to be shared later. In the process of these
encounters, Israelis and Palestinians often created social ties that then affected
boundaries of lived identity and geography.
While many from the outside of Israel/Palestine, as well as politicians ma-
neuvering for election and control inside either Israel or Palestine, speak of
Israeli and Palestinian societies, those I interviewed said that such terms were
difficult to use and lacked real meaning given the vast diversity within each
society. Terms like “Arab” and “Jew” were also deemed not always useful given
that there were Arab Jews as well as Israeli Jews who considered themselves
Israeli and not Jewish. In addition, there are the Arab Israelis, many of whom
consider themselves Palestinian while also being citizens of Israel, and yet
almost all of them had a story about ways in which neither their citizenship
nor their Palestinian as opposed to Arab identity was recognized by either the
state of Israel or Palestinians in the West Bank. Despite the importance Israelis
and Palestinians placed on the desire for recognition of their identities and
humanity, many I interviewed framed their identity not in terms of official la-
bels but in terms of connection to their neighbors, to their colleagues, to their
fellow activists, and to the land. The two religious groups I studied, Sabeel and
RHR, also defined identities in terms of universal humanity created in God’s
image. Practically all of the individuals I interviewed and groups I observed
affirmed that the boundaries of the group, like the boundaries of their larger
collective societal identities, were neither static nor mutually exclusive. Some
members of Ta'ayush were also part of Machsom Watch, and those involved
in Panorama’s projects were part of a number of different initiatives and or-
ganizations. My informants crafted their identities in terms of relationships
and actions contingent upon time, place, and social interaction rather than
predetermined nationalist labels.
6
“We’ve Lost This Round”
Fragmentation and the “Piece” Process in 2008
Between 2005 and 2008, developments within Israeli and Palestinian societies,
including within the peace and justice groups I studied, reflected the trends of
unilateralism and fragmentation observable at the official political level. Just
as Israeli leaders continued their unilateral policies toward the West Bank and
Gaza Strip (including ongoing construction of settlements, finalization of the
separation barrier, and nightly incursions into Palestinian cities), the electoral
victory of Hamas in 2006 signaled Palestinian disillusionment with the failed
peace process and the inability to achieve political change from Israel through
the negotiating process.1 Although Hamas maintained the unilateral ceasefire
it had begun in February 2005 until June 2006, when an Israeli naval gun-
boat shelled picnickers on a Gazan beach, it was never reciprocated by Israel.
In addition, Israel responded to the Palestinian election by arresting elected
Parliament members and freezing the tax revenues it collected on behalf of
the Palestinian Authority. The new government was swiftly boycotted by the
international community—led by the United States and Israel—despite the
resounding reports of a clean democratic election by international observers
such as the Carter Center. Hamas refused to agree to the four preconditions
the Quartet established for lifting the boycott, and thus the trend toward uni-
lateralism continued. The international boycott had several ramifications for
Israeli and Palestinian activism: it posed an additional obstacle to joint work;
it put Palestinians in a desperate socioeconomic position, which increased
the focus on providing basic needs relative to political activism (although
the two are related); it contributed to a sense of Palestinian hopelessness and
abandonment by the international community (which had pressured them
to hold democratic elections); and it increasingly shifted the discourse to one
“We’ve Lost This Round”: Fragmentation and the “Piece” Process in 2008 · 151
of humanitarian as opposed to development aid for the Palestinians, thereby

obscuring the political origin of the Palestinian socioeconomic crisis.
The boycott of the elected Palestinian government along with the unilat-
eral Israeli evacuation of Gaza settlements were both factors contributing to
the further fragmentation of Palestinian society; they served to further com-
pound physical, political, economic, and socio-ideological gaps between the
Hamas-dominated Gaza Strip and the Fateh-dominated West Bank. Not only
did the unilateral withdrawal undermine the Palestinian Authority, which
made no progress at the negotiating table, but it left the Gaza Strip vulnerable
to ongoing Israeli control of its borders, water, and airspace. The situation in
the Gaza Strip, which was already isolated, poor, and frustrated in 2005, con-
tinued to deteriorate in the interim; the June 2006 Israeli invasion, the Hamas
takeover in June 2007, and the subsequent Israeli siege policy created a dire
humanitarian situation in which over 70 percent of Gazan families were de-
pendent on aid in 2008 (OCHA 2008a).2 The result of these developments was
a further discrediting of “peace,” as the international media largely portrayed
Israeli disengagement as a peace effort by focusing on the removal of settle-
ments; however, Israel continued to exert territorial power through its control
over Gaza’s boundaries (and any passage across them), and it deflected blame
onto Hamas, as opposed to Israel’s blockade, for the worsening humanitar-
ian situation. At the same time, peace was further discredited in the eyes of
mainstream Israelis since the withdrawal from the Gaza Strip (and also the
2000 withdrawal from Lebanon) did not end Qassam rocket attacks from the
territory and seemed to prove that Palestinians could not live side by side with
Israel in peace.3 These circumstances, combined with delegitimized political
leaders in both societies, contributed to activist burnout, fatigue, and uncer-
tainty regarding appropriate strategy.
This chapter is divided into two major parts. The first provides a brief over-
view of several major factors that contributed to changing the environment
for peace activism between 2005 and 2008, including the unfolding of events
in the Gaza Strip, the 2007 Annapolis Conference, the continuation of Is-
raeli settlement construction, the institutionalization of the checkpoints and
separation barrier, and the intensification, sometimes violent, of internal divi-
sions. The second part examines how activists responded to this situation of
increased unilateralism and separation and compares activist approaches to
peace during interviews conducted in July 2008. The conclusion discusses the
major themes raised in the analysis as well as sets the stage for the next two
chapters, each of which examines a new peacebuilding mechanism observed

in 2008 that emerged in response to the evolving structure of the conflict.
Part I: The Changing Context
Lessons from Gaza and Lebanon: Limits of Unilateralism and Militarism
Post-disengagement: Variations on Siege

In 2004–2005 the activists I studied expended much energy on the lead-up
to the Gaza disengagement. Within Israel, the settler movement mobilized
against the disengagement plan, flying orange flags in support of the Gush
Katif settlements and threatening military refusal. While the evacuation of
settlements in August 2005 occurred with relatively limited conflict, it has
not ended the violence on Israel’s southern borders, nor has it brought relief
to Palestinians in the Gaza Strip. The conflict in Gaza did not end with the
evacuation of Israeli settlements because, in part, the settlement evacuation
did little to ease the prison-like atmosphere of the Gaza Strip. The tiny strip
of land is the most densely populated place on earth, with the vast majority
of Gazans descended from refugees displaced before or during the 1948–49
war (Israel’s war of independence, the Palestinians’ Nakba).4 Greenhouses
used by the Israeli settlers were destroyed, and border crossings remained
under Israeli control, which has had dire consequences for an already dismal
economy based largely on agricultural goods. Although the Israeli govern-
ment and broad sectors of Israeli society argued that Gaza was now free from
Israeli occupation—and, indeed, there was freedom of movement within the
140-square-mile strip for the 1.5 million people living there—Israel retained
control of the airspace, seacoast, and entry and exit points (UNISPAL 2005;
Khalidi 2009).
As was predicted by Israeli army chiefs before the disengagement occurred,
the withdrawal has not prevented rocket fire directed at southern Israeli towns
like Sderot. What has happened, in contrast, is increased insecurity for civil-
ians in both the Gaza Strip and southern Israel as the army uses gunships,
F-16s, and other evidence of Israeli force as a way of demonstrating Israeli
resolve and power (Pappé 2005). In addition to the physical and psychologi-
cal insecurity caused by ongoing military responses, Gazans also experienced
insecurity as a result of border closures and other policies of siege that have
affected Gaza’s economic, educational, and health systems. Even before the
Hamas takeover of Gaza in June 2007, the World Bank reported that “there
has been no sustained improvement [emphasis in original] in the movement

of goods across Karni [checkpoint] before or after the disengagement,” with
an average of only eighteen trucks a day being allowed to cross in September
and October 2005, down from an average of forty-three trucks per day in the
months leading up to the disengagement. Furthermore, from January 15 to
February 5, 2006, Karni crossing was closed entirely (Technical Team 2006).
From January to May 2006, the Karni passage was only open 44 percent of the
time (fifty-nine days), and in April and May 2006, the Erez crossing was en-
tirely closed to Gazan workers and traders (Medecins du Monde 2006). Thus,
what has been widely portrayed internationally as a move toward peace actu-
ally increased the structural violence experienced by Gazans. Furthermore,
such moves were accompanied by the intensification of the Israeli govern-
ment’s discursive efforts to dehumanize Gazans as well as to displace blame for
the dire circumstances on the Hamas leadership, such as declaring the Gaza
Strip a “hostile entity” in September 2007.5 Entrenched and rigidly enforced
separation, combined with increased violence—both structural and direct—
worsened the equation of Other as Enemy.
2006 Palestinian Elections and Their Aftermath

In January 2006 the Palestinians held parliamentary elections, deemed “free
and fair” by international observers (EU-EOM 2006; Zunes 2009). Under the
banner of “Reform and Change,” Hamas members captured a majority of par-
liamentary seats (44 percent of the vote due to the configuration of electoral
districts) and won the right to form a government. However, despite previous
U.S. pressure on the Palestinian Authority to hold elections, the United States
and Israel led a campaign to boycott the new Palestinian government. This
move devastated the already weak Palestinian economy but did little to under-
mine support for Hamas. In contrast, the conditions placed on the Palestin-
ians for the lifting of the harsh sanctions only fanned the sense that the United
States was “punishing the Palestinian population for voting the wrong way”
(Zunes 2009) and thereby undermined U.S. efforts to spread “democracy”
in the Middle East. A year after the elections, despite the sanctions, Hamas
was no closer to meeting the Quartet’s demands: to abide by previous Israeli-
Palestinian accords, to recognize Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state, and to
renounce violence. As noted by the International Crisis Group, “by almost ev-
ery possible standard—governance, security, economics, institution-building
and the peace process—there has been only regression” (ICG 2007: 1). Fur-
thermore, the Quartet’s demands further undermined any potential role of
the United States as an honest broker as no similar requirements were put on

Israel despite its open violation of said agreements with ongoing settlement
construction and nightly raids into the Palestinian Territories.6
The elections and the international boycott also contributed to fragmenta-
tion within the Palestinian Authority, as what little foreign aid that continued
to be delivered was given directly to Palestinian civil society (sometimes via
Israeli agencies), bypassing the Hamas government. Increased tension be-
tween President Mahmoud Abbas’ Fateh Party and Hamas leaders was aggra-
vated by the international boycott, as the international community continued
to engage with Abbas even though some questioned his relevance in the wake
of Hamas’ victory (Bitterlemons 2006). In June 2006 a Palestinian unity gov-
ernment was created, with President Abbas designated as responsible party
for negotiations with Israel. However, this did not alter the international com-
munity’s response to the democratically elected government, and the condi-
tions of boycott continued, undermining efforts to embrace political plural-
ism. The unity government was quickly challenged by Israel’s assault on Gaza
during Operation Summer Rains, which began even before Israeli corporal
Gilad Shalit’s capture by Hamas militants (Staff 2006). On June 28, 2006, Israel
destroyed three major bridges and the main power station, depriving Gaza of
70 percent of its electrical production in the brutal summer heat. In addition,
Israel arrested eight ministers of the Hamas government and around twenty
members of Parliament, most of whom remained in Israeli jails even in 2009
(Medecins du Monde 2006; Omer 2006; Harel and Issacharoff 2008).
Of critical importance in this discussion is the focus not only on the uni-
lateralism of Israeli actions vis-à-vis the Gaza Strip but also on the contin-
ued Israeli control of the territory, the worsening economic and social con-
ditions, and heightened tension between Palestinian political factions over
an ever-decreasing supply of official power. These moves further exacerbated
the fragmentation of Palestinian society, making it more difficult to mobilize
any broad-based resistance. Furthermore, the massive assault on civilian tar-
gets undermined those seeking nonviolent means of resistance since those
advocating a more militant approach argued that Israel only understands the
language of force. The lessons of Israeli unilateralism were clear—not only did
Israeli forces kill 668 Palestinians in the two years following “disengagement,”
but the military means used by both Israeli and Palestinian militants did not
secure the aims of either side (Al-Sarraj and Roy 2008). As of April 2010 Gilad
Shalit remained in Palestinian captivity, between 700 and 1,300 (depending
on whose numbers you use) Palestinians had lost their lives in yet another
brutal assault (Operation Cast Lead, December 27, 2008–January 18, 2009),
the situation in the Gaza Strip had never been worse, and Israelis in the bor-
der regions continued to be traumatized by rocket fire (Chaitin 2008; Editors
2008; B'Tselem 2009).
The Summer War with Lebanon: Repeating Mistakes, Setting Precedents

Like Operation Summer Rains, the 2006 Summer War with Hezbollah began
with the July 12, 2006, capture of Israeli soldiers to be used as leverage in ne-
gotiating the release of Lebanese and Palestinian prisoners (ICG 2006). How-
ever, Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah admitted that they made a strategic
miscalculation when Israel’s response was a massive air attack rather than the
border skirmishes that had historically occurred around the still-disputed
Shebaa Farms region (CNN 2006).7 The conflict rapidly escalated, with Israel
launching a massive attack on Lebanon that destroyed (as in the Gaza Strip)
civilian infrastructure including water and sewage facilities, electrical plants,
eighty bridges, and the Beirut international airport; more than a million Leba-
nese civilians were displaced (Moore 2006). Hezbollah responded with a near-
constant barrage of Katyusha rockets, the majority of which fell on empty
fields, but 25 percent landed in Israeli urban centers as far south as Haifa. More
than three hundred thousand Israelis were displaced to points south during
the conflict, and many lived in bomb shelters (Inbar 2007).
The Summer War demonstrated a break with precedent. Instead of Israel
making a sharp response in southern Lebanon, followed by negotiations over
a prisoner exchange, Israel responded with an intensity that Hezbollah had
not expected. Despite its massive military superiority and the disproportion-
ate destruction in Lebanon, Israel is widely seen to have lost the war. Not only
did the attack on the broad-based civilian targets solidify support for Hezbol-
lah, but Israel was unable to defeat Hezbollah (ICG 2006). Within Israel, the
Winograd Commission investigated the inadequacy of Israel’s planning and
conduct of the war, but it did not question the basic premises of the military
approach. Many pundits have compared the December 27, 2008, Israeli at-
tack on the Gaza Strip, which launched Israel’s most recent war, to the 2006
Second Lebanon War. The unilateral military approach—as opposed to the
framework of negotiation—continues to prevail in the circles of power, de-
spite the fact that the negotiated cease-fire provided better results (and more
security for civilians), and the war only strengthened radical elements within
Hamas, much as the Second Lebanon War strengthened Hezbollah (Avnery
2009; Beilin 2009). As Israeli historian Avi Shlaim wrote about Operation
Cast Lead, “[Israel] keeps compounding the mistakes of the past with new and
more disastrous ones” (2009a).
Implications for Peace and Justice Movements
The ongoing siege of Gaza, the cessation of negotiations due to the interna-
tional boycott of the Hamas-led Palestinian government, the tensions between
Fateh and Hamas, and Israeli distrust of the Olmert government in the wake
of the Lebanon war all undermined trust between the parties and the pros-
pects for a renewed peace process. Furthermore, U.S. support for the boycott
(and support for Israel’s bombing campaign in Lebanon) meant that inter-
national effort was leveraged against negotiations rather than in support of
their renewal. Little was done to engage with the Arab League Peace Initiative,
originally introduced in 2002 and reaffirmed by the Arab League in 2007, and
many within Israel dismissed it out of hand. It was not until the November
2007 Annapolis Conference (which excluded Hamas) that the United States
made another effort at jump-starting bilateral negotiations between the Israe-
lis and Palestinians.
These events had major implications for Israeli and Palestinian peace and
justice movements. Perhaps most notably, the international focus on the mili-
tary dimensions of the conflict overshadowed nonviolent efforts for peace,
and, as is often the case in wartime, Israelis and Palestinians alike experienced
the “rally around the flag” effect as well as a heightened sense of Other as
Enemy. I participated in a delegation to Jerusalem in the midst of the July
2006 war, and we were thanked repeatedly by the Israeli and Palestinian activ-
ists we met for coming at a time when groups were canceling left and right.
Peace activists organized a large demonstration against the war, but it was
ignored by the media. Nonviolent demonstrators in Haifa were attacked by
right-wing activists and then arrested (I'lam 2006). For Israelis, the Katyusha
attacks heightened their sense of vulnerability; some of the Jewish Israelis who
became refugees in the South were reminded of their flight from the Nazis fifty
years earlier. Palestinian Israelis were reminded of their uncomfortable posi-
tion as they were attacked by the rockets of fellow Arabs for being in Israel,
and yet, for being Arab, lacked the protection of state-provided bomb shelters
or sirens (I'lam 2006; Badawi 2008).
With the international boycott in full swing, and with the closure on Gaza,
particularly in the wake of June 2007, it was increasingly difficult to coordi-
nate Israeli-Palestinian joint activities. The Israeli Coalition Against the Siege
in Gaza experienced organizational difficulties in formulating a message and
platform of action as it sought to bridge “considerable political and ideologi-
cal differences” among the twenty-six peace groups that joined the coalition
(Keller 2008: 12). Additional difficulties were posed by the military bureau-
cracy, which blocked the entry of the food, water filters, and personal mes-
sages carried by the activist convoy into the Gaza Strip, and only allowed
the passage of a select number of their trucks after a long struggle by Israeli
lawyers (Keller 2008). Such difficulties pose a challenge for ongoing activism
against the conflict. Not only are Israelis and Palestinians physically separated
from each other, but the fragmentation of the Israeli peace movement and the
physical and political fragmentation within the Palestinian Territories pose
substantial obstacles for struggling nonviolently for a just, durable, and secure
peace for both peoples.
Decisions (and nondecisions) made by political leaders have also contrib-
uted to a difficult environment for peace activists within Israel and the Pales-
tinian Territories. For example, in July 2008, two years after the Second Leba-
non War, Israel negotiated the release of the remains of those soldiers captured
by Hezbollah in 2006 in exchange for Lebanese and Palestinian prisoners.
Although Israel achieved through negotiations what it was unable to accom-
plish through its air and ground offensive, this lesson was not emphasized by
the Israeli government, nor by the international community. Ironically, it took
two years for Israel to engage in the negotiations called for by the peace move-
ments and some international public officials.8 The prisoner release was seen
quite differently by Israelis and Palestinians. In a message given to a group of
volunteers from the United States the day after the prisoner release, former
Palestinian minister of labor and learning Ghassan Khatib noted that the pris-
oner release undermined Palestinian moderates since to date President Abbas
had had no success with negotiations, whereas those groups that have used
violence, like Hezbollah and Hamas, were able to secure some results.9 Israeli
activists I spoke with later that day, in contrast, suggested the message from
the exchange was that “we [Israelis] care more about our soldiers than the Ar-
abs care about theirs.” A second Israeli, who recently completed her military
service, said that the prisoner exchange “closed the circle” of the war, since the
capture of those soldiers triggered the war, in which 150 Israelis died (I and N
2008; Khatib 2008).
This disparity of opinion between Palestinians and even those Israelis who
consider themselves leftists reflects the “fading common ground” between Is-
raelis and Palestinians (Keller and Zilversmidt 2008) as well as the need to
engage more vigorously in raising awareness of alternative frameworks for
understanding such events. Binational groups like Ta'ayush, the AIC, and
Bringing Peace Together offer a model for creating space in which to criti-
cally (and civilly) engage with diverse viewpoints and broaden the horizon of
possible options. However, engaging constructively with pluralism requires a
willingness to listen to the Other’s perspective (especially if one does not like
what they are saying), and requires practice, patience, and persistence.
Between 2005 and 2008 neither the Israeli nor the Palestinian governments
modeled such practices, and pluralism was systematically sidelined by domes-
tic and international actors at the official level. Furthermore, with increas-
ing geographic fragmentation of the West Bank and the increasingly exposed
powerlessness of the Palestinian Authority to enact sociopolitical change (do-
mestically or bilaterally), many Palestinian and Israeli activists shifted discur-
sive and practical strategies. One such strategy was to emphasize the one-state
solution, either due to a genuine desire for such a political formation or in the
hope that it might mobilize Israeli fear in the service of efforts for a two-state
solution (Eldar 2008b). A second strategy involved activists distancing them-
selves further from the peace discourse or rejecting it altogether. The sections
that follow examine the response of Israeli and Palestinian activists to such
changes in circumstance and the impact it had on the discourse surrounding,
and struggle for, peace.
Part II: Activist Narratives of Peace

Combating Helplessness: “We’ve Lost This Round”
In July 2008 almost all of the activists I interviewed expressed frustration with
the consolidation of the Israeli occupation, with several stating explicitly that
those against peace had “won” this round (Badawi 2008; Hanna, Nina, and
Mika 2008; Shulman 2008).10 While describing the situation in such terms
indicates a glimmer of hope (that is, they lost the round, not the game), many
were pessimistic in their short-term outlook, a pessimism in keeping with the
massive violence occurring in the Gaza Strip at the time of writing (January
2009). During the course of interviews, however, it was clear that those I inter-
viewed had not given up on the Other but rather found the geopolitical con-
text for nonviolent activism toward a “just and lasting peace” between Israelis
and Palestinians increasingly restrictive. All of those I interviewed identified
ever-increasing challenges to such work, including physical and legal obsta-
cles, such as tightened controls, social obstacles, heightened fragmentation—
even polarization—within Israeli and Palestinian societies, and psychological
obstacles resulting from burnout, isolation, and a sense of failure. As one of
the Machsom Watch activists I interviewed noted, “Things [i.e., the situation,
the checkpoint regime] are more hopeless now, things are more permanent”
(Yvonne and D. 2008). This observation is reinforced by a 2008 United Na-
tions Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) report
that notes the policy Israel once claimed “as a short-term military response to
violent confrontations . . . appears to be developing into a permanent system”
(2008b: 1).
This sense of helplessness was compounded by a sense that the interna-
tional community was similarly not only ineffective in pushing for change
but was in some cases enabling the solidification of the occupation. Machsom
Watch members, for example, shared their disillusionment with Tony Blair’s
performance as the Quartet’s special envoy to the Middle East, tasked with
easing freedom of movement for Palestinians.11 As they explained, “Noth-
ing has been dismantled . . . if something is ‘dismantled’ it is simply moved
two hundred meters further down the road” (Yvonne and D. 2008). Another
Machsom Watch activist, involved in writing major organizational reports,
noted that only one checkpoint, out of 630 closure obstacles, 93 of which are
staffed checkpoints, in the West Bank had been dismantled. In actuality, the
checkpoint had been “destaffed,” since although Israeli soldiers had been re-
moved from the site, all other checkpoint infrastructure remained in place,
ready to be reinstated at a moment’s notice (Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008;
OCHA 2008b).12 Given that even Tony Blair could not affect real change in the
checkpoint system, the women were cynical regarding short-term prospects
for change. Machsom Watch activists that I spoke with were also cynical about
their own efforts, questioning the extent to which they facilitated the Israeli
army’s image as a moral army. Not only were the “‘improvements’ [made to
the checkpoints] more inhumane,” but army plans for extra lanes especially for
ambulances have never materialized, and the metal-barred passageways and
turnstiles within the new terminal complex are too narrow for wheelchairs to
pass (Yvonne and D. 2008).13
Changes in the checkpoint system heighten the separation between Israelis
and Palestinians, making human contact more difficult. In the current terminal
system, Israeli soldiers are encapsulated in a variety of booths, sometimes at a
distance from where Palestinians are passing or cars are queuing up. Disem-
bodied voices boom commands in Hebrew over a loudspeaker; there is no op-
portunity for human contact, asking for help, or providing an explanation. The
new terminals (as Israel calls them), are “more cruel in a sophisticated way”
(Yvonne and D. 2008) because the high-tech machinery (there are fingerprint
and retinal scanning machines, often broken, in the Bethlehem checkpoint)
disguises the many dysfunctional aspects of the system. As several Machsom

Watch women lamented, there was no longer anything to photograph during
their shifts; the Israeli public continues to hold a distorted view of what is
occurring at the checkpoints, but the routine (structural) violence of the in-
stitutionalized checkpoint system cannot be readily captured in a visual image
(Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008). Looking at photos of the Qalandia checkpoint
between 2004 and 2008 demonstrates visually the dramatic changes that have
occurred in a short time period. Not only has what the Israeli government
called a “temporary security measure” become a permanent fixture, but the
creation of the terminal complex itself physically transformed the landscape,
including the removal of a hill, the creation of a new system of roads and gates,
a parking lot, a massive terminal complex, and several watchtowers.
The lack of human contact at the new terminal-style checkpoints is just one
of the ways the impersonal tendency of the Israeli occupation manifests itself,
since it transforms each individual Palestinian into data read off a magnetic
card and each individual Israeli soldier into a disembodied electronic voice.
Whether one gets across the checkpoint or not becomes a consequence of
what data is on the card (as well as impersonal regulations or orders) rather
than any outward national or political traits. Other aspects of the occupation
system, such as the complicated bureaucracy for obtaining a permit (and the
Catch-22 of permit-granting offices often being located in places that Pales-
tinians need permits to reach) or the confusing mix of military and civil law
governing the West Bank provide additional barriers to human interaction
on the basis of impersonal justifications, such as “law” or “regulations.” Other
ostensibly positive changes, such as the construction of new European Union–
funded roads connecting West Bank villages, are seen by activists as negative
consequences of the intensified (and solidified) occupation. Such roads give a
veneer impression of improved movement, even while continuing to prohibit
Palestinian use of the road infrastructure constructed for Israeli settlers in the
West Bank.
During the same time period, Israel stepped up settlement activity, with
the number of tenders issued for settlement construction jumping from 793
housing units in 2007 (the majority of which were issued in December, just
after the Annapolis Conference), and 1,014 units in the first eight months of
2008.14 Even though the Israeli Supreme Court called for changes in the route
of the separation barrier in favor of Palestinian villages, such as in the Bil'in
area, its rulings were viewed negatively by activists. The Court’s decisions were
overshadowed in practice, if not in media accounts of the ruling, not only
by the lack of implementation (due to lack of IDF compliance) but also by

subsequent rulings in favor of Israeli settlers.15 As a professor at Hebrew Uni-
versity noted, “The Israeli legal system basically serves the occupation,” due
to the Supreme Court’s inability to take a stand on issues like the legality of
the settlements (Shulman 2008). The extent of activist fatigue as a result of
such developments is reflected in the creation of a phone line for Israeli activ-
ists dedicated for assistance with burnout-related issues; the phone number is
listed at the bottom of e-mails announcing upcoming demonstrations.
This situational overview highlights the need for strategic change not only
at the policy level but also within Israeli society, to shift the language to make
Palestinians “persons” and to remove the consent of Israelis and Palestinians
alike from the occupation. One Israeli activist suggested that what was neces-
sary was for Palestinians—with some Israeli supporters—to simply walk down
the roads on a massive scale and pass right through the checkpoints. When I
asked several of those I interviewed why this would not work, I was told the
Palestinian Authority was too scared of what might happen as a result (that
is, they might lose control), and the Palestinian public was justifiably afraid of
the response that might ensue or what the next steps might be. Conceptually,
as an idea, they said okay, but for what strategic objective? In 2008 the answer
to that question was increasingly unclear for many Palestinians.
The Annapolis Process: Disappointing Déjà Vu

Part of the disillusionment expressed by those I interviewed in 2008 had to
do with diplomatic efforts—or lack thereof—toward a negotiated peace agree-
ment between Israel and the Palestinians. The U.S.-sponsored Annapolis Con-
ference, held in November 2007, was seen by a number of those I interviewed
as a step backward rather than a positive move toward peace. For peace activ-
ists, the conference was a failure on two major counts: first, the conference
focused on the performance-based Road Map and made no mention of either
UN resolutions on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (notably resolutions 242 and
338) or the Arab League Initiative. Second, the follow-up donor conference
held in Paris was seen as an effort to relieve Israel of its responsibility under
the Geneva Conventions to provide for occupied populations. Divorced from
political discussions regarding the causes of Palestinian economic turmoil,
most saw such donor action as contributing to, rather than ameliorating, the
root causes of conflict. As one Palestinian remarked, “The media is saying that
the Palestinians are against the peace process, but this isn’t peace” (Daoud
2008). It was not just political referents but also the facts on the ground that
represented a step backward. Mustapha Barghouti, leader of al Mubadara,

noted that the Annapolis process brought more violence against the Palestin-
ians. Between November 2007 and July 2008 at least five hundred Palestinians
were killed by Israelis, including sixty-six children. The 300 percent increase
in Israeli attacks on Palestinians was accompanied by settlement expansion
increasing at a rate twenty times faster than pre-Annapolis and an increase in
checkpoints from 521 to 607 (Barghouti 2008).
A number of the groups studied published criticisms of the Annapolis
Conference. The Alternative Information Center (AIC), for example, coun-
tered the claims of some Israelis that Annapolis was “the only game in town”
(and therefore deserving of support) by arguing that there was “no game in
town” (Hackbarth 2008b). Not only did the Annapolis process set aside UN
resolutions, but it was even unable to enforce Road Map obligations, notably
the Israeli obligation to freeze all settlement activity, including that deemed
“natural growth.” As one AIC staff person told me, “The promises we heard in
Annapolis . . . [were] fake and false promises because . . . the Israeli occupa-
tion continues all its aggression on the ground, especially in the expanding of
the settlements everywhere in the West Bank, and the closure has continued,
the checkpoints are the same” (Ibrahim 2008). A commentary posted on the
AIC Web site notes that Annapolis failed to address the core economic issue,
namely, “absolute Israeli control of Palestinian resources and over the move-
ment of people and merchandise within Palestinian territories and between
them and the outside world” (Dallasheh 2008). In addition, the Annapolis
process was seen to be replicating mistakes made during the Oslo process,
such as holding secret meetings and excluding key parties (notably Hamas)
from the negotiating process. Hitchabrut-Tarabut (often called Tarabut)16
went so far as to issue a statement entitled “We Cannot Support the Annapo-
lis Conference,” which declared that the conference “is not promoting peace,
but preparing for more military action . . . Without [a true end to the Israeli
occupation], any diplomatic process is mere deception, and will ultimately
serve to increase violence and justify the next war” (2007). Tarabut’s statement
also foreshadowed the December 27, 2008, attack, arguing that holding the
Annapolis Conference “while the Palestinian people lives under conditions of
unprecedented internal division added to the economic isolation and oppres-
sion of over one million Palestinians in Gaza, heralds yet more violence and
bloodshed in the Gaza Strip, the surrounding Israeli communities, and maybe
even on Israel’s northern border” (ibid.).
The most positive view on Annapolis came from Bringing Peace Together
(BPT), which affirmed that both parties needed to abide by the stipulations
of the Road Map and Annapolis process, and sought to promote the negotiat-
ing process by monitoring and reporting on events. However, BPT’s moni-
toring report for the period up until October 2008 acknowledged that “seri-
ous progress” was prevented by Israeli political crisis (resignation of Prime
Minister Olmert), Palestinian political instability (two governments, upcom-
ing elections), and the upcoming shift in U.S. presidential administrations
(AbuShahla, Cegelman, and Bisharat 2008). Several of the papers delivered
at BPT’s November 2008 conference commemorating the one-year anniver-
sary of the Annapolis meeting noted the significant political obstacles—and
legitimacy crises—facing current Israeli and Palestinian governments.17 Most
concluded that significant political engagement from the international com-
munity, notably the United States, was necessary, as well as political change
within both Israel and the Palestinian Territories. However, activists were less
clear about how to make such change occur. I heard Israelis and Palestinians
alike express exhaustion and an inability to act until the other side showed a
willingness and capacity to act. Calls for increased civil society participation
were reminiscent of calls in the Oslo era for “people to people” activities, yet
the barriers to such activities have only increased over the years.
As a whole, the discourse around the Annapolis process highlighted the
disjuncture between the official negotiations, the voices of civil society, and
the facts on the ground. Not only did talks occur behind closed doors, but
they were unaccompanied by any coordinated measures within their respec-
tive societies. Furthermore, given the rifts in Palestinian leadership, the delib-
erate exclusion of Hamas (even while Israel engaged in negotiations with the
movement over the release of captured soldier Gilad Shalit) gave the talks a
farcical appearance to many. For some, the exclusion of Hamas only replicated
Oslo-era mistakes, leaving the process prone to spoilers from both Israeli and
Palestinian extremist factions. The words of Nassar Ibrahim, codirector of the
AIC, reflected the sentiments I heard from numerous activists:
If we are able or have the capability to talk about real peace, just peace,
fair peace between the Palestinians and Israelis, then we must change
the rules of the game dramatically. Radically. We must talk about, really
about, the national rights of the Palestinian people. We must talk about
how the Israelis they must implement the UN resolutions to withdraw
to the borders of 1967. . . . And [because it did not] Oslo failed. And
for that the Road Map is in crisis, Annapolis [is] in crisis, and all the
[peace] initiatives and all the policies and strategies, they are failing on
the ground. (Ibrahim 2008)
This sense that official negotiations—and international discourse surround-

ing the conflict—missed the mark in terms of the underlying problems to be
resolved contributed to an increased disillusionment with the term “peace” in
2008. Although peace was already a dirty word for many Israelis and Pales-
tinians in 2004–2005, the term was outright rejected by a number of those I
spoke with in 2008, even those who continued to work nonviolently in pursuit
of a positive peace that embraced the human rights of all. The failure of strate-
gies to date led many groups to critically evaluate and reconfigure their ap-
proach to peacebuilding; some groups experienced dramatic loss in numbers
due to the lack of a political horizon. With very few exceptions, those I inter-
viewed in 2008 were pessimistic about the near future, with several saying,
“The situation is very bad now, but we know it can always get worse.” Despite
the grim outlook, the groups studied continued to engage in efforts to change
the situation on the ground. While several of the mechanisms observed in
2004–2005 could still be seen in action (notably awareness raising and institu-
tion building), two additional mechanisms—reconfiguration and distinction
(the subjects of chapters 7 and 8 respectively) were useful in analyzing group
actions. After discussing the narrative shifts regarding peace, I briefly review
the extent to which the peacebuilding mechanisms used to analyze group ac-
tivity in 2004–2005 were useful in 2008.
Peace Is not the Issue

At the time of my interviews in 2008, the dramatic gap between the bilat-
eral negotiations between Palestinian president Mahmoud Abbas and Israeli
prime minister Ehud Olmert and the situation on the ground—the ongoing
siege of Gaza, the rival Palestinian governments, the corruption scandals sur-
rounding Olmert’s administration, and the lack of any progress in the talks—
contributed to the rejection of “peace” as used by the international community
or political officials. Not only were people skeptical that an agreement could
be reached, but both leaders were seen as lacking the legitimacy necessary
for delivering their people. Additional skepticism arose from the possible
content of an agreement, given Annapolis’ lack of reference to UN resolu-
tions or the Arab League’s Peace Initiative; peace negotiations omitted key
elements of justice. Consequently, instead of talking about peace, those I in-
terviewed emphasized the need to resist or fight the Israeli occupation—seen
by most as a root cause of the conflict—through nonviolent means. Others
distanced themselves from the language of peace and focused on eliminating
violence of all kinds, using peace studies techniques associated with scholars
like Galtung (1969) and Curle (1995) to analyze structural and sociocultural
forms of violence in addition to attention-grabbing forms of overt or direct
violence. Shifts in programming and organizational structure often reflected
these trends, such as the effort of the AIC to establish a café for internationals
in Bethlehem as a way of helping inform those working in Israel/Palestine (for
NGOs, businesses, educational associations) about socioeconomic and politi-
cal issues that they might not be aware of otherwise. The gradual disintegra-
tion of groups like Ta'ayush also reflected the increasing hopelessness of the
situation, as it was difficult to sustain a large movement of volunteers in the
absence of a political horizon, particularly when facts on the ground—institu-
tionalized checkpoints, completion of the separation barrier, legal restrictions
on activists—continued to undermine their vision of peace. NGO-type groups
were also affected by the lack of political horizon. As the Israeli coordinator of
Bringing Peace Together noted, “When the prospect is clear, it is easy to bring
the people together and recruit them to a certain action. But people are very
busy, they do this work voluntarily, and if they do not see clear progress and
they don’t see how they can be effective, then they just don’t come” (Schnell
2008).
This disassociation from the word “peace” is evident in the following state-
ment (shared in chapter 3) from the AIC staff member—a self-defined ’48 Pal-
estinian—who coordinates the social movement program. Her work focuses
on socioeconomic issues of women’s rights, housing, and so on, with an aim
of connecting these issues to the broader Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In peace
studies terms, she is combating structural violence and also helping make la-
tent violence manifest to the Israeli public. When I asked her about her vision
of peace, this was her response:
Peace? I don’t believe in peace. This is not what I want, peace. I want
first of all tahrir qawmeh (national liberation). If later I want peace, okay,
but who said that peace is an issue and tahrir qawmeh is another [sepa-
rate] issue. And now I want tahrir qawmeh. I want my life, I want to be
respected in my land, and then later, if I want peace, okay. But this is a
different issue. And the Israelis know very well how to kill you and say-
ing we want peace, peace, peace. (Lubna 2008)
Lubna’s strong message emphasizes the disillusionment from peace talks not
only because they have produced more talk than action, but perhaps more
specifically because they have excluded issues of justice and freedom from op-
pression. The last line of the quotation also hints at Orwellian doublespeak, as
“peace” has been used to disguise killing, particularly in terms of the creeping
death resulting from socioeconomic decline, social disintegration, emigration
to countries with better opportunities, and paralyzing political in-fighting.
Lubna’s reference to Israelis “killing” while saying “we want peace” also refers
to Israel’s strategy of separating the Gaza Strip from the West Bank by declar-
ing it a “hostile entity” in September 2007. As the Washington Post reported,
this designation “allows [Israel] to apply pressure on the [Gaza] strip short
of a military invasion while pursuing peace talks with the U.S.-backed Pal-
estinian government in the West Bank” (Wilson 2007). Lubna also distances
herself from the common assumption that peace is passive, using the more
forceful language of nonviolent struggle to describe her work bringing social
movements together to “find something in common and to fight [emphasis
added] together against the oppression, occupation” (Lubna 2008). A Pal-
estinian organizer with al Mubadara gave much the same message when he
stated that “most Israeli leaders and people are not seeking real peace . . . what
they are calling negotiations now is not negotiations” (al-Deek 2008). Sabeel
highlighted the role of the international community in this situation, suggest-
ing that “there is no optimism [for] a peaceful solution. Or in a just peaceful
solution, let me put it this way. So this is why we still have to work harder and
harder in the Western world, particularly in the U.S.A.” (Carmi 2008).
Much more than in 2004, those I interviewed emphasized the occupation
and its violence as the source of conflict, and directed their focus toward recti-
fying these injustices rather than pursuing peace. Although many—implicitly
or explicitly—saw this as a step in the direction of peace, or as a necessary
part of a peace process, they did not use the word “peace” in explaining their
work, and even those who made reference to peace saw it as something they
desired but that was too far away—either in time or in terms of their own ca-
pacity to effect it—to be their main focus. An Israeli AIC staff member argued
that “it is necessary, but not sufficient to have an end to the occupation of the
West Bank and Gaza.” He argued that it was critical to break the concept of
the Israeli peace camp because there are other issues to the conflict, socioeco-
nomic ones, that serve as the conditions for peace that the peace camp does
not generally consider, citing in support the fact that the Palestinian economy
decreased 30 percent in the years after the Oslo Accords due to an Israeli
siege (Yahni 2008). A similar orientation to issues of structural violence was
evident in the work of Machsom Watch, which emphasized that “only an end
to the Occupation and striving towards a just peace will secure our existence”
(Machsom Watch 2008: 8). Pointing to the stance of an Israeli soldier at the
Beit Iba checkpoint, one Watcher said, “Look at that soldier’s body language.
He isn’t doing any [overt] violence and there is nothing to show violence [that
is, in a photograph], but this is the most violent thing there is” (Hanna, Nina,
and Mika 2008).
If peace was not the goal, then what was? A former Ta'ayush activist de-
scribed it as “the complete evacuation of settlements. Restor[ing] lands and
real Palestinian sovereignty from all points of view: economically, militarily,
civic sovereignty. The question is not if you call it [Palestine] a state or not.
It should be a question of contents” (Leibner 2008a). One could extend this
argument to the issue of negotiations; for many of those I spoke with, it is
not a question of whether or not negotiations are happening but rather the
content of those negotiations and the extent to which action accompanies
the discussion. Most peace activists have grown sick of dialogue (substitute
“negotiation”) for the sake of dialogue, and for many, given the failures of the
Oslo process, “successful negotiations” do not equate with “peace.” Similarly,
in the wake of the Gaza disengagement, activists knew that simply stating the
occupation is over without addressing core conflict issues or providing real
sovereignty was insufficient.
Peacebuilding in Action: Similar Mechanisms, Different Contexts

Despite the general lack of peace language, and a decline in numbers for sev-
eral of the groups studied, those I interviewed continued to work to deesca-
late violent conflict and promote positive peace in a variety of ways. In 2008,
most of the peacebuilding mechanisms observed in 2004–2005 (see chapters
3 and 4) could still be used to describe some group functions, although, as one
would expect, they were deployed according to the parameters of the changed
situation. The sections below briefly highlight the continuity and change ob-
served in the mechanisms previously discussed; the chapters that follow look
more extensively at two new mechanisms useful for analyzing changed modes
of operation.
Peace through Awareness Raising

Just as in 2004–2005, a main focus of Israeli and Palestinian activists was
raising awareness about the situation locally and internationally. This mecha-
nism operates by changing the relationship between a particular individual
or organization and the context from one of passivity or neutrality to one
requiring action or differential treatment. Awareness-raising efforts were par-
ticularly evident in the Alternative Information Center (AIC), known for its
critical analysis of the situation on the ground through reports and magazines
such as News from Within. In 2008, the AIC was no longer producing printed
publications but was investing instead in its Web site, on which it publishes
regular news commentaries, analyses of socioeconomic and political issues,
and podcasts of activities, lectures, and demonstrations. Updates and an-
nouncements regarding new podcasts and commentaries are sent around to
the AIC electronic listserv, and five hundred unique visitors access the Web
site per day. The average podcast gets about two hundred downloads per day,
and interviews with big-name speakers, like Naomi Klein, have received four
hundred downloads per day (Hackbarth 2008a). Another example of AIC ef-
forts at awareness raising is the creation of the AIC café in the cave of the Beit
Sahour office. This café particularly reaches out to the community of inter-
nationals (volunteers, interns, NGO staff) in the Bethlehem/Jerusalem area.
The lack of social opportunities in the Bethlehem area provides incentive for
internationals to attend the twice-weekly events, and the café provides not
only food, drink, and opportunity for mingling but also entertainment in the
form of documentary films, lectures on contemporary socioeconomic and
political issues, and a lending library. A lecture on South African apartheid
given by Ecumenical Accompaniers (a World Council of Churches program)
from South Africa, for example, drew about fifty people. As the AIC volunteer
responsible for organizing the café explained, many international volunteers
work for NGOs that are not politicized, and so the café aims to raise their
consciousness about the causes of the conflict as well as what they can do to
promote sociopolitical change. She noted that while many of the events are
focused on the situation in Israel/Palestine, some of the films or speakers pro-
vide lessons from struggles for social justice and self-determination in other
parts of the world. She cited several examples of the café's impact, including
how, after a presentation by a delegation from the Palestinian city of Jenin,
a group of internationals went on a trip to see it for themselves (Sara 2008).
The awareness-raising mechanism was also used in tours and workshops
conducted for local Israeli groups in an effort to help undermine Israeli (tacit)
consent to structures of oppression (within Israel and in the Palestinian Terri-
tories) by helping them understand the realities of the Israeli occupation. The
AIC began a new program of conducting workshops for social movements
within Israel (particularly those with a socioeconomic or cultural focus) about
the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which included information on the economic
impact of the occupation on Israeli society. As the Israeli codirector of the AIC
explained, “Given the increase in poverty within Israel due to the Oslo pro-
cess, and the usual voting patterns of the socioeconomically weaker people for
right-wing parties, there’s a real need to engage with these groups, and the AIC
certainly had not done it in a systematic way, and I think most of the peace
groups had not” (Hackbarth 2008a). Here, the mechanism of change involved
providing Israelis with information about how government policies affected
them personally with the hope that it would change their political behavior
(for example, by voting differently or putting pressure for policy change).
Other groups emphasized education and awareness-raising activities as im-
portant components of a peacebuilding process, since Israeli and Palestinian
activists needed to move beyond “preaching to the converted” and build larger
peace constituencies (Kahanoff et al. 2007); this process involved convincing
new audiences to engage in sociopolitical change efforts through educational
materials and by disentangling misinformation from fact. Awareness-raising
efforts also involved keeping the “converted” up to date regarding develop-
ments on the ground and providing them with advocacy tools and lobbying
suggestions. Bringing Peace Together’s November 2008 conference marking
the one-year anniversary of the Annapolis Conference, for example, explored
what the parties had and had not done toward implementing their obligations,
and what needed to happen given current realities. Sabeel’s ongoing Contem-
porary Way of the Cross program is another example of an awareness-raising
activity aimed at Christian pilgrims who come to study the “holy stones” and
neglect the “living stones.” This program, along with Sabeel’s international
conferences, seeks to raise awareness in the international community regard-
ing the situation of the Palestinian Christian community in particular, and the
status of Christian concerns of justice and reconciliation more broadly, in the
hope that participants will share the information with their home congrega-
tions as well as their elected officials. Rabbis for Human Rights continued its
educational efforts such as its Tractate Independence curriculum and Human
Rights Yeshiva, and instituted a weekly e-mail newsletter that included com-
mentaries on the weekly Torah portion, updates regarding what happened in
the previous week and reports from other organizations, such as Physicians
for Human Rights, ICAHD, and Machsom Watch, on items of concern and
areas for activism in the occupied territories or in Israel. These newsletters
contain action items, phone numbers, and appeals for volunteers, as well as
material for self-reflection regarding how one’s life is contributing to injustice.
By 2008 it was increasingly difficult for groups to engage in awareness
raising through the standard channels such as educational tours and publi-
cations. Machsom Watch activists, for example, noted the difficulty they had
publishing articles in the Israeli press, and one Watcher cynically suggested
that most of the local and international organizations and parliamentar-
ians on their listserv simply hit “delete” without reading the human rights
reports and other information sent by the organization (Hanna, Nina, and
Mika 2008). Some Palestinians experienced heightened challenges speak-
ing outside the realm of national consensus due to internal divides, and
wanted to ensure the validity of the activist credentials of any Israeli Jews
they might partner with. Increased pressure from the Israeli Right ham-
pered educational tours to Hebron organized by the Israeli group Breaking
the Silence.18 The group’s vehicles have been stopped regularly by the Israeli
security forces and denied entry to the city due to the military’s concern
for settler violence in response to the activists’ presence. Despite an Israeli
High Court of Justice ruling permitting Breaking the Silence to carry out a
limited number of tours each month, the activists have continued to have
difficulties entering Hebron. A final obstacle was the desire of many Israelis
to simply be left alone and “not know” what was happening in the occupied
territories; they just wanted the conflict to go away. Activists lamented the
lack of political consciousness of many they knew and regretted the discon-
nect between Israeli society with its focus on cultural festivals and television
shows and the harsh reality facing Palestinians. One group of activists (not a
group I studied, but their reports were circulated periodically in the e-mail
lists of RHR and others) began a series called “Don’t Say We Didn’t Know,”
which drew on discourse surrounding the Holocaust regarding the Germans
and others who claimed they did not know what was happening to the Jews
despite its happening under their noses. Each entry in the series provided a
very short snippet documenting a human rights violation or other act of vio-
lence committed as part of the Israeli occupation; it sought to remind Jews
in particular of the problems that can arise from failing to act in response to
events in one’s own backyard.
Peace through Institution Building

As discussed more extensively in chapter 4, the mechanism of institution
building operates through establishing spaces in which people from different
backgrounds can come to engage in the adaptive resolution of sociopolitical
problems. Institutional processes and rules provide a structure that can lead
to a sense of common purpose and the gradual building of trust; in a way,
institutions provide a container for brokerage to occur. In 2008 the challenge
of building (and sustaining) institutions was intensified due to the heightened
polarization and fragmentation of Israeli and Palestinian societies, as well as

the solidification of the settlement infrastructure, which made it difficult not
only for Israeli and Palestinian activists to connect but also for Palestinians
to connect with each other. Boycott movements on both sides of the Green
Line (for example, the Israeli and U.S.-led boycott of the Palestinian Authority
and the boycott by some Palestinian institutions of joint projects),19 increas-
ing violence from the radical right within Israel—including settler rampages
described as pogroms even by Prime Minister Olmert and a pipe bomb attack
on professor and settlement critic Zeev Sternhell—and factional fighting be-
tween Fateh and Hamas have posed challenges to institution building, whether
uninational or binational (Gradstein 2008b; Issacharoff 2008). Those I inter-
viewed in 2008 discussed the limited ability to date of informal cross-border
institutions to affect lasting change. The Palestinian organizer of Bringing
Peace Together, who remains very active in dialogue and cross-national initia-
tives, shared the following statement at the end of his cataloguing of the many
different efforts undertaken by his organization in the past years: “There are no
grassroots peace movements any more. You talk to these movements, and they
talk about the access they have to the leaders. But this is not all that the peace
movements are about. You should also have the support of the people to have
your plans accepted” (Salem 2008).
Walid Salem’s remarks highlight the challenge of forging social ties in the
present environment. As he and others have written elsewhere, the lack of
connection between Track II organizers and participants and the people is
symptomatic of a peace movement that “preaches to the converted” or engages
only the “usual suspects.” Such institutions breed professional peace activists
who are often disconnected from the broader public and therefore are un-
able to advance the cause of peace, despite their connections with the political
elite. Another activist pointed to the struggles waged within the Israeli Coalition
Against the Siege in Gaza over symbols, language, and prominence of group
logos, lamenting that “there is nothing effective you can really do. So [the peace
groups] are fighting amongst themselves” to try to put their names on actions
and thereby justify their continuation (Leibner 2008a). A former Ta'ayush activ-
ist explained how many activists have stopped their involvement because of the
sense that their nonviolent struggle had failed to stop—or even slow down—the
construction of the wall and other barriers. Despite their efforts, they could not
change the reality on the ground, largely due to their inability to affect pro-
cesses and decisions at the government level (Badawi 2008).
These examples demonstrate a shortcoming of institution-building processes
that focus on constructing social ties within the institution to the detriment of
ties between the institution and other social groups, notably the public and the
government. Strategic thinking is necessary to envision how they will affect the
change they wish to see; too often groups plan activities or respond to crises
rather than devise a plan of attack. Methods such as demonstrations, marches,
or institution building are only successful insofar as they are able to rearrange
broader patterns of social relations, including the distribution of power, as op-
posed to one-off events. While I have emphasized the importance of an action
orientation, the action must have a guiding purpose and an overall direction.20
Yet some activists were able to point to institution-building successes, espe-
cially in terms of forging bonds between Israeli and Palestinian activists across
the Green Line. Even though Ta'ayush and other grassroots movements have
not been successful in stopping the occupation (the ultimate success), these
groups were able to institute what one activist called
an infrastructure of peace on both sides, an organizational infrastructure

in which there [were] dense contacts on all levels. Not only the top level
where Olmert and Abu Mazen have coffee once every two months, it had
to actually exist in a very deep way through real contacts with real human
beings of an organizational character on the ground . . . and that’s a real
achievement, and that won’t go away. . . . Whatever happens, whichever
way it goes . . . that kind of infrastructure exists. (Shulman 2008)
The creation of such an infrastructure reflects a shift in patterns of relation-

ships, relationships imbued with social power that can be mobilized for po-
litical change. The difficulty, however, is that, as several activists noted, it can
take a crisis to set the network in motion on a large scale as many are burnt
out and disillusioned.
Although discourses of normalization and “boycotting the terrorist infra-
structure” made Israeli-Palestinian institution building difficult, groups like
the AIC continued to diversify their institutional connections and support
structures. Staff members credited their twenty-five-year history and anti-
Zionist outlook with their ability to continue cross-border relationships in
challenging circumstances. Yet even with its solid credentials, the AIC had to
extend extra effort in maintaining long-standing partnerships with Palestin-
ian groups, meeting with them to restate and reexplain AIC positions on a
wide range of issues. This extra effort, combined with weekly staff meetings
that brought Israeli and Palestinian staff members together for face-to-face
contact despite official barriers, resulted in the forging of additional social ties
with new Palestinian partners, such as the signing of an agreement of coop-

eration with the largest union in the southern West Bank (Hackbarth 2008a).
The AIC’s social movement program is another good example of their efforts
to forge new institutions to “rebuild and restrengthen the bridge between the
Palestinian and Israeli societies from [the grassroots]” (Ibrahim 2008).
Several groups I studied, particularly Bringing Peace Together and al Mu
badara, became more formally institutionalized between 2004–2005 and
2008. This process was partially due to the delegitimization of existing politi-
cal parties and structures and partially due to group evolution. Those I inter-
viewed noted that al Mubadara had focused much of its energy in recent years
on creating a formal party structure, establishing institutional processes and
leadership structures, charging membership dues, and providing a political
alternative to Fateh and Hamas. Bringing Peace Together moved away from
being solely an informal space for meeting and exchanging views and became
more of an advocacy group that drafted reports, made policy recommenda-
tions, and sent communiqués to political officials in Israel, Palestine, Europe,
the United States, and the Arab world (Salem 2008). By creating formal insti-
tutional structures, the groups sought to respond to changing sociopolitical
opportunity structures (see chapter 8).
Peace through Constructive Confrontation
The third mechanism observed in 2004–2005 was constructive confrontation,

whether through accompaniment efforts to reduce the threat of settler attacks
or nonviolent intervention that more directly challenged status quo relation-
ships of power. By 2008 there were fewer large-scale actions than in the earlier
time period. In the West Bank villages of Bil'in and Na'alin, however, nonvio-
lent demonstrations continued on a weekly basis, although the protests often
ended in violence, whether instigated by stone throwing or soldiers’ firing of
tear gas, rubber bullets, or even live ammunition. By July 2008, the Friday
demonstrations in Bil'in had continued for three and a half years, and the
movement in Na'alin was growing despite harsh curfews and other restric-
tions placed on the village by the Israeli army. Al Mubadara in particular was
very active in the nonviolent resistance movement, conducting training for
local activists and sending activists to support the villagers, especially when
villages were in the early days of their organized struggle (al-Deek 2008).
One of the four major points of the institutional platform for al Mubadara is
nonviolent resistance, and this aspect of al Mubadara’s organizational identity
was emphasized by all three members I spoke with. As general secretary Dr.
Mustapha Barghouti explained, al Mubadara supports “a nonviolent peace-

ful struggle against occupation. But struggle. Nonviolence does not mean
you just negotiate only. You have to struggle, you have to create facts on the
ground” (Barghouti 2008). In this statement, Dr. Barghouti emphasizes the
action dimension of nonviolent struggle as well as the fact that a diverse ar-
ray of nonviolent methods are available besides negotiation, which is often
highlighted in international calls for peace efforts. In referring to “facts on the
ground,” Dr. Barghouti directly engages with the Israeli practice of building
settlements, checkpoints, and other occupation infrastructure that changes
the landscape prior to (or during) negotiations. Through this discursive in-
tervention he indicates that nonviolent struggle can rearrange relationships
of power by equating the potential of Palestinian nonviolent struggle with
the consequences of a known Israeli strategy; furthermore, he suggests it can
help create the context for peace by altering the situation on the ground and
exerting pressure on the parties for an acceptable resolution to the conflict.
Although they do not receive the same media attention as violent forms of
struggle, those I interviewed reported numerous examples of ongoing con-
structive confrontation, some of which had met with limited measures of suc-
cess. A Ta'ayush activist described a recent nonviolent demonstration in the
Bethlehem area, recounting the speech of a Palestinian organizer to the Israeli
soldiers standing in full military gear just a few yards away.
He says things like: this is a nonviolent demonstration, we are totally
against violence of any kind. Especially violence against civilians, but
actually we’re opposed to all kinds of violence, you know. So you guys
[speaking to the Israeli soldiers], you’re here in order to help the theft
of our land. That’s what you’re doing here. The fence is taking away our
lands, imprisoning us. The truth is, though, that our peace is your peace.
And we are here today to build a bridge to you, that’s what he says, and
he’s standing ten meters away from them, and he says if even one of you,
if even one of you takes even one step in the direction of this bridge that
we are building for you today, we will think that this was a good day, a
successful day. (Shulman 2008)
The Ta'ayush member shared this story to indicate the existence of a dedicated
cadre of Palestinian activists committed to the path of Gandhi. He noted the
courage it takes to reach out to armed soldiers given the frequency of Palestin-
ian arrests (and injuries) at such demonstrations, as well as the emphasis on
reconfiguring relationships between Israelis and Palestinians and between the
Israeli military and the occupation regime. The Palestinian organizer’s state-
ment reflects the understanding that nonviolent activists must undermine the
pillars of support that give power to the occupation regime, and that by con-
vincing the Israeli military the occupation is wrong (or at least harmful to Is-
raeli society), they are reducing that power. For Palestinian unarmed struggle
alone to transform the situation given current constellations of power, activ-
ists would need to “mobilize . . . hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in truly
nonviolent resistance. . . . They would pay a price for it of course . . . but they
pay a price for it now, too” (Shulman 2008).
However, despite the existence of many brave and committed nonviolent
activists, Palestinians (and Israelis)21 have been unable to build a mass move-
ment for a variety of reasons, including the institutionalized fragmentation
imposed by the Israeli occupation, internal political divisions within Palestin-
ian society, problems with the Israeli coalition form of government, and the
systemic, self-operating, entrenched organization of the occupation within
Israeli society. At the same time, the confrontational nature of the protests
in Bil'in and elsewhere does not work for many Israelis and Palestinians, but
works “mainly for a younger generation of activists of people [who] really can
give one day a week” (Leibner 2008a). Although a number of committed Pal-
estinians and Israelis have continued to dedicate their Fridays to these demon-
strations for four years, the model has not been widely transferred throughout
the West Bank, in part because of the extreme amount of dedication and effort
required for minimal return.
Other forms of constructive confrontation also continue. RHR executive
director Arik Ascherman, for example, has persisted in his work against home
demolitions in the Jerusalem area in particular, engaging in noncooperation
with Israeli authorities and standing in the way of bulldozers, as Palestinian
homes in the East Jerusalem neighborhoods of Silwan and Sheikh Jarrah have
come under increasing pressure from settler activists and the Israeli govern-
ment. In the middle of a water convoy to the Negev that I accompanied, Rabbi
Ascherman was called off to aid Palestinians in the South Hebron Hills who
were attacked by settlers. Solidarity activities such as assisting with the olive
harvest or visiting Palestinians victimized by settler attacks continue, yet so do
the attacks. Sabeel coordinated demonstrations and vigils, such as a commem-
oration of the sixtieth anniversary of the Nakba, and board member Jean Zaru
published Occupied with Nonviolence (2008), documenting Palestinian efforts
of nonviolent struggle over the decades. However, despite the ongoing efforts
of these groups, as Ta'ayush activist David Shulman noted, “We’re always put-
ting out fires . . . We rush madly around, the same number of people . . . and
none of it adds up to a kind of movement that would be large enough to pro-
duce political change within Israel. It doesn’t do that” (Shulman 2008).
Conclusion
Although Palestinians and Israelis continued to struggle nonviolently against
the occupation, the ongoing creation of “facts on the ground” and the absence
of a sustained or legitimate political process contributed to a situation in 2008
where existing forms of activism had little resonance. Although the groups I
studied continued to engage in activities aimed at awareness raising, institu-
tion building, and constructive confrontation, they generally met with little
success in converting broad segments of Israeli and Palestinian societies or
impacting government policies. In the face of numerous challenges and a lack
of sustained peacemaking effort at the government level, it has been more dif-
ficult for activists to organize or chart out a course of action. As Izhak Schnell
remarked, “When the government says no to a peace plan, it is easy to go in
the streets and demonstrate in favor. But in such a situation you don’t know
what to do to be effective” (2008). Several of the Israelis I met with particu-
larly stressed their own personal dilemmas regarding whether their actions
“enabled” the occupation by “oiling the machine” (Hanna, Nina, and Mika
2008; Shulman 2008). Despite concerns that they were contributing to the
occupation, or providing it with a veneer of humanitarian concern, the Israelis
I interviewed felt that they were morally compelled to act.
Talk about peace was increasingly absent from the discussions in 2008.
Instead, groups spoke more in terms of violence, whether in the form of Pales-
tinian rocket attacks or the socioeconomic violence resulting from the check-
point regime and the international boycott. With no political horizon, and the
Annapolis process a clear failure after eight months of little to no progress, in
July 2008 many of those I interviewed stated that they did not think that they
could make any impact in bringing about a just, secure, and lasting peace.
Many of the Israelis suggested that the Palestinians needed to show they could
build a mass nonviolent movement in order for the Israeli public to believe
in peace, while Palestinians felt the Israelis needed to mobilize against the
occupation and put pressure on their government. Both Israelis and Palestin-
ians called for more involvement from the international community of a sus-
tained and equitable nature. Palestinians in particular lamented the European
Union’s underwriting of the Israeli occupation through its economic aid to the
Palestinians, and commented that the Israelis have a very “cheap” occupation
as a result. Instead of the economic band-aid, Palestinians requested that the
European Union become politically involved in addressing the root causes
of the Palestinians’ socioeconomic woes by holding Israel accountable to its
international obligations.
The unfolding of Operation Cast Lead in December 2008 and January 2009
illustrated the many dilemmas facing Israeli and Palestinian peace movements
in the current environment. Although tens of thousands mobilized in protest,
demonstrating in Tel Aviv, holding silent vigils in the Negev, and bringing
petitions to the High Court of Justice for the passage of humanitarian supplies
into Gaza, such actions were not covered by local or international media. In-
stead, images of Israelis as supportive of “home front defense” and Palestinians
as either Hamas supporters or faceless collateral damage were encouraged by
the media blackout imposed by Israel. The Israeli government’s focus on dem-
onstrating its deterrence capacity (in the wake of the Winograd Commission
report on the failures in Lebanon) and Hamas’ determination to show its own
capacity to resist augmented existing stereotypes and assumptions within each
society regarding the fact that the other side only understands the language of
force, and overshadowed the fact that Hamas rockets almost entirely abated
during the ceasefire even though Israel did not loosen the Gaza blockade as
agreed. With more than one thousand Palestinian deaths and thirteen Israeli
deaths, the war in Gaza underscored the asymmetry of the conflict as well as
the inability of the international community, the Israeli peace movement, or
the Palestinian government to constrain the Israeli political-military estab-
lishment.
With such failures come the need for new approaches and renewed ef-
fort at finding ways to create the foundation for peace. As the possibility of
a two-state solution becomes increasingly dim, there is pressure from some
new segments of Israeli society to hasten such a settlement before Palestinians
return to the pre-1988 call for a single binational state. Meanwhile, Israeli and
Palestinian activists have sought out new ways of organizing and working for
an end to the conflict, ways that are explored in chapters 7 and 8.
7
Mechanisms of Reconfiguration
Challenging Policies of Separation
Introduction
Trends of unilateralism and fragmentation, physical changes such as ongo-
ing settlement construction and finalization of the separation barrier, and
high-level political challenges facing Israeli and Palestinian leaderships (such
as the corruption scandals facing the Ehud Olmert administration and rival
Palestinian governments in the West Bank and Gaza) all contributed to an
increasingly difficult environment for peace activists. By the time I returned
to conduct follow-up interviews in 2008, it was clear that the strategies peace
activists had been using had not resulted in significant sociopolitical change.
Despite the numerous challenges, however, most of those I interviewed in
2004–2005 were still involved in peace and justice work in some capacity,
which several indicated was at least a minor success. This chapter discusses
one of the new mechanisms I observed in 2008 as the groups studied sought
new ways to continue their struggle for a just, lasting, and secure peace for
all. I call this mechanism “reconfiguration,” as it explicitly targets boundaries
that have conventionally divided activist groups (primarily in Israel), in an
effort to bind together socioeconomic and political activists. The mechanism
of reconfiguration is related to that of institution building in that is seeks to
create new space for action, and like that of awareness raising in that it seeks to
change activist behavior by providing them with new information and frames
of analysis. However, the reconfiguration mechanism differs from these other
mechanisms in that it actively targets sociopolitical, economic, and cultural
divides that have generally not been the focus of Israeli peace or leftist activ-
ism. The mechanism seeks to bring about sociopolitical change by converting
new groups within Israel to the antioccupation struggle.
The need for a reconfigured approach to peacebuilding arose out of what
Mechanisms of Reconfiguration: Challenging Policies of Separation · 179
several activists described as the consolidation of the Israeli occupation and

the ever-increasing difficulty of impacting either the occupation system or
Israeli public opinion. This change was particularly noticeable in the joint
groups in my study: the Alternative Information Center (AIC), Ta'ayush, and,
to a lesser extent, Bringing Peace Together (BPT). While in 2004–2005 mem-
bers of these groups recognized the impact of Israeli sociopolitical structures
on the broader Israeli-Palestinian conflict (and vice versa), most groups fo-
cused primarily on Israeli-Palestinian or Jewish-Arab divides and less on in-
ternal Israeli socioeconomic issues.1 In 2008, this situation had changed, and
activist groups were challenging the (artificial) separation of analyses of the
conflict and sociopolitical issues into bounded categories labeled political, so-
cial, geographic, and religious topics. While their work had always (implicitly)
challenged the configuration of political, social, and territorial boundaries, in
2008 groups were explicitly yoking together the social with the political and
the religious with the sociopolitical to a greater extent than before. The activ-
ists’ response to divisions and fragmentation within and between Israeli and
Palestinian societies was to reconfigure issues and create opportunities for
solidarity between oppressed groups—beyond simply the national categories
of Arab and Jew or Palestinian and Israeli—who did not previously identify
with the other.
Reengagement: Connecting Activist Communities

Internal Palestinian and Israeli divisions between 1967 (West Bank and Gaza
Strip) and 1948 Palestinians (citizens of Israel), or between Ashkenazi (Euro-
pean) and Mizrahi (Middle Eastern) Jews, illustrate the fractal-like pattern of
conflict, particularly in the Israeli-Palestinian context, in that divisions, ste-
reotypes, and modes of interaction between Israelis and Palestinians can also
be seen in divisions, stereotypes, and modes of interaction “within” Israeli
and Palestinian societies.2 While such “internal” differences are often glossed
over by macrolevel analyses of the conflict, and, in fact, have systematically
been downplayed by a focus on the “external” Other (Biran 2006; Barzilai
1999), the connection between the domestic situation within Israel and the
occupation of the Palestinian territories was increasingly mentioned by those
I interviewed in 2008. As a result, activists focused more on the complexi-
ties involved in “locating” the Mizrahi Jewish, Bedouin, and ’48 Palestinian
communities within the broader Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Much has been
written on the ambiguous and shifting relationships these communities have
had vis-à-vis official categories of identification as well as on the conflict itself,
and individuals within these communities have often shared their struggles
regarding their mutual and often conflicting loyalties (Campos 2007; Peleg
2008; Peled 1998; Al-Haj 2005; Rouhana 2007). However, Mizrahi Jews have
often identified with the politics of the Right, in part due to feeling the left-
leaning Labor Party did not do enough to ease their integration into society.
Furthermore, they have often expressed anti-Arab sentiment as a way of de-
limiting themselves from the Arab Other and linking themselves more con-
cretely with the Jewish majority in an effort at obtaining equality of services
(Hall-Cathala 1990; Peled 1998).
However, the Mizrahi Jewish community—like the Arab Israeli commu-
nity—often pays the domestic price for Israel’s occupation policies, which
divert resources away from socioeconomic, educational, and cultural pro-
grams within 1948 Israel. Yet, as the activists I interviewed noted, NGOs sup-
porting Mizrahi communities do not discuss the occupation, seeking other
parties (like the Arab Israelis) to blame for their problems. Palestinians are
also divided by the occupation into those with Israeli citizenship, those with
Jerusalem residency, and those living in the West Bank or Gaza Strip, and
each category of Palestinians experiences the conflict in a different way while
also making assumptions about the privileges and degree of nationalism of
the others. In 2008 several activist groups I studied sought to transcend such
boundaries of fragmentation as a way of leveraging social power against oc-
cupation policies that harm all of these groups directly or indirectly. While
efforts to reconfigure political and social movements by intentionally bridg-
ing significant social, economic, and political boundaries have the potential
to transform relations among social sites, these efforts are also constrained by
the history of previous intergroup relations as well as the broader socioeco-
nomic, political, and cultural context (Tilly 2002; Fairclough 1992). By acting
as brokers to link together social groups that have tended to act separately and
view themselves distinctly, Israeli and Palestinian actors have sought to mo-
bilize their limited numbers, resources, and energy in public activity aimed at
preparing the ground for peace (although most did not use that term specifi-
cally) by creating sociopolitical change within Israeli and Palestinian societies.
This strategy reflects Johan Galtung’s distinction between “structural peace,”
which he describes in terms of social patterns of “solidarity” and “integration,”
and “structural violence,” which he equates with sociocultural “fragmenta-
tion” and “segmentation” (Galtung 1996: 31). Activists sought to overcome the
structural violence of the occupation—and the divide-and-rule policies of
fragmentation that sustain it—through bridging divides and creating social
ties of solidarity that integrated different sociopolitical, economic, and cul-

tural movements. The term “structural peace” better conveys the goal of these
activists as well, since the focus was on ending the occupation and, as some
said, policies of “colonization,” rather than a peace through negotiations. The
focus on reconfiguration also underscores how peacebuilding efforts are not
just about drawing geopolitical lines on maps but also about creating social
communities who recognize those boundaries as legitimate.
The sections that follow examine programs in 2008 undertaken by sev-
eral of the groups of focus (Alternative Information Center, Ta'ayush/Tarabut,
Rabbis for Human Rights, and Sabeel) that frame group activism in integra-
tive terms, explicitly reconfiguring the divide between social and political ac-
tivism found within the Israeli NGO and activist community as well as the
segmenting off of religion from the political work of peace. Peace activism
within Israel/Palestine has largely been avidly secular, even antireligious, al-
though religion has become an increasingly politicized aspect of the conflict
and many of the difficult issues regarding the status of Jerusalem involve re-
ligious identification.3 The call for bridging the religious-secular divide also
relates to the emphasis on creating space for pluralism and engaging construc-
tively with divergent viewpoints so that all can “own” agreed-upon actions. A
significant difference between the reconfiguration strategy observed in 2008
and the strategies observed in 2004–2005 was a tendency to shift attention to
efforts that could be done internally within national boundaries to overcome
social, political, and economic divides (and to build social networks and con-
stituencies for peacebuilding work) prior to or in preparation for significant
engagement across national lines.
Integrating the “Socioeconomic” with the “Political”

Alternative Information Center
A joint organization for twenty-five years, the Alternative Information Center
(AIC) continued its struggle to build bridges between Israelis and Palestin-
ians as well as within each society. In 2008, the AIC engaged in the process
of reconfiguration not only in its selected activities but also in its mode of
operation. For example, the AIC created a new staff position for coordinating
between Israeli and Palestinian social movements for the purpose of devising
a strategy on issues of common concern, such as women’s issues.
This shift in strategic orientation came at the end of 2006 as a result of an
internal reexamination process that noticed “our joint work was sort of the
same old people” (Hackbarth 2008a). The AIC sought to break with the tradi-
tional pattern of the Israeli Left, also called the peace camp, and systematically
engage with Israelis in particular, but also Palestinians, working on socio-
economic issues, particularly given the general tendency of poorer Israelis to
vote for right-wing political parties (Yahni 2008). While the alliance between
peace groups and those working on women’s rights, education, poverty, and
other social justice issues may not seem particularly novel to activists in the
West, in Israel, the political and the social have traditionally been divided, and
the Israeli Left is associated with groups against the occupation, rather than
the typical European leftist agenda. The AIC has its roots in “old-school left
politics,” however, and consequently has traditionally been more critical of the
mainstream Left as epitomized by Peace Now and other groups (Hackbarth
2008a; Warschawski 2005). The integrative thinking behind the AIC’s strategic
shift is explained by the Palestinian director of the Beit Sahour office:
The marginalized groups inside Israeli society, they are paying the price
of the occupation. Because [a] very serious share from the Israeli budget
and expenses is going to support their occupation activity in the West
Bank, how to control, to build walls, to help and support the settlements,
and that affects directly the poor Israelis, the poorest sectors inside the
Israeli society. And it’s difficult to continue to talk about, to help, to ac-
cept the occupation and in the same time to finish or to end the poverty
inside the Israeli society. (Ibrahim 2008)
This explanation shows the critical work done by sociopolitical boundaries

in framing the conflict and also shaping the possibilities for engagement. It
also demonstrates an orientation toward sociopolitical boundaries as porous
and contested, rather than rigid and essential. An approach to sociopoliti-
cal change oriented toward the reconfiguration of boundaries also recognizes
that the margins can provide an opportunity for interaction, engagement,
and influence that is nearly impossible at the center; this process can also
increase the availability of relational power (Tilly 1998; Albert, Jacobson, and
Lapid 2001). Since, from a boundary-focused approach, the margins consti-
tute group identity, by shifting or altering the boundaries between Self and
Other through engagement with the marginalized, one can affect the identity
of the entity as a whole (Abbott 1995; Natali 2000). Thus, by intentionally
reconfiguring boundaries through linking social issues within Israel with the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the AIC is challenging Israeli self-definitions about
the nature and character of their state, as well as their relationship to the Pal-
estinian Other.
One of the major consequences of this shift in orientation is that the AIC
is more involved in work related to the Mizrahi Jewish communities as well
as the Palestinian citizens of Israel. Such work has its challenges, since Israeli
NGOs working on socioeconomic issues rarely discuss the occupation or the
connection between budget cuts for social services and education with the
costs of the separation barrier and maintaining the occupation (Hackbarth
2008a; Lubna 2008). This (artificial) separation of issues is itself a reflection
of broader dynamics regarding power and inequality within Israeli society.
Several AIC staff members noted that Israeli NGOs often mentioned the need
to protect their constituents from discussing issues of the occupation, or ex-
pressed fear that if they talked about the occupation no one would come to
their center. An Israeli AIC staff member characterized the attitude of some
Israeli NGO staff as “Oh, the impoverished and starved, of course they can’t
hear about the occupation; we’d never jeopardize our work by doing that,” and
went on to note that Israeli NGOs serving marginalized populations demon-
strated a “lack of knowledge about the occupation [that] is a bit startling,” and
oppressed communities within Israelis lack awareness “of the connection be-
tween government policies, their oppression, and the occupation in general”
(Hackbarth 2008a).
The AIC staff member working on the social movements project expressed
some of the challenges facing her reconfiguration efforts because of the em-
beddedness of group identities within the broader sociopolitical framing of
the conflict. She shared, for example, how “you go to [Israeli] feminist orga-
nizations and they say we are feminists, we have nothing to do with politi-
cal [issues]. And then I start arguing with them. A [Palestinian] woman who
cannot pass the checkpoint and has to have a baby at the checkpoint, is it [a]
feminist [issue] or is it political? A woman whose home is demolished, is it
political or . . . ?” (Lubna 2008). The linking of socioeconomic and political
issues is not as challenging in Palestinian society, since many political parties
have their own associated NGOs, and Palestinian community organizations
were important in mobilizing their constituencies prior to and during the first
intifada and continue to provide necessary services like education and health
care in the absence of a state (King 2007; Ibrahim 2008). However, given the
relationship between Palestinian NGOs and the Palestinian struggle, at times
they are weaker in terms of their issues than they are in their nationalist cre-
dentials, as evidenced in the realm of women’s equality, for example (Sharoni
1995; Hassassian 2002; Ibrahim 2008). The AIC does not seek to challenge the
structure of these groups but rather seeks to use the common aims of Israeli
and Palestinian social movements, such as women’s issues or the environment,
to bring activists together in a common struggle to achieve those aims and

share their knowledge and experiences. At the same time, the AIC seeks to
educate Israelis and Palestinians about the extent to which the success of their
endeavors is blocked by the ongoing occupation. Thus, the goal of the proj-
ect is not simply to establish cross-border partnerships between Palestinians
and Israelis but also to forge a linkage between intractable socioeconomic
problems and the Israeli occupation. Before bringing groups together to meet
across national lines, the AIC conducts workshops with each group indepen-
dently to make explicit the connections between the occupation and their is-
sue of focus. The workshops are particularly important for the Israeli groups,
which often have little to no knowledge about the occupation and its policies,
let alone how those policies affect them or their issue. As one staff member
noted, the Israelis are often eager to meet with their Palestinian counterparts
and do not understand why they need a workshop. However, the workshops
are intended to lay the foundation for more genuinely joint partnerships ori-
ented to a common goal and avoid the propensity of many nominally joint
projects to replicate asymmetrical relationships between Israelis and Palestin-
ians. The idea is to help them understand “the things that are holding them
back [from achieving their gender-related goals] as Israeli women before we
bring them to meet Palestinian women” (Hackbarth 2008a).
While a major goal of the social movement project is to bring together
Israeli and Palestinian groups in a common struggle, at the time of research
the AIC had not yet brought Israeli Jews and Palestinians together, although
both groups had expressed that they wanted to meet the Other. The AIC had,
however, brought together groups of Palestinians from the West Bank, East
Jerusalem, and Israel, with unanticipated (for the AIC) results. As the Israeli
Jewish codirector of the AIC noted, “Sometimes the gaps between, within,
these three groups are bigger than the Jewish-Palestinian gaps we encoun-
ter . . . They spent the first half hour, you know, [arguing over] who sacrifices
more, who suffers more from the occupation” (Hackbarth 2008a). The Pales-
tinian organizer responsible for the project, who has Israeli citizenship, ex-
plained how she “wanted to make a bridge between” organizations from “’48,
Israel, and ’67” but that she was still “not convinced I should work with Israeli
organizations” (Lubna 2008). The boundaries drawn here are significant; not
only did she create a separate category for Palestinian citizens of Israel (like
herself) distinct from other Israelis, but she also excluded the joint AIC from
the category of Israeli organizations. Rather than seeking to bridge the gap
between Israeli and Palestinian groups, she had focused to date on dealing
with internal Palestinian stereotypes between different geographically defined

groups, like East Jerusalem and the West Bank, and factional groups, such as
Fateh, Hamas, and Islamic Jihad, that had been aggravated by the existence
of separate governments in the West Bank and Gaza Strip (Lubna 2008). At
the same time as she expressed her disinclination to work with Israeli groups,
however, she acknowledged the connection she feels with Mizrahi Jews, stating:
I feel we, it’s the same feeling, maybe more or less, maybe living in dif-
ferent places in different situations, but I can more deal with an Israeli
Jewish woman who came from Iraq more than an Israeli woman who
came from Europe. Because the one who came from Iraq, she is treated
in Israel like I’m treated by her. They treat her as an Iraqi Arab woman,
and she treats me as a Palestinian. . . . I could speak with her, or have
sympathy for her more than the Israelis who are telling me about the
Arab woman who is cleaning her house or cooking for them. (Lubna
2008)
At the core of Lubna’s remarks is a commentary on the role of power and

inequality in constituting sociopolitical identities, factors that both help and
hinder reconfiguration efforts. While Palestinians and Mizrahi Jews share the
Arabic language and some cultural traditions, which makes communication
easier, the Mizrahi usually try to downplay or hide aspects of their identity
that differentiate them from Israel’s more Ashkenazi-oriented cultural main-
stream. As several AIC staff members noted, many Mizrahi Jews exhibit ul-
tranationalist (and anti-Arab) tendencies during the day, and speak Arabic,
smoke the narghile, and listen to Arabic music at night (Yahni 2008; Lubna
2008). Furthermore, because of power inequalities within Israeli society, as
well as power inequalities across national boundaries (however and wherever
they are defined), both communities are discriminated against and used in-
strumentally by those deemed socially superior.4 Such power inequalities are
demonstrated by the “white” managers deciding which issues the “Oriental”
community can deal with, or Jewish organizations thinking “It’s very sexy to
have . . . partnerships with the Arabs” while ignoring the very different worlds
they inhabit as “occupier and occupied” (Lubna 2008). These patterns make
cooperation on an equal basis difficult, and pose challenges to bridging the
gulf between the political and the social in Israeli society as well as confront-
ing the accusation of normalization in Palestinian society.
Inequalities in power not only contribute to stereotypes about the Other
and resentment on the part of the oppressed, but they also pose structural ob-
stacles difficult to bridge. While some of these obstacles, such as the tendency
to view the Palestinian as a victim rather than as a partner, may be addressed
through training workshops, encounter groups, and joint projects. Other bar-
riers, such as the ability of Israeli soldiers at the checkpoint to place a gun at a
Palestinian’s head at will, are more difficult to overcome. In between these two
extremes is the partially self-imposed quiet evident in some Palestinian citi-
zens of Israel when it comes to speaking out against Israeli policies, especially
those framed in security terms. The social movement coordinator expressed
her frustration in meetings composed of Jewish Israelis and Palestinian Israe-
lis, as the latter would be silent in the whole-group meetings but vociferously
angry and outspoken when alone. This silence is a strategy for maintaining
what limited power and privilege group members do have, as speaking out
has real risks associated with it, from being silenced to being arrested to be-
ing physically attacked (Yahni 2008; Lubna 2008). On a more macro level,
inequality prevents diplomatic progress because, as one AIC staff member
noted, “under the table of the negotiations there is the balance of power,” and
the Israeli state with its powerful military continues to impose political condi-
tions through the establishment of facts on the ground (Ibrahim 2008).
Ta'ayush
Although it was one of the more vibrant movements during my research in
2004–2005, a model of joint work with regular meetings and sustained part-
nerships with communities throughout the West Bank and Israel, Ta'ayush
as a movement had largely disintegrated by the time I returned in 2008. Al-
though a few pockets of Ta'ayush activists remained, for example, a Jerusalem-
based subcommittee active in the South Hebron Hills and a group working
in Wadi 'Ara, there were no longer regular meetings or large-scale activities. I
also heard reports of shifting relationships with partners in the West Bank as
key activists reduced or stopped participating due to their own personal situa-
tions. Sustaining a volunteer-based organization with the type of participatory
decision-making practices and committee structure espoused by Ta'ayush was
difficult, as volunteers encountered life changes or economic difficulties, or
experienced burnout. Of the three activists I interviewed in 2008, only one
was still involved in the remnants of Ta'ayush. The other two, who had been
integral parts of Ta'ayush—one a founding member and the other a lead or-
ganizer in the Jerusalem branch—had not been involved in the organization
for more than a year.
As one activist noted, the gradual disintegration of Ta'ayush was part
of the “natural history of the Israeli peace movement. . . . Peace organiza-

tions like Ta'ayush . . . have a certain life cycle. If they manage to survive four
years . . . that’s a lot” (Shulman 2008). Although issues like “attrition, exhaus-
tion, apathy [and] despair” make it difficult to sustain long-term involvement,
“new groups come up” (Shulman 2008).5 At the same time, however, in 2008
barriers encountered by joint efforts to end the conflict made it exceedingly
difficult to sustain such work. Those I interviewed noted that the Israeli gov-
ernment “won this round” (Shulman 2008) or “succeeded” in its efforts to pro-
mote “separation and apartheid” (Badawi 2008). As one commented, Ta'ayush
activists used to be able to “challenge the separation and to feel united with the
other partner. But today even a good will or inspiration, or whatever, it can’t
help you because there are physical obstacles everywhere” (Badawi 2008).
Nevertheless, the activists affirmed that the collapse of Ta'ayush itself did not
reflect a change in political views on the part of its members but rather the fact
that “people can be morally engaged, emotionally engaged, but they cannot
work politically and I am talking about politically, not just humanitarian . . . in
a certain direction without being able to imagine how really their actions can
contribute to a change” (Leibner 2008). In this remark, the activist not only
drew attention to the distinction between humanitarian and political activ-
ism, which was seen in the earlier discussion of Machsom Watch, but he also
emphasized the importance of an action orientation linked to sociopolitical
change. Another activist made a similar point when she noted that despite
years of “struggling . . . with Palestinians against the occupation project and
all its elements, such as the settlements, the wall and the checkpoints . . . the
occupation was growing [and activists who had] believed that they could do it
together [were faced with] a separation wall that separated activists from each
other” in the place of fields where they once struggled together (Badawi 2008).
These two quotations highlight that one of the key components contributing
to activist burnout was the fact that activists had not yet developed a success-
ful mechanism for sociopolitical change.
Consequently, to be able to sustain activist commitment for the length of
time usually necessary for a successful nonviolent campaign, scholars, poli-
cymakers, and activists need to think critically not only about how to support
activists to prevent burnout, which includes helping recruit more activists, but
also how to devise a strategy that capitalizes on available sources of power and
uses tactics that lead to sociopolitical change. In reflecting on the reasons for
Ta'ayush’s inability to effect sociopolitical change, one of the activists noted
that Ta'ayush and its partners on the other side of the Green Line had become
increasingly marginalized or co-opted by their respective governments. Con-

sequently, there was need to rethink how to engage domestically to broaden
bases of support and to turn marginality into a constructive source of power.
Although many activists felt hopeless or intimidated by the extent of the ob-
stacles facing peace activism, those I interviewed made clear that one should
not say that peace movements were “defeated” but rather that they were “tired”
(Badawi 2008).
Despite the lack of overt political change by 2008, some activists sug-
gested that the potential for future change existed due to the reconfigura-
tion of relationships that had occurred as a result of activism in the second
intifada. According to at least one of the activists I interviewed, these groups
have helped change the structure of the occupation system, something pre-
vious generations of peace movements (notably Peace Now) failed to accom-
plish. In particular, cross-boundary efforts by groups like Ta'ayush helped
create an “infrastructure for peace” (Shulman 2008). Despite the existence
of these social ties across the Green Line (1949 armistice line), however, ac-
tivists had not been able to mobilize the relational power potential in these
connections into a broad-based movement for sociopolitical change. This
failure resulted largely from what one activist termed the “rigidifying inten-
sification . . . of [the] coercive system” or what another termed the “circum-
stances we are living in” (Badawi 2008; Shulman 2008). Thus, the efforts of
former Ta'ayush members have turned in other directions to forge different
types of connections in the pursuit of sociopolitical change. Feeling that the
Israeli peace movement is “always putting out fires” and is “infiltrated by
government spies and reporters,” the activists I interviewed discussed two
different strategies supported by former Ta'ayush members: the creation of
a new political bloc, Tarabut, and encouragement of the Palestinian nonvio-
lent movement.
Adjusting the Integrative Strategies

In 2004–2005 Ta'ayush’s institution-building processes more closely approx-
imated reconfiguration than those of the other groups studied, given its ef-
forts to break down psychological and physical walls within Israel as well as
between Israelis and Palestinians on opposite sides of the Green Line. The
focus, though, had still been primarily on national divides rather than those
between socioeconomic and political movements. In contrast, Tarabut, one
of the new initiatives, aimed not only at connecting Palestinians and Israelis
but also at connecting what had generally been considered separate frame-
works, such as “the political [framework], Arab-Jewish relations within Is-

rael, the economic-social, religion and state” (Leibner 2008b). Tarabut, like
Ta'ayush, has a name that is Arabic in origin, a radical move in the Israeli
public sphere, as well as a name that reflects the goals and values espoused
the by the organization. Tarabut, which means “connection,” can also mean
“to apply a tourniquet,” “to fortify someone,” or “to remain calm, undis-
mayed.” These definitions reflect the effort necessary to remain resolved in
the struggle for peace and equality despite the major political and institu-
tional obstacles, as well as the need to staunch the metaphorical and actual
bleeding within the societies. While some former Ta'ayush activists joined
Tarabut, many did not.
Tarabut is significantly different from Ta'ayush in that it aims to create a
new political movement that can compete in elections and serves as an “um-
brella framework that would hold all of the peace camp together . . . hands on
activists on the ground and also the social economic activists in Israel” (Shul-
man 2008). Tarabut does not seek to supplant existing groups but rather to
reconfigure Israeli movements for social, economic, and political equality so
that current divisions do not continue to paralyze sociopolitical change. The
stated goal of Tarabut is to create “an integrated left-wing organization, which
creates strategic thinking but does not cancel out the actions and importance
of the autonomous groups,” an organization that must “respect,” “nurture,”
and “learn from” a variety of frameworks (Leibner 2008b). These statements
reflect a desire to reconfigure resources including knowledge, skills, and hu-
man capacity so as to increase leverage. As one of the founding members of
Ta'ayush, who is also involved in Tarabut, noted, the main idea “is to connect
between struggles, to act with different populations that are oppressed, to get
out from the segmentation that NGO activism or sectoral activism puts us
[into]” (Leibner 2008a)—in other words, to capitalize on the relational power
available in social ties.
While the activities of Tarabut run parallel in many ways to those of the
Alternative Information Center, which also seeks to bridge the gap between
political and socioeconomic activism within Israel, there are also differences
in their approach, in part due to the AIC’s roots in Marxist political thought.
For Tarabut, the gap between the Israeli Left or peace movement and Mizrahi
Jews is partly due to the perception “that the Israeli Left is liberal, middle class,
disconnected from the lower classes, and mainly Ashkenazi, disconnected
from Oriental Jews [and] anti-religious” (Leibner 2008a). While both Tarabut
and the AIC seek to bridge gaps between Ashkenazi and Mizrahi as well as
between peace movements and the socioeconomically oppressed within Is-

rael, Tarabut explicitly references the need to also bridge the secular-religious
divide, through viewing religion as “an integral part of human culture and
not as part of the problem” (Leibner 2008a).6 Both of these joint groups—the
AIC and former Ta'ayush activists now involved in Tarabut—have shifted
strategies toward internal engagement and education, challenging and re-
configuring boundaries dividing movements previously seen as separate and
working to create connections between those (unknowingly) facing com-
mon problems.
Like Ta'ayush, Tarabut operates based on the principles of equality, soli-
darity, and joint action. Although Tarabut has explicitly political goals and
objectives, it gives solidarity without preconditions, just as Ta'ayush pro-
vided solidarity for Palestinians in the West Bank based on their suffering
and not on their political affiliation. Thus, the social ties, the connections, do
the real political work and are the motor for change. For example, Tarabut
activists provided solidarity to Kfar Shalem, a poor neighborhood of Yemeni
Jews in South Tel Aviv that was built on the ruins of a Palestinian village
after 1949 “with the intention to change modes of action, modes of thinking,
political identities, not as a condition for solidarity, but through solidarity”
(Leibner 2008a; Rapoport 2007). Again, the significant factor in these efforts
was creating the infrastructure and connections that establish the condi-
tions for political mobilization and sociopolitical change. Such changes are
evident within the Kfar Shalem community as a result of their “political
interaction” with Tarabut (Leibner 2008a). Early on, one of Kfar Shalem’s
leaders gave a speech against threatened home demolitions by asking, “What
do [the Israeli authorities] want from us? We are serving the army, we are
part of Israel . . . why don’t they go to the Bedouin first and destroy their
houses and leave us alone?” (Leibner 2008a). When it came time for the
home demolitions, Tarabut arranged for solidarity from Arab Israeli activ-
ists from the neighboring city of Jaffa, who were more experienced than the
residents of Kfar Shalem in terms of political activism. This experience of
Arab solidarity—a first for the Mizrahi residents of Kfar Shalem—changed
the nature of their discourse “so they do not speak any more about destroying
Arab houses” (Leibner 2008a).
While this discursive shift does not necessarily signify a complete change
of political attitudes or a reconfiguring of the social structure, it does demon-
strate the capacity of positive connections and cross-border relationships to
forge coalitions for sociopolitical change in the place of sociopolitical divides.
In this instance, Tarabut acted as a broker, joining together two different op-
pressed groups in a common struggle. In the course of this act of broker-
age, it also demonstrated how power is relational and contextual, since in this
instance the Jaffa Arabs had more power than the Mizrahi Jews due, ironi-
cally, to their own experience with oppression in the form of home demoli-
tion orders and other mechanisms of exclusion. Such acts of brokerage also
have ramifications for Tarabut’s own boundaries of identification. Interactions
with the residents of Kfar Shalem and the discovery of a shared platform of
concerns—previously disconnected due to the separation of the political and
the socioeconomic within Israel—shifted previously held conceptions about
the various parts of the Israeli political spectrum. As Gerardo explained, he
used to see the “critical Left” such as Ta'ayush or Tarabut as next to the Zi-
onist Left on the Israeli political spectrum. Yet today, “paradoxically [I find]
much more common language with the people in Kfar Shalem which are [po-
litically] right voters than with a certain kind of people in the center of the
political [spectrum]” (Leibner 2008a). This shift illustrates the constitutive
nature of sociopolitical boundaries in terms of categories of identification,
since Tarabut’s reconfiguration of activist boundaries contributed to this shift
in felt affiliation. From this different perspective, Zionist Left organizations
like Peace Now, which Gerardo described as predominantly “upper middle
class, Ashkenazi completely, well educated and in their self-perception . . . the
‘illustrated people,’” seem as “racist” as the Kfar Shalem spokesperson had
been, given that “in their political arguments . . . when they speak in favor of a
Palestinian state their main idea is that we do not have to mix with them. We
want to be a Jewish state” (Leibner 2008a).
Just as Tarabut sought to join together disparate strands of socioeconomic
and political activism within Israel, tying together oppressed peoples in an
analysis of the broader system causing that oppression, other former Ta'ayush
activists sought to support the same process within the Palestinian Territories.
Relatively uniquely in the Israeli context, the former Ta'ayush activists I inter-
viewed noted that the Palestinian Left faced similar dilemmas and obstacles.7
As one said, “I can imagine that we are a mirror one of the other. The same
dilemmas” (Leibner 2008a). However, the two Jewish Israelis I interviewed
differed from the Palestinian citizen of Israel I interviewed in discussing what
should be done to deal with this situation in Palestine. While one suggested
that Palestinians should question what gave Hamas hegemony among the
lower socioeconomic classes within Palestine just as Tarabut is questioning
the Right’s hegemony among poor Israeli Jews, the other suggested that Pales-
tinians needed to mobilize a mass nonviolent movement. In contrast, the Pal-

estinian Israeli suggested that Palestinians needed to do more to make Israelis
feel the pain of the occupation and thereby become more involved in efforts
to combat it. Noteworthy in this difference, which could simply be the result
of the small number of interviews conducted, is that the Jewish Israelis sug-
gested the motor for change should come primarily from within Palestinian
society, whereas the Palestinian Israeli suggested the motor of change should
be sparked by Palestinian actions but that ultimately the change would come
as a result of Israeli actions.
The latter two strategies mentioned above differ from that of Tarabut in
that they seek to reconfigure boundaries within the Palestinian territories or
between Palestinians, Israelis, and the international community through the
international campaigns for boycott, divestment, and sanctions (discussed in
chapter 8). All three Ta'ayush activists pointed to the existence of a Palestin-
ian nonviolent movement but argued that it was small, localized, and depen-
dent on a certain type of activists who were young, single, and had sufficient
time and energy to commit (Shulman 2008; Leibner 2008). Despite the core
cadre of Palestinian leaders committed to nonviolent intervention, the pock-
ets of resistance were scattered across the West Bank and not connected in
any significant way. Furthermore, most of these groups were not connected
to the major power centers within Palestinian society, particularly the urban
areas, since most of the active resistance against the wall happened in rural
villages. A major challenge to linking these disparate groups of nonviolent
activists together was the structure of the Israeli occupation, which is “set
up . . . to localize it, to keep [the Palestinian activists] in these tiny enclaves
to try to prevent . . . a wider movement” (Shulman 2008). Such divides were
not only geographical but also rural-urban and class based, and although they
were partially due to the occupation, they also had to do with the structure
of Palestinian society, as noted by al Mubadara activists. While the Israelis I
interviewed noted that Israeli activists can stand in solidarity with Palestin-
ians in their nonviolent struggle against the occupation, the reconfiguration
of Palestinian society and building of a broader constituency for the struggle
must be done by Palestinians themselves (Leibner 2008a). Whereas my earlier
rounds of interviews with Ta'ayush activists emphasized the solidarity and
partnership between Israelis and Palestinians in working for change, in 2008
Israelis described their role at this time more in terms of solidarity than part-
nership; Palestinians themselves needed to take the next step in organizing a
mass nonviolent movement.
Bounding the Social and Political through Religion
Although both Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) and Sabeel Ecumenical Lib-
eration Theology Center (Sabeel) were involved explicitly with internal socio-
economic activities either within 1948 Israel or the Palestinian Territories in
2004–2005, I did not pay as much attention to them given my research focus
on international (that is, Israeli-Palestinian) cross-boundary peacebuilding
efforts and their impact on identity formation. Things are always clearer in
hindsight, however, and, these efforts were more apparently significant in
2008 given the shift toward strategies of reconfiguration observed in other
organizations. Sabeel and RHR remained in the minority of Israeli and Pales-
tinian organizations working through a religious lens to address the causes of
the conflict nonviolently, and their work continued to be differentiated from
the work of the other groups studied in this regard. Other peace organizations
that engage with religious issues, like the Interfaith Encounter Association
(IEA), tended to steer away from political issues, focusing on building per-
sonal connections and finding religious commonalities, whereas the scriptural
interpretation of Sabeel and RHR is explicitly aimed at sociopolitical change.
The uniqueness of these two organizations’ combination of religion and poli-
tics for the cause of justice and peace is evident in Tarabut’s effort to create an
Israeli Left that was not anti-religious.
Both Sabeel and RHR have traditionally engaged in strategies of recon-
figuration on a number of levels; in this regard, their activities illustrated the
fractal-like dimensions of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. On a basic level,
both organizations invested significant energy bringing together clergy from
different theological perspectives: Reform, Orthodox, Conservative, and Re-
constructionist Jewish traditions and a variety of Orthodox, Catholic, and
Protestant Christian denominations, while also bridging political and social
divisions resulting from the varied backgrounds of their respective member-
ships. For example, a number of RHR’s members are considered “Anglos”—
immigrants from English-speaking countries with a tradition of civic and
human rights—while others are from families with local roots dating back
generations; Sabeel’s officers include Palestinians with Israeli citizenship, East
Jerusalem residency, and West Bank IDs.
In contrast to the secular groups studied, the work of RHR and Sabeel is
grounded in biblical sources, including the Hebrew prophets and the New
Testament, and scriptural interpretation rather than leftist ideology. This par-
tially explains why they had social justice programs alongside conflict-related
activities before it seemed strategically useful for the nonreligious groups; the
linkage of social, political, and economic issues emerged from religious duty
rather than strategic calculation. Such connections are evident in the narra-
tives of those I interviewed as well as organizational Web sites, documents,
and weekly e-mails circulated by the organizations.8
Rabbis for Human Rights

The very name of RHR’s weekly e-mail newsletter, “Parashat Ha'Shavua” (the
weekly Torah portion), indicates its religious foundation. Each issue includes
a rabbinical commentary on the week’s Torah portion that applies Jewish
scripture to contemporary sociopolitical issues, updates on programmatic ac-
tivities by RHR staff, including their social justice work within Israel (focused
on the Wisconsin Plan) and the Palestinian Territories (focused on the olive
harvest cycle), and often a message from the executive director, Rabbi Arik
Ascherman, on current pressing issues, such as the work carried out in coali-
tion with other Israeli organizations involved in the Israeli Committee Against
Home Demolition (ICAHD).9 The entire newsletter links the sociopolitical
with the religious, as staff reports on the week’s events often include biblical
imagery or religiously based metaphors.
One example of RHR’s linkage of sociopolitical and religious issues centers
on the demolition of the Al-Kurd family’s home in the East Jerusalem neigh-
borhood of Sheikh Jarrah. For several months Israeli and international activ-
ists maintained a presence in the home to help prevent its demolition for Jew-
ish settlement expansion. The legal basis for expelling the family is an Israeli
court order based on an Ottoman title deed from 1880 declaring the house
Jewish property even though Israel refused to recognize the Al-Kurd family’s
Ottoman title deed for their pre-1948 home in the West Jerusalem neighbor-
hood of Talbieh.10 A December 2008 e-mail action alert circulated by RHR
that announced the Al-Kurd family’s march to their pre-1948 West Jerusalem
home illustrates how the organization seeks to integrate religious teachings
with sociopolitical activism in a climate in which human rights activism is
not only associated largely with secular groups but also regarded as being pro-
Palestinian and consequently highly political. The e-mail states: “While, as a
human rights organization, RHR has no position one way or the other on the
Palestinian right of return, as rabbis we uphold the Jewish prohibition against
acting ‘eifa v'eifa’ in a discriminatory manner.”11 In this short statement, RHR
first seeks to emphasize its status as a human rights (as opposed to political)
organization, and then seeks to legitimize its position on the basis of Jewish
moral dictates.
Despite the highly emotive issues involved in this simple action, which
touches not only on the status of Jerusalem but also on the Palestinian
refugee question, RHR draws attention to the core moral issue involved,
discrimination, and emphasizes what Jewish law, rather than the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights or other such documents, says about it. In so
doing, RHR acts as a broker, seeking to link the religious Jewish commu-
nity with the human rights concerns of Palestinians on the basis of Jewish
religious tradition rather than liberal universalism. RHR seeks to create an
alternative framework for considering the claims of the Al-Kurd family, one
that Jewish communities can hear, by disconnecting the issue from the right
of return and reconnecting it to Jewish doctrine. Many religious Jews in
particular feel strongly about maintaining the Jewish identity of Israel (and
Jerusalem in particular) and fear the resultant demographic shift should
Palestinian refugees be granted the right of return. Most do not ponder the
issues at stake from the perspective of Jewish religious teachings but rather
immediately resort to political positions. RHR’s efforts to bridge the gap
between human rights and Judaism within the Israeli context also sought
to bridge the gap between the secular and the religious within the Israeli
human rights movement and to demonstrate that the two are not incompat-
ible.12
Not only did Rabbis for Human Rights seek to bridge the gap between
issues seen as political or human rights and those seen as religious or social
issues, but they did so from a position of integrating different streams of Ju-
daic thought. In Israel, only the Orthodox tradition is officially recognized
within state institutions; non-Orthodox rabbis from the Reform, Reconstruc-
tionist, and Conservative (Mesorti) traditions are unable to legally perform
marriages, funerals, or other official functions.13 This makes RHR a minority
community on several fronts. First, it is a minority in the peace activist realm
as most Israeli groups are secular, even antireligious. Second, it is a minority
within the religious community, as the rabbinical establishment is dominated
by Orthodox rabbis concerned with upholding kashrut (kosher laws). As sev-
eral of those I interviewed noted, the Hebrew prophets like Micah, Isaiah, and
Amos—a major biblical basis for the Judaic tradition of social justice—are
not taught in the Orthodox seminaries (yeshivot). RHR offers its own human
rights yeshiva to help counter this lack. As a result of its minority status, as
well as its multidenominational structure, RHR is often engaged in a series
of negotiations over the scope of its work and its interpretation of rights and
religious mandates, for example, over the extent to which the organization
is involved in political activism and interpretation of religious duties when
values come into conflict. Since members of RHR have multiple identities and
value commitments, this can pose a challenge.
RHR’s work with the economically oppressed and the socially excluded
within Israel preceded the efforts of the AIC and Tarabut. While RHR,
Ta'ayush, Machsom Watch, and other leftist groups have often cooperated in
coalitions for the olive harvest, in opposition to home demolitions, or in other
activities in solidarity with Palestinians (and continue to do so), RHR’s work
always included a domestic Israeli component rooted in the Jewish social tra-
dition of caring for the poor and oppressed. Since its founding in 1988, RHR
has “championed the cause of the poor, supported the rights of Israel’s minori-
ties and the Palestinians . . . endeavored to guarantee the upkeep of Israel’s
public health care system . . . helped Ethiopian Jews” (RHR 2008a). A major
focus in recent years has involved working with those Israeli communities
(in Hadera, for instance) affected by the Wisconsin Plan, a “welfare for work”
program.14 RHR was also involved in the Recognition Forum, which strives to
achieve recognition for the unrecognized Bedouin villages in the Negev.15 In
July 2008 I accompanied a group of RHR activists, including two rabbis—ex-
ecutive director Arik Ascherman and past chairperson Yehiel Grenimann—
on a water convoy to the Negev, an action that exemplified RHR’s integrative
action as it dealt with social justice issues within Israel (water for the Negev
Bedouin) and was done in partnership with secular Israeli groups. The flyer
announcing the action explained the water convoy as “an act of protest against
the government’s policy of denying rights to the residents in the unrecognized
villages in the Negev, to demand water supply to every single village just as
the government connects every single private ranch (whether or not its Jewish
settlers hold official permits).”
Both the format of the action and the language used to discuss it illus-
trate the mechanism of reconfiguration at work. The action explicitly tied
together the Israeli Left (RHR, Coexistence Forum, Tel Aviv activists) with
those economically and socially excluded inside Israel (Negev Bedouin living
in unrecognized village) and also tied together secular and religious activists.
Furthermore, the action tied struggles for Bedouin equality and integration
within Israel to struggles for peace with Palestinians in the occupied territo-
ries, as several speakers highlighted the parallels between Israeli policy toward
the Palestinians in the occupied territories and Israeli policy toward the Bed-
ouin, who have Israeli citizenship. At the same time, however, village residents
sought to differentiate themselves from Palestinians, highlighting their loyalty
to the Israeli state as exemplified in their payment of taxes and completion of
military service. Rabbi Grenimann, representing RHR (Rabbi Ascherman had

left earlier in response to a call from Palestinians being attacked by settlers in
the South Hebron Hills), based his message in Jewish scripture. Wearing his
kipa, the rabbi called for change in discriminatory state policies, citing the oft-
repeated mizvoth to “remember that you were slaves in Egypt” and treat the
“stranger” in your midst accordingly, especially those who are oppressed. A
third speaker, a Mizrahi Jew who had been active in the Black Panther move-
ment, spoke passionately about the ways in which the Bedouin struggle for
recognition and basic rights was linked to both the domestic struggle of Ori-
ental Jews inside Israel and the international struggle of Palestinians in the
occupied territories.16
This brief description of the speakers’ messages reflects the efforts of Is-
raeli activists to leverage scarce resources for sociopolitical change through
the forging of coalitions. Not only did the three speakers represent three di-
verse constituencies, but they all sought to link together issues and groups
previously deemed separate in Israeli discourse: religious and secular, Arab
and Jew, Mizrahi and Ashkenazi, domestic and international. RHR’s particu-
lar contribution to this work consisted of its explicit effort to integrate Jewish
religious teachings, as opposed to Jewish cultural practices, into human rights
work. Rabbi Grenimann’s message particularly highlighted Jewish teach-
ings on discrimination and the treatment of minority populations. By taking
off the brimmed hat he had worn from Jerusalem to reveal his kipa and by
grounding his message in scripture, the rabbi not only sought to demonstrate
the compatibility between Judaism and human rights, but he also sought to
humanize Judaism for those secular Jews who felt alienated by the rigid doc-
trines of official Orthodoxy and the Bedouin who were being pushed out of
their lands by Jewish settlers “redeeming” the land.
Such cross-boundary work is not without its challenges and limitations.
In the car ride back to Jerusalem, for example, Rabbi Grenimann shared that
RHR had not been able to do enough on the Bedouin issue of late due to the
time commitment involved with the Wisconsin Plan and Palestinian agricul-
tural work. Furthermore, scheduling such activities is difficult due to the need
for observant Jews to get back home to observe the Sabbath, which begins on
Friday evening (much Israeli activism occurs on Saturday, the standard day
off). This was an issue on the Friday in question, as a series of delays meant
that the RHR contingent from Jerusalem was only able to stay in Tel Arad very
briefly (approximately twenty minutes) before returning to Jerusalem in time
for Shabbat.17 Another challenge involves RHR’s constituency, which consists
largely of internationals, or non-Israeli Jews (and non-Jews). Although there

were several Israeli Jews present in the group that traveled from Jerusalem
with RHR, one Israeli activist remarked that as usual, the majority of those
accompanying RHR were not Israeli.18
Sabeel
Sabeel’s weekly e-mail, the “Wave of Prayer,” also indicates its explicitly reli-
gious roots. Circulated each Thursday, the e-mail contains a prayer that will be
given as part of Sabeel’s Thursday noon communion service. The idea is to have
people around the world—there are Friends of Sabeel branches throughout
Europe, Australia, and North America—pray at noon in their own time zone,
thereby creating a wave of prayer around the world. Each prayer explicitly
links contemporary sociopolitical issues with religious teachings, highlighting
specifically the intersection of peace and justice. Sabeel’s prayers, statements,
and publications are explicitly grounded in liberation theology. A March 2008
statement on the violent situation in Gaza ends with the following:
To all the people of this land—Israelis and Palestinians—we say: It is
only when we recognize the humanity of the other and possess the
courage and the humility to honor each other’s rights and submit to the
demands of international law that we can hope for peace and security.
Our faith teaches us that ultimately, the oppressed will be set free and
peace will triumph over violence and liberation will prove to be stronger
than occupation. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
(Sabeel 2008)
While expressing Palestinian nationalist goals of liberation and a desire for

justice as espoused in international law, the language here also reflects the
deep religious convictions of those involved in Sabeel. Specifically, calls for
justice were not punitive or revenge-oriented efforts but rather transformative
or reconciliation-oriented ones. For those committed to liberation theology,
“the only labels that matter are those of oppressor and oppressed. The labels
cross over racial and national borders. Does it matter to God whether one
is a Jew, a Muslim, or a Christian? Does it matter whether one is Israeli and
another is a Palestinian?” (Ateek 2008: 1).
Sabeel’s work, like that of RHR, crosses numerous conventional boundar-
ies. Like RHR, it is an ecumenical group, and much energy has been invested
over the years in bringing together clergy from Jerusalem’s many different
Christian traditions. Sabeel also bridges socioeconomic and political divides,
although, unlike Israel, where socioeconomic activism has traditionally been

kept separate from political or rights-based activism linked to the Israeli-
Palestinian conflict, in the Palestinian context socioeconomic problems are
often seen as the result of Israeli occupation policies. Also like RHR, Sabeel
crosses geopolitical boundaries, with offices in both the West Bank (East Je-
rusalem) and Israel proper (Nazareth), as well as having Friends of Sabeel
groups throughout Europe, North America, and Oceana. Just as RHR has a
staff and board that consists of both native Israelis and Anglos from around
the English-speaking world, Sabeel has a staff and board that come from all
over historic Palestine—the West Bank, the Galilee, Haifa, Jerusalem—as well
as the international community. In a way, this diversity facilitates the crossing
of such borders, although physical obstacles and political realities make such
cross-boundary work complicated due to the need for Palestinians to obtain
permits to enter Jerusalem.
Sabeel and RHR are also similar in being a minority within a minority.
The Palestinian Christian community has been shrinking dramatically over
the years, a trend that Sabeel has studied and documented (Soudah and Sa-
bella 2006; Dalrymple 1997). Nevertheless, when I interviewed her in 2008,
program director Nora Carmi was, in contrast to most of the other Israe-
lis and Palestinians I met with, positive about the growth and accomplish-
ments achieved by Sabeel in recent years. For example, the youth program had
flourished and expanded, and participants had become more involved with
each other’s traditions and experiences. The youth took action around the
commemoration of the Armenian genocide as well as the massacres against
the Syrians by the Turks, and organized a candlelight vigil and service at the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the wake of the March 2008 attacks on Gaza
(Carmi 2008). Activities with the women’s group also demonstrated Sabeel’s
approach of reconfiguring communities and reframing issues conventionally
seen as distinct in their community. For example, they studied UN Resolu-
tion 1325 on women, peace, and security, discussing international law in small
villages in an effort to “put your own plight and your own suffering within a
larger global frame” and thereby feel more connected as “part of the global vil-
lage” (Carmi 2008). Another aspect of this work involved visiting depopulated
and isolated villages throughout the West Bank—like Burqin outside of Jenin
and the Beq'a in northern Galilee—and reconnecting with the Palestinians
living in those communities. Nora mentioned that as a result of these newly
reforged connections, Sabeel was well placed to host people displaced as a
result of the July 2006 war with Lebanon.
Such trips and activities not only formed a bridge between populations in
different geographical areas, but they also linked the social with the political.
While Christianity is already a more universally oriented religion than Juda-
ism, which emphasizes the Chosen People, the history of Christianity is full
of divisions between Christian denominations, and geopolitical divides have
also kept people apart. By creating social ties across political identities and
by studying sociopolitical issues with religious dimensions, such as the per-
secution of Syrian Orthodox by the Turks or gender discrimination, Sabeel
programs further expanded narrow boundaries of identification. These social
ties also facilitated sociopolitical action, as evidenced by Sabeel’s ability to re-
spond swiftly after the outbreak of the July 2006 war because of its connection
with affected northern communities. Sabeel also dealt explicitly with social
issues through a popular monthly forum that drew ever-increasing crowds.
In 2004–2005 one of these forums dealt with a number of recent honor kill-
ings, and several individuals spoke to the issue from a variety of religious and
secular perspectives. At the time of my 2008 visit, Sabeel had just finished a
series of programs using religion to examine the challenging final status issues
that pose obstacles to the Israeli-Palestinian negotiations. Nora’s description
of these programs illustrates the linkage between the secular and the religious
spheres, as well as the connection between the social and the political:
And so we looked at the issue of refugees from the point of view of
the holy book, and we had three months of focusing . . . on Jerusalem
the holy city as a tool of peace . . . looking at different passages from
the Old Testament and the New Testament, of how exclusive one can
be . . . starting with Nehemiah and going into Psalm 87, where even then
Jerusalem is seen as a more open city, and then finally what Jesus [says]
about peace. . . . And [through this] the gospel becomes more relevant
in [people’s] everyday life. (Carmi 2008)
Not only did such programs bring religious texts to bear on contemporary
political issues, but they did so contextually by examining how these issues
affected people in their daily lives. By exploring how high politics affected
daily socioeconomic realities and by using religion to analyze approaches to
peace, Sabeel reframed the issues as well as their constituency. Sabeel’s Web
site states that it “seeks to deepen the faith of Palestinian Christians, promote
unity among them, and lead them to social action,” a statement that demon-
strates Sabeel’s action orientation toward peacebuilding (Sabeel n.d.). This ac-
tive pursuit of sociopolitical change is also seen in Sabeel’s contextual theology
work that asks “not only what the oppressor is doing, but what we could do
within our own society” and its challenge to the church to address socioeco-
nomic and political problems much as the 1985 Kairos Document did in South
Africa (Carmi 2008).
Sabeel was further engaged in the reconfiguration of boundaries through
its moving conferences. Rather than convening a traditional, stationary con-
ference, Sabeel’s November 2008 international conference included four days
in Nazareth, with trips to surrounding villages that were destroyed in 1948,
and four days in Jerusalem, with trips to Jaffa, Ramle, and Lidda (Lyd/Lod).
The conference merged theological discussions with contemporary sociopo-
litical issues facing the Palestinian community as well as Israelis and Palestin-
ians struggling together for a nonviolent solution to the conflict. Furthermore,
Sabeel conferences have historically included speakers and workshops from
Israeli activists in addition to Palestinian speakers. Because most of these Is-
raeli activists are secular, their inclusion indicates more than just the cross-
ing of a political-national boundary. Instead, it parallels the work of the AIC,
which seeks to connect socioeconomic activists working on the same issue
within different national contexts, as Sabeel brings together those working for
a just peace within different national contexts (Israeli, Palestinian, and inter-
national). Sabeel conferences, as well as their Contemporary Way of the Cross
program, bring religion to life through directly applying religious teachings
to current socioeconomic and political issues facing the Palestinian Christian
community in particular, and those engaged in a nonviolent struggle for a just
and lasting peace in Israel/Palestine more broadly. Furthermore, the physical
movement across geopolitical boundaries, as in Sabeel’s conference, actively
ties together communities that are otherwise separated.
Conclusion
Whereas in 2004–2005 activist activities were oriented primarily in the direc-
tion of the Green Line, with joint organizations in particular focusing on coor-
dinated efforts against the route of the separation barrier, checkpoint policies,
or settler harassment, in 2008 the orientation had shifted to focus on a dif-
ferent set of boundaries, not only yoking together social and political move-
ments within Israeli and Palestinian societies with an aim of creating new so-
cial actors, but also creating boundaries that connected oppressed populations
struggling toward similar, if not common, goals. As Abbott argues, the process
of boundary formation does not result in homogenous entities, as actors are
defined not by their shared or inherent characteristics but rather by their re-
lationship to the boundary. Furthermore, the boundary that is yoked together
consists of many different negotiations regarding what is outside and what is
inside the boundary (Abbott 1995). Thus, although Mizrahi Jews struggling to
preserve their homes in the Kfar Shalem neighborhood of Tel Aviv might not
identify with the Arab Israeli residents of Jaffa (even though they share Israeli
citizenship and Arab culture), they are linked together through solidarity ac-
tivities based on shared experiences of oppression and displacement.
In the process of planning and conducting their activities, the groups dis-
cussed here created space for alternative social identities based on shared val-
ues, goals, and concerns rather than narrow nationalist or sectarian identities.
While this practice reflected the tendency of groups I studied in 2004–2005
to espouse their identities and vision of peace based on particular values—
democracy, equality, freedom—rather than on a specific political platform,
it also indicated a shifting paradigm. By raising the connection between so-
cioeconomic issues within Israel and the Israeli occupation of the West Bank
and by seeking to reforge connections between Mizrahi Jews and their Arab
neighbors, these activists challenged fundamental assumptions not only about
the root causes of and approaches to resolving the Israeli-Palestinian con-
flict but also assumptions about the identity of the Israeli state. By seeking
to reconfigure boundaries, these activists challenged Israel’s self-definition as
a Western state while also challenging prevailing notions that Israelis could
separate themselves from the conflict by building a wall or eliminating “ter-
rorist infrastructure” through bombing campaigns. In contrast with main-
stream Israeli society, the activists I interviewed sought to demonstrate the
ways socioeconomic issues within Israel stemmed from Israeli government
policies related to the conflict. Through their awareness-raising efforts as well
as by creating opportunities for forging personal connections, these activists
worked to change attitudes and behaviors that, tacitly or openly, supported
occupation policies.
Sabeel’s work within the Palestinian community similarly connected the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict with daily lived realities while also integrating reli-
gious teachings into an understanding of appropriate responses to contempo-
rary socioeconomic and geopolitical challenges. Sabeel also tried to overcome
divisions erected over the years between Christians of different traditions, as
well as geographic and political divisions, by moving their meetings, con-
ferences, and programs from place to place. Holding worship services and
programs throughout Israel and the Palestinian Territories, Sabeel strove to
mobilize religion in the service of society and mobilize society on the basis of
religious teachings.
The efforts of such groups to knit together new social actors face many chal-
lenges. Not only are both Israeli and Palestinian communities facing tremen-
dous internal divisions, as evidenced in heightened confrontation between
Israeli soldiers and Israeli settlers in Hebron, as well as the ongoing division
between Hamas and Fateh, but Israel launched a massive assault on the Gaza
Strip in December 2008, taking advantage of the last days of the George W.
Bush administration to bomb Hamas into submission. Although a number
of Israeli and Palestinian groups sought to mobilize against the war and in
support of negotiations and ceasefire, their campaign was difficult since the
Israeli street focused on the Hamas rocket attacks against Israeli civilians and
mobilized the powerful discourses of security and national defense. Another
major obstacle is the embeddedness of sociopolitical and cultural boundaries
that have been legitimated for decades through government regulations, ID
cards, discriminatory policies, and dominant sociocultural narratives. Much
work must be done to overcome political attitudes that have been handed
down generation after generation as well as fears of losing funding (or clients)
by taking on political rather than socioeconomic issues.
Although it is quite difficult to reconfigure sociopolitical boundaries, there
is much evidence to indicate that such shifts are already underway. Over the
years the role of the Palestinians with Israeli citizenship has shifted. This group
has become more outspoken in discussions regarding Palestinian and Israeli
identity, and more of those I interviewed made comparisons between Israeli
policies in the territories occupied in 1967 and the territories occupied in 1948.
Over the past ten years the questions of 1948 have gradually entered more
often into conversations, as facts on the ground make the possibility of a two-
state solution more questionable. This shift in geopolitical reality facilitates
a linking of the domestic with the international, as the Green Line is erased
and physical divisions are simultaneously erected. The rise in settler violence
out of fear that a second disengagement might occur in the West Bank, and
the dramatic events surrounding the House of Contention/House of Peace
in Hebron, indicated to at least some Israelis that government policies in the
West Bank do have domestic Israeli consequences, particularly regarding the
rule of law (Benvenisti 2008). For Palestinians, the increased prevalence of
the apartheid metaphor in the Israeli, Palestinian, and international discourse
has also contributed to bridging the gaps between West Bank Palestinians and
those with Israeli citizenship. Activism in the second intifada also contributed
to the forging of connections between ’48 and ’67 Palestinians as the events
of October 2000 and the findings of the Orr Commission made strikingly
clear that Israeli state policies vis-à-vis the Palestinian citizens of Israel bear
considerable resemblance to those undertaken in the West Bank.
An additional point deals with the role of religion in the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict. As religion continues to be used by groups like Hamas and Gush
Emunim for political ends, often with violent outcomes, groups like RHR and
Sabeel who use religion as a basis for peace and justice are increasingly criti-
cal. Not only do RHR and Sabeel validate that religion can be used to promote
human rights, peace, and dialogue, but both organizations also demonstrate
the relevance of religious principles not only for working with the Other but,
perhaps more importantly, in dealing with contemporary domestic socioeco-
nomic issues. The need for including the religious in efforts for peace and
justice within Israel and the Palestinian Territories has been raised by nu-
merous academic practitioners (Gopin 2002; Landau 2003; Kershner 2008;
Abu-Nimer, Welty, and Khoury 2007), but official peace efforts continue to
exclude religious parties and use an exclusively secular framework. In their
efforts to bridge the gap between religious and secular frameworks while also
bridging political and social issues, groups like RHR and Sabeel seek to heal
internal divides necessary for bridging external divisions while also educat-
ing and mobilizing people in the promotion of peace and justice for all. The
importance of this model can be assumed by examining the new efforts of
Tarabut and the AIC’s social movements program, which seek to engage with
the religious community and socioeconomic issues. It can also be seen in the
expanding work of the Interfaith Encounter Association and other such ven-
tures. Whether such efforts to reconfigure boundaries of division are adopted
by additional groups and expand further remains to be seen.
8
Operating with Distinction
Mobilizing Boundaries of Difference
The general trend in Israeli-Palestinian relations between 2004–2005 and

2008 was toward unilateralism and boycott. Most Israelis and Palestinians
on the street wanted simply to be left alone and to be free of having to worry
about violence committed by the Other. Several of the Israeli activists I inter-
viewed spoke ironically of the many cultural festivals blooming in Israel that
posed a stark contrast to the worsening conditions in the West Bank and the
dire humanitarian circumstances in the Gaza Strip. They said how “surreal” it
was that “this terrible situation exists just side by side with this very very nice
life that is just flourishing and blooming” (Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008). The
Israeli editor of an arts magazine I encountered at a Tel Aviv bus station was
likewise full of stories about the thriving artistic community and the amount
of creativity in the air. As these anecdotes indicate, despite their physical prox-
imity, Israelis and Palestinians lived in totally different worlds.
Interviews and observations I conducted in 2008 suggested that activists
had adapted their strategies partly in response to the broader trends of unilat-
eralism and boycott discussed in chapter 6. The general context of institution-
alized separation, the granting of political rewards for groups using military
means, and the gutting of diplomatic processes further gutted the concept of
peace for many activists. Not only was the Arab League proposal for restarting
the peace process largely ignored by the United States and Israel, the United
States also discouraged Israeli negotiations with Syria and suggested that any
agreement negotiated between Israeli prime minister Ehud Olmert and Pales-
tinian president Mahmoud Abbas could be put on a shelf and ignored.1
The ongoing failure of—and lack of faith in—negotiations, combined with
the course of political events since 2005, particularly Israel’s unilateral disen-
gagement from Gaza, the international boycott of the Hamas government, and
the creation of two rival Palestinian governments, set the stage for a shift in
Israeli and Palestinian activism. It is not surprising given this context that Is-
raeli and Palestinian activists were seeking to emphasize and mobilize bound-
aries of distinction and unilateral action in 2008. The distinction mechanism
and its variations, like the reconfiguration mechanism discussed in chapter
7, was a response to the failure of Israeli and Palestinian peace movements to
achieve sociopolitical change and an attempt to find a better way to defeat the
ongoing conflict. In contrast to the reconfiguration mechanism, however, the
distinction mechanism seeks to create change by clearly defining a boundary
of distinction and mobilizing communities around the resultant entity. While
both the reconfiguration and distinction mechanisms are used in pursuit of
peace and justice aims, they operate differently, drawing on different resources
and discourses in their pursuit of action. It is worth reemphasizing the ideal-
typical nature of these mechanisms; they are used as analytical constructs
for exploring activists’ strategies and activities and for comparing between
them. These mechanisms are not necessarily named as such by the activists
themselves, nor are they the only analytical constructs that could be used to
describe these activities.
Two of the more obvious uses (deployments) of the distinction mechanism
can be seen in boycott efforts and the establishment of explicitly political insti-
tutions (that is, parties) by activist groups. The use of boycott terminology was
increasingly deployed within the Israeli-Palestinian context as a result of the
boycott against the Hamas government. This had repercussions for activism
in both Israel/Palestine and abroad. Although there were some boycott move-
ments already underway in 2004–2005, they primarily focused on settlement
goods. Efforts to boycott Israel as a whole had less traction among peace activ-
ists, because they were equated—especially within Israeli society—with Arab
rejectionism and antinormalization tendencies. The establishment of political
institutions dealt less explicitly with the gulf between Israelis and Palestinians
and focused more on the lack of legitimate political leadership and fragmen-
tation within the respective societies, particularly as related to peace efforts.
With Prime Minister Olmert resigning due to corruption scandals, President
Abbas weak and ineffectual (and, as one Palestinan put it, heading a “gov-
ernment of 2 percent,” due to its appointed, rather than elected, nature), and
numerous parliamentarians sitting in Israeli jails based on their Hamas affili-
ation, established systems of government were seen as lacking the capacity,
legitimacy, and/or will to pursue peace.
This chapter looks first at boycott movements and the language through
which their efforts were legitimized and promoted by activists. It then exam-
Operating with Distinction: Mobilizing Boundaries of Difference · 207
ines the transition of al Mubadara from a movement to a political party, espe-

cially in regard to creating political alternatives as well as its efforts cultivating
a Palestinian unity government. A third section highlights other ways Israeli
activists use the distinction mechanism to differentiate themselves from Is-
raeli occupation policies, primarily through distancing themselves from the
IDF at the checkpoints or by refusing army service.2
Evolution of Boycott: From Morally Responsible Investment

to Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions
Calls for boycott are not new within the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In 2004–
2005, though, several of the groups I studied were explicitly working against
boycott tendencies, such as the Panorama–Truman Center group writing an
academic code of ethics. The purpose, goals, and joint structure of the proj-
ect explicitly countered the trend of unilateralism and boycott in both Israeli
and Palestinian academic circles. Palestinian universities largely enforced an
academic boycott of Israeli institutions (due to the lack of Israeli support for
Palestinian academics and their institutions as well as the general support
Israeli academic institutions give to the occupation, such as through legiti-
mizing research), and some Israeli academics felt that pressure to work with
Palestinian academics reduced the overall quality of their research (Hallward
2010).3 Many of the groups I studied in 2004–2005 sought opportunities for
cross-border partnerships and joint action as opposed to strategies of boycott,
although some of the groups I studied advocated restricted boycotts. A num-
ber of the women in Machsom Watch, for example, noted that they boycotted
settlement products, particularly lettuce, as it was a primary product of the
Gaza settlements. In 2008 this type of selective boycott continued, and was
discussed by Rabbi Yehiel Grenimann of Rabbis for Human Rights in 2008
as we passed the organic chicken farms on Jewish settlements in the South
Hebron Hills; he also noted the tension between the value of buying organic
products (for the earth) and the value of boycotting settlement products (for
fellow human beings).
At the same time, even in 2004–2005 some groups, like Sabeel, advocated
more aggressive campaigns to put pressure on the Israeli government to
change its policies. Sabeel’s statement on “morally responsible investment”
(MRI) was developed during this time period, building on the 2004 Presby-
terian Church (U.S.A.) decision to selectively divest from those multinational
corporations (such as Caterpillar) doing business in Israel/Palestine that un-
dermined the pursuit of a just, lasting, and secure peace. Both campaigns—
that of the Presbyterian Church and Sabeel—were selective, aimed at particu-

lar practices seen as undermining human rights and the cause of peace, such
as weapons development or settlement construction (Sabeel 2004; Mackay
2005). Furthermore, Sabeel advocated that churches and other groups “exert
pressure on companies and corporations to discontinue business activities”
prior to divesting from these companies, and recommended pursuing divest-
ment strategies only when lobbying efforts failed to achieve results (Sabeel
2004).
Sabeel’s call for morally responsible investment drew on Jewish, Christian,
Israeli, and Palestinian sources—including Jewish Voices for Peace (JVP),
the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions (ICAHD), Israeli human
rights groups B'Tselem and Hamoked, and Palestinian human rights group
al Haq—as well as sources of international human rights law. Thus, Sabeel’s
boundary of distinction was based on principles developed and endorsed by
cross-national sources and was delimited not on national grounds but on ethi-
cal ones. Not only did Sabeel include “morality” in the title, but it focused on
positive efforts like investment rather than negative ones, like “divestment,” to
further underscore its desire to promote human rights and international law
rather than indiscriminately group together all companies operating in Israel.
The Israeli group Gush Shalom has run a settlement boycott campaign
since 1997, publishes a list of settlement goods on its Web site, and encourages
individuals in Israel and around the world not only to boycott these goods but
also to inform others—including store managers and other shoppers—about
the issue. Gush Shalom’s boycott focuses only on settlement products, and
explicitly endorses the purchase of other Israeli goods. Campaign materials
call on shoppers to “reject any product made in a settlement. Prefer any other
Israeli-made product, even if its price is slightly higher or its quality slightly
lower” (Gush Shalom n.d.). Gush Shalom celebrated a victory in 2008 when
the Barkan winery moved production facilities to the Israeli side of the Green
Line after it became part of a Dutch company (Gush Shalom 2008a). In re-
cent years the settlement boycott campaign has made headway, particularly in
Europe, where citizen groups have pressured governments for clearer label-
ing practices distinguishing Palestinian goods from those produced in West
Bank settlements. The topic was raised during a November 2008 visit to Israel
by British foreign secretary David Miliband, as some Europeans were con-
cerned that Israel was violating a loophole in EU-Israeli free trade agreements
(BBC 2008; Gallagher 2008). More recently, a group of Israeli women activists
started the Web site “Who Profits from the Occupation” (www.whoprofits.
org) to help connect activists worldwide with information regarding the com-
panies that benefit (at the expense of Palestinians) from business activities in
the occupied territories.
Toward a Comprehensive Boycott Campaign

By 2008 there were increasing calls by the Israeli and Palestinian activists I
met with for a boycott of all Israeli goods, not only those produced in West
Bank settlements. This shift in thinking stemmed from changing realities on
the ground and the sense that other strategies had not mobilized change, par-
ticularly within Israeli public opinion. As a former Ta'ayush activist explained,
In order to change the reality you should change the way of thinking of
the [Israeli] community and make them think differently about peace
and Arabs. And in order to make that I do think that the privileges
that this community is getting because of the fact that they are occu-
piers should stop. That’s why I am really one of the supporters of the
campaigns for boycott and sanctions because I do think it’s a nonvio-
lent action against a group of people that they have all they want and
need and more than this. At the same time they’re still violating human
rights conventions and agreements that their country is signing. And
they are obliged to implement all these [human rights] conventions and
commitment[s] and they [Israeli citizens] should be active against the
government and what it’s doing in the West Bank and Gaza. As long as
they are passive, as long as they are doing nothing to stop it, I think it
is time to boycott them to tell them that because you behaved like that
you will not receive this. And then they will start questioning and asking
themselves what did we do, what didn’t we do yet and what should we
do now. So if we [activists] will not make them [Israeli citizens] think
this way, they will never stop their government or they will never change
the way they elect their representatives in the Knesset. (Badawi 2008)
Several points in this statement are worth highlighting, including the empha-
sis placed on boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) as nonviolent actions.
This argument extends the one made by Sabeel and others regarding the need
to put pressure on Israel to uphold human rights by including the role of the
Israeli public in its culpability for remaining silent. It draws on Israel’s oft-re-
peated status as “the only democracy in the Middle East” by suggesting that if
the Israeli public changed their views on the occupation and its policies, then
the Israeli government might change its policies as a result. Thus, economic
pressure on the country as a whole might force the Israeli public to question
the reason for such action and change its behavior accordingly. In part, the
move toward a BDS strategy reflects a sense of hopelessness in impacting the

Israeli public in any other way. It also reflects a sense that other options have
not worked. As an al Mubadara organizer explained, “[Boycott] is one pos-
sible strategy for pushing Israel to engage in a real peace process, since most
Israeli leaders and people are not seeking real peace. The United Nations is
another option. A third option is nonviolent activities here in Palestine and
outside in other countries. Boycott is just one of many important strategies”
(al-Deek 2008).
Many Palestinian and Israeli activists I interviewed in 2008 noted the
Israeli public’s general lack of interest or engagement in—and even avoid-
ance of—political matters related to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Machsom
Watch activists highlighted the total disconnect between the focus on film,
culture, and summer festivals in Israel and the situation in the West Bank,
and lamented that the most important topics of conversation at the univer-
sity concerned the latest Survivor episodes. AIC staff members echoed their
concern with the apolitical character of Israelis, and some even went so far
as to say there were not even any Israeli leftists anymore (Hackbarth 2008a;
Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008; Lubna 2008). Other Israelis concurred that the
Israeli peace movement—not just the general public—needed a push in order
to enact sociopolitical change.
The broader BDS movement is based not only in sociopolitical analysis but
also in economic analysis that examines the de-development of the Palestinian
economy and society as a result of the occupation and ongoing violence. The
movement has consumer, cultural, academic, and sporting wings, and tries to
put pressure on Israel to “cease its violations of international law and human
rights.”4 Not only have millions of Palestinian olive trees been uprooted by
settlers and the army for “security” purposes and construction of the wall, but
closures, checkpoints, and a parallel system of roads have made trade difficult
and expensive. Plans for “joint” industrial zones developed as part of the An-
napolis process were seen as perpetrating asymmetries of power since plans
indicated that they would be controlled by Israel, with Palestinians providing
day labor unprotected by Israeli civil labor law (Daoud 2008; Yahni 2008).
Part of the work of the BDS movement is to raise awareness of such facts and
to show how purported moves toward peace in reality have perpetuated the
roots of conflict. European boycott campaigns, such as the academic boycott
instituted by the largest British university and college lecturers’ union, have
been issued largely in response to the Palestinian call for BDS against Israel
“until it fully complies with international law and universal human rights”
(Traubmann 2006). Thus, the aims of the BDS movement are broader in scope
than the settlement boycott, and are adopted as a course of last resort because
“all forms of international intervention and peace-making have until now
failed to convince or force Israel to comply with humanitarian law, to respect
fundamental human rights and to end its occupation and oppression of the
people of Palestine” (PACBI 2005).
Israeli activists in particular are divided in their opinion of boycott strate-
gies, with some distinguishing between academic and economic boycott ef-
forts. As one Ta'ayush activist and university professor remarked: “[An aca-
demic boycott] penalizes and punishes exactly the part of Israeli society that
is least deserving of it and it’s also very ineffective. . . . I think if it were to be
an international boycott on Israeli companies that are in one way or another
contaminated by the occupation, that would be a different story” (Shulman
2008).
Some Machsom Watch activists said Israeli economic policies toward the
Palestinians, such as preventing Palestinians from selling their own products
and forcing them to buy Israeli goods, were unfair and antiproductive. When
asked about strategies of boycott, they confirmed that pressure needed to be
put on Israel for change to occur. One Watcher specifically mentioned the
culpability of Israeli universities in refusing to allow Gazan students to con-
tinue their physiotherapy studies, given the lack of such programs in the Gaza
Strip, as well as Israel’s refusal to allow exit permits to Gazan students who
won Fulbright awards to study in the United States (Deitch 2008; Yvonne and
D. 2008). In the eyes of these Israeli activists, boycott was a way of pushing
against policies that ultimately hurt Israel by fueling Palestinian resentment
and anger; it was also a means of abiding by Jewish values and international
law. Boycott efforts sought systemic change and a reconfiguration of patterns
of relationships. The power for change came from mobilizing civilians around
the world to take action and put pressure on corporations, institutions, and
governments by withholding their consent from current policies and prac-
tices.
Forming Political Parties: Internal Differentiation in Pursuit of Unity

In 2004–2005, groups focused on institution building in the sense of creating
space for Israelis and Palestinians to build relationships, investigate problems
jointly, and explore potential responses to contentious issues. By 2008, though,
a number of groups had moved to create explicitly political institutions. Bring-
ing Peace Together, for example, had become an independent project, and
had shifted from an informal gathering of representatives of moderate peace
groups to being an advocacy organization that also drafted peace proposals

and lobbied Israeli, Palestinian, and foreign parliamentarians. Al Mubadara
had also undergone a transformation, moving from a grassroots movement to
a political party with a formal structure and platform as well as dues-paying
members. Al Mubadara had also recently gained admittance to the Interna-
tional Socialist, thereby gaining further access to politicians around the world.
While the methods and strategies used by BPT and al Mubadara still included
awareness raising through conferences and meetings and nonviolent direct
action in villages like Bil'in and Na'alin, they had shifted their target audience
and mode of operation. By shifting to the formal political sphere, the groups
sought to gain leverage through the democratic process, seeking to change
policies not just through civil society–based activism or awareness-raising ef-
forts but also by gaining access to the halls of power and influencing policy
directly. Hitchabrut-Tarabut—by some accounts a successor organization to
Ta'ayush—was an example of a new political party, yet the context in which
Tarabut operated, as well as its founding principles and aims, differed substan-
tively from those of al Mubadara, which is why it is discussed in chapter 7 in
conjunction with other examples of the reconfiguration mechanism.
Between 2004–2005 and 2008, al Mubadara invested significantly in es-
tablishing its structure and creating a organization with dues-paying voting
members as well as nonpaying supporters. Those I interviewed explained that
they now had a set system for electing representatives and council members,
voting on party decisions, and participating in conventions. This institution-
alization took a great deal of time and energy, but it paid off. Not only did al
Mubadara have an estimated ten thousand members at the time of research,
but it had become the second Palestinian political party (Fateh was the first)
to gain membership in the International Socialist. As of July 2008, the party
had participated in three election campaigns: the presidential election of 2005,
when Mustapha Barghouti ran for president against Mahmoud Abbas, the
2006 parliamentary elections, and the municipal elections. Individuals I in-
terviewed emphasized that more than 80 percent of its members were youth
and that it was the only political party that explicitly emphasized nonviolent
struggle. As one organizer stated, “We don’t send our members to commit
suicide or to jail. You don’t see our members in prison. We need our members
here doing things in the villages” (al-Deek 2008). This statement emphasized,
as have many others in this book, the importance of sustained action for so-
ciopolitical change. The activist was speaking partly to supporters of more
militant means of struggle who view being imprisoned as a sign of national-
ism; he argued, in contrast, that those in prison cannot help create the context
for a new political reality, which is what Palestinian nationalists should seek.
For al Mubadara members, political institutionalization was a means for
obtaining sociopolitical change that had not been possible as a movement
only. Al Mubadara participated in the Palestinian unity government, for ex-
ample, with Dr. Barghouti serving as minister of information. One of the orga-
nizers I interviewed deemed the current government, appointed by Mahmoud
Abbas after the Hamas takeover of Gaza in June 2007, as an “illegal govern-
ment” and expressed her opposition to the “false positions or ‘solutions’” of
Fateh (M. 2008). All three members that I spoke with in 2008 emphasized the
importance of re-forming a Palestinian unity government, a goal they have
furthered through encouraging informal contacts between Fateh and Hamas,
using their role as a third party to create nonconfrontational opportunities
for interaction. Al Mubadara’s strategy consisted of four main aims: build Pal-
estinian unity, strengthen international solidarity with the Palestinians, sup-
port marginalized people (particularly women and youth), and encourage and
maintain the mass popular nonviolent movement (Barghouti 2008).
Again and again, those involved in al Mubadara emphasized their vision
of a “whole new line in Palestine” due to the failure of existing political op-
tions, not only to achieve peace but also to establish a democratic Palestine
that upholds the social, economic, and political rights of all (Barghouti 2008).
Thus, although al Mubadara struggled nonviolently against the occupation
and supports marginalized groups in their efforts to “survive these difficult
conditions” by building schools, clinics, and helping people meet their basic
needs, one of their main areas of focus was reforming the Palestinian gov-
ernment so that it was more democratic and implemented policies that were
more consistent with the goals and beliefs of the Palestinian people (Barghouti
2008). Even as they sought to build bridges between Hamas and Fateh, or to
forge Palestinian unity, al Mubadara sought to distinguish itself from Fateh’s
policies and actions, particularly their failed efforts at negotiation, as well as
those of Hamas, particularly the use of suicide bombings and conservative so-
cial policy regarding women (al-Deek 2008; M. 2008). Likewise, al Mubadara
efforts to include the marginalized were discussed in the context of differen-
tiating the party from other groups and creating a new type of political space.
One activist noted that Hamas had considerable success in mobilizing women,
and that al Mubadara’s efforts to recruit women was an attempt to create other
ways for women to become involved in the political process. Furthermore,
those I interviewed regularly repeated the need for a “fresh new movement”
distinct from Fateh, a movement that encouraged nonviolent resistance and

encouraged active participation in the political process through education and
a focus on social, economic, and political rights (M. 2008).
Bringing Peace Together

Bringing Peace Together also became more politically institutionalized be-
tween 2004–2005 and 2008. In contrast to al Mubadara, however, BPT did
not become a political party, although it did publish several position papers
and lobby political leaders. One key shift observed in BPT in 2008 involved
the convening of uninational meetings, with only the Palestinian members
of the group, as a way of enhancing Palestinian unity in preparation for full-
group meetings. Part of this shift had to do with the significant and severe
internal divisions within Palestinian society in 2008, and part had to do with
the asymmetrical relationship between Israelis and Palestinians within the
broader group. When everyone was together, each Palestinian who spoke was
fearful of sounding too moderate to others in the room, making for a difficult
dynamic when engaging in discussion with the Israeli participants (Schnell
2008). The Palestinian organizer explained that “each community needs to
decide better what they want. Because there is confusion of vision, confusion
of strategy” that made it difficult for reaching agreements across the national
divide (Salem 2008).
The need for uninational Palestinian meetings (according to the Israeli or-
ganizer there had been no Israeli-only meetings as of October 2008 and no
plans to convene any) was not only a function of internal division but also a
reflection of the persistent asymmetrical power relations between Israeli and
Palestinian participants. Given the lack of progress in reaching Palestinian
goals, as well as more restrictions on movement, speech, and organizing, Pal-
estinians felt the need to push more and not appear to be conceding anything
when in front of an Israeli audience. Thus, the creation of uninational meet-
ings based on a boundary of distinction was an effort to create more oppor-
tunity for substantive discussion between Israelis and Palestinians during the
joint meetings. The hope of the organizers was that by providing Palestinian
participants an opportunity to hash out goals, objectives, and strategies among
themselves without Israeli observers, they would be able to more freely discuss
these views with their Israeli counterparts. Ironically, therefore, the creation of
a separate space was done with an aim to improve the quality of the space for
binational discussion.
A second reason for the institutionalization of BPT had to do with the
gradual disintegration of other mainstream (or moderate) joint initiatives,
such as One Voice or the People’s Choice Campaign/Mifkad. With the absence
of other such groups, it became more important for BPT to fill this gap. Also
contributing to this institutionalization was the creation of a new organiza-
tion by Palestinian organizer Walid Salem, distinct from Panorama, called the
Center for Democracy and Community Development. BPT was funded as an
ongoing, distinct program operating under the umbrella of this new organi-
zation. Like al Mubadara, BPT sought to create a different form of political
space, one lacking in the broader political sphere. As well, political institu-
tionalization provided certain means of influencing governmental aims and
policies unavailable to informal dialogue groups or mass movements. Musta-
pha Barghouti could have a very different impact as minister of information
with an organized party system behind him than he could, for example, as the
leader of a diffuse group of volunteer activists. Similarly, by publishing reports
and policy documents and sending them to world leaders, BPT could have a
different type of impact than by simply sitting in a room and sharing views.
In 2008 both al Mubadara and BPT remained relatively marginal groups,
outside of the consensus, and lacking the seats of power to implement change.
However, by establishing boundaries differentiating themselves from other
political ventures, and by seeking to create space for alternative policies with
pluralistic views (whether that meant including Israeli and Palestinian per-
spectives or the view of the marginalized within Palestinian society), both
groups sought to create the conditions for substantive negotiations and a real
political process leading to a just, lasting, and secure peace.
Drawing the Line: We Refuse to Be Co-opted

A third area in which I observed the mechanism of distinction exercised was
in the practices of Machsom Watch activists who drew boundaries to distin-
guish their views regarding what it meant to secure Israel and to be an Israeli
patriot from Israeli government and/or military policies carried out (primar-
ily) in the name of security and nationalism. This section draws on the two
Machsom Watch shifts I accompanied in July 2008 (which included activists
heavily involved in the organization and very aware of both group dynamics
and what transpired at the many checkpoints), as well as the 2007 annual
report of the checkpoints, e-mail updates, and summaries that are circulated
on activist lists. I do not make claims for the representativeness of my sample
but rather seek to emphasize a shifting pattern of operation, a rethinking and
questioning of strategy evident in the interaction between Watchers and sol-
diers and the shifting ways in which the women spoke about that relationship.
Although in 2004–2005 Machsom Watch was booming as an organization,

with between four and five hundred members spread throughout the country,
by July 2008 the numbers had shrunk to about half that size, and divisions had
occurred within the ranks of the activists. While there were already observable
differences in orientation to the work in 2004–2005, with some women acting
out of a humanitarian impulse and others being more politically motivated
(a bit of an oversimplification), the challenge of carrying on this work for
seven years even while the checkpoints became institutionalized and consoli-
dated put a strain on the group. Whereas before members could interact with
the soldiers, photograph the situation, document the process, and inform the
broader public through firsthand accounts and striking visual imagery, with
the new so-called terminals, the Watchers noted, “There is nothing to pho-
tograph anymore.” While on one hand the continued existence of the group
after seven years was a significant accomplishment given the time commit-
ment involved in observing checkpoints twice every day, on the other hand
the women said they had failed to have any significant impact on the Israeli
public and were seen instead as “crazy Amazons” (Hanna, Nina, and Mika
2008).
Several of those I interviewed came to the checkpoints out of a sense of
personal guilt for what was occurring not only at the checkpoints but through-
out the West Bank as well. One woman exclaimed, “The whole system is hor-
rific, criminal. And who’s to blame? Her and I and she [pointing] because
we vote in this country” (Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008). Furthermore, the
women lamented that they are in a Catch-22 situation because they are “giving
a hand to the occupation, which we oppose” by normalizing or legitimizing
the checkpoints. The army has told Machsom Watch, if you did not exist, then
we would have to invent you, because the presence of Machsom Watch activ-
ists gives the army humanitarian cover. This self-criticism (which is also an
external criticism I heard from some Israeli and Palestinian activists in other
organizations) contributes to the divide within the organization regarding the
best way to advance the goals of promoting human rights and fighting against
the occupation. As one said, we should come to our shifts with signs against
the occupation, but at the same time we need to talk to the army in order to
make change (Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008).
For a number of activists within the organization, and for some who ended
up leaving the group, the time had come for Machsom Watchers to clearly
demarcate themselves from the soldiers. This shift partly stemmed from a
change in the operational environment of the Watchers. Whereas before they
could talk to the soldiers and try to negotiate to effect some change, with the
move into large terminals there was no one to talk to at the checkpoints. In ad-
dition, in 2004–2005 each Watcher had a list of various telephone numbers for
commanders, officers, and humanitarian affairs coordinators to call when they
had an issue that warranted consideration or intervention by someone higher
up the chain of command. However, those numbers were no longer published
by the army, and the only published number was that of the “humanitarian
hotline,” which, the women reported, often goes unanswered. Furthermore,
the women explained, even if the hotline was answered, there was never any
follow-up or return call and so it was difficult to know whether the message
was passed on to anyone. Although some women did have a few additional
numbers at their disposal from previous exchanges with commanders, the
women were sharply divided on whether or not to use them. I had the oppor-
tunity to view this difference of opinion firsthand when all of the lanes of the
Qalandia checkpoint were closed for no apparent reason and the lines were
beginning to back up. One of the Watchers I was with said, I am going to do
something my partner really would not like. She went on to explain that her
partner thought Watchers should not call the commanders or do anything to
improve the checkpoints, whereas she (the speaker) wanted to make things
better, to let the commander know what was happening. While these partners
were frank, civil, and open about their different approaches to doing the right
thing at the checkpoint, the women also reported that very bitter arguments
had occurred over the Macshom Watch listserv around this very issue of in-
teraction with the army.
Although there had been some question regarding the extent to which
Machsom Watchers should interact with the army in 2004–2005—as evi-
denced in the debate over whether it was okay for the Watchers to bring cook-
ies to the soldiers, as one group was doing—the question in 2008 was not one
of extent but rather one of cutting off. At one point during a shift I observed,
a soldier approached and there was discussion among the group members
regarding whether or not to shake his hand (it turned out to be unnecessary).
There were differences of opinion in the group (and in Machsom Watch at
large) not only regarding whether or not to shake the hands of the soldiers
but also whether or not to talk to them. Most of those I accompanied thought
there was no point in unnecessarily angering the soldiers, or in standing right
behind them to listen in to their conversations. They said that in the past when
Watchers have refused to shake hands it has had repercussions on future inter-
actions, since the soldiers felt “spurned” and then refused to help out (Hanna,
Nina, and Mika 2008). Just as some women had drawn a line regarding inter-
action with the soldiers, the soldiers had also (literally) drawn a white line at
many checkpoints in an effort to restrict the movement of the Watchers. Most
of the Watchers, however, especially those seeking to cut off interaction with
the army, did not recognize the legitimacy of this line and crossed it as they
deemed necessary.
While the issue of whether or not to engage with the soldiers may seem
trivial or simply an exaggeration of previously observed trends, it was a re-
sponse to the territoriality of the checkpoints. As defined by Sack, territorial-
ity exists in “a social context . . . in which some people or groups are claiming
differential access to things and to others” (1986: 30). Because territoriality is
a social construct involving issues of power and influence over the actions of
others, it has normative implications, and different individuals may arrive at
different judgments regarding the use of territoriality (as was the case with
Machsom Watch). While the checkpoint itself is an expression of territoriality,
since the checkpoint classifies by area, communicates the boundary demar-
cating those areas, and enforces differential access across the boundary, the
Watchers’ response challenged that territoriality. While the women contin-
ued practices observed in 2004–2005 that challenged territorial tendencies,
such as the impersonal quality of relationships at the checkpoint (by sharing
specific, human stories about the checkpoint) and the displacing tendency of
the Israeli bureaucratic system for obtaining permits (by documenting the
process, by sharing information and redirecting attention to the relationship
between controller and controlled), in 2008 some women were also going be-
yond responding to the territorial tendencies of the Israeli army to distancing
themselves from the entire enterprise.
The shift in orientation reflected not only a shift in the topography of the
checkpoints and the occupation system more generally—from checkpoints
that were “so chaotic and mess[y] . . . [that] we could really make a differ-
ence by being there” to “terminalized and institutionalized” checkpoints—but
also a firmer stance in refusing to be co-opted by the military and trapped in
the Catch-22 of humanizing the occupation (Hanna, Nina, and Mika 2008).
Although it was not a strategy shared by all of Machsom Watch, the effort to
distance themselves from the Israeli soldiers at the checkpoints was impor-
tant to those women who adopted it for a number of reasons. First, it was a
matter of reclaiming their own political message and voice distinct from the
military. Rejection of engagement with the military was a rejection of com-
plicity in providing a humanitarian veneer on the checkpoint enterprise.5 It
was also a way of trying to reclaim the message that their activism was against
the occupation in all of its forms. Although one Watcher stated that “sim-
ply being there at the checkpoint is a statement to both the soldiers and the
Palestinians,” an extended angry interaction later in the shift demonstrated
that, in fact, a number of Palestinians did not think that simply “being there”
was enough.6 Instead, one of the Palestinians saw the Israeli women as com-
plicit in the operation of the checkpoints, powerless to change the situation,
and (according to some Palestinians) somewhat patronizing in their jotting
down of notes while observing the treatment of Palestinians (Yvonne and D.
2008). In response to the Palestinian man, the Watchers pointed to their or-
ganizational badges that say “No to the Checkpoints” in Hebrew, Arabic, and
English. However, seven years into the activists’ watch, the checkpoints had
grown, expanded, and become “more cruel in a sophisticated way” despite (or
because of, depending on perspective) Machsom Watch activity (Yvonne and
D. 2008).
By distancing themselves from the soldiers, the Machsom Watch women
were seeking to underscore their political, as opposed to humanitarian, mes-
sage. As one woman clarified, the so-called improvements in the checkpoints
were really only measures to address the problems that soldiers and occupation
officials themselves had created. Rather than solving the problems, what had
occurred was an “improvisational patching up” to deal with problems made by
the Israeli occupation itself (Yvonne and D. 2008). In addition, through their
actions Watchers were drawing a line between Israel and Palestine by refusing
to recognize the legitimacy of the Israeli soldiers’ presence in those areas and
by rejecting their authority in such circumstances. By refusing to call com-
manders to have situations fixed or improved, the women were (implicitly)
arguing that the only way to fix the problem was for the commanders and the
soldiers and the checkpoints themselves to be removed. This stance rejected
the implicit assumption that if one called the commander they would put an
end to the egregious abuse and return to the checkpoint routine, which, as
several of my respondents noted, “is the worst. As if this [routine] was nor-
mal” (Yvonne and D. 2008). One of those I spoke with said that although she
does still speak with the army, when she “succeeds at getting something from
them,” she is concerned about “how low” she can get (Hanna, Nina, and Mika
2008).
One way that Machsom Watch activists sought to distance themselves from
the soldiers at the checkpoints was by giving Palestinians a toolbox for dealing
with some of the issues themselves. Machsom Watch organized a course for
Palestinian lawyers to help them know the relevant Israeli laws, which most
of them did not know. As of July 2008 thirty-eight to forty Palestinian law-
yers had been trained in Ramallah and Bethlehem. Machsom Watch was also
working to translate a series of military decrees into Arabic for the first time
in the forty-year occupation. When negotiating the process to get a permit
or when given a fine or other penalty, Palestinians are given numerous pa-
pers and decrees written in Hebrew. In order to proceed, they must sign these
documents, but they do not know what they are signing or why they must do
so; by translating and explaining these documents, the Machsom Watch ac-
tivists are helping Palestinians make more informed decisions regarding what
course of action to take. This training and translation work was another way of
distancing themselves from the occupation system since the Machsom Watch
activists were helping Palestinians to understand and act on their own rather
than always depending on an Israeli interlocutor. Furthermore, it expanded
the reach of their work since Palestinian lawyers are accessible beyond the
limited hours of checkpoint shifts.
The 2007 Machsom Watch yearly report displays the tension in the group
as it reflects both the tendency to distance the activists from the occupation
regime entirely and also the desire to improve the conditions at the check-
points and bring the soldiers into compliance with Israeli law and interna-
tional law such as the Fourth Geneva Convention. Ironic statements about
the “enlightened occupation” and the “basic humiliation that is ingrained in
the system” (2008: 51, 68) demonstrate the former tendency, while stories of
pregnant women and sick children refused passage despite family members
having permits to work in Israel (but not to go to the hospital) reflect the lat-
ter tendency. Both tendencies were present within the organization, as well as
within individual women, who struggled to know the best way to work against
the occupation. For a number of activists, however, it was increasingly clear
that they could best stay true to their normative vision for Israeli society and
for Israeli-Palestinian relations by distancing themselves from the soldiers and
by refusing to have their humanitarian and human rights inclinations be co-
opted by the checkpoint regime.
Conclusion
Increasing numbers of Israelis and Palestinians I interviewed in 2008 (al-
though not the majority by far) were moving toward a noncooperation ap-
proach to challenging the Israeli occupation. For these activists, the goal was
not peace but rather a change in the structural dynamics of the Israeli-Pal-
estinian relationship. Efforts at peace had not only failed to stop settlement
expansion and checkpoint construction, but they had led to an increase in
this activity. Joint ventures had not brought about the desired change, and de-
spite constructing an activist network across the Green Line, both Israelis and
Palestinians expressed doubts regarding the efficacy of this network to bring
about change. Some Palestinians said they could not do anything without a
show of solidarity and movement within Israeli society, while some Israelis
said the initiative needed to first come from the Palestinians. Yet on both sides
of the Green Line, activists expressed the need to put pressure on the parties
to change and to move toward a negotiated agreement that included an end
to the occupation. In contrast to 2004–2005, several of those I interviewed
openly advocated boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) movements, al-
though they differed regarding what kind of boycott they supported. Whereas
before, the vast majority of those I interviewed were proponents of engage-
ment, in 2008 some of these same activists stated that partnerships between
Israelis and Palestinians, no matter how equal or strong, had not translated
into mass movements for political change.
In a way, both reconfiguration and distinction mechanisms seek to engage
wider populations as well as rearrange power relations. Whereas the recon-
figuration mechanism seeks to transcend boundaries that have divided social
and political movements or religious and secular activists, and thereby build
a broader support base through the harnessing of energies and resources, the
distinction mechanism seeks to isolate or set apart a population in an effort
to have that group reconsider why it is being treated that way. It seeks to le-
verage economic power and shaming power to bring parties to reconsider
their actions and/or bring them to the negotiating table. It is important to
highlight that there are Israelis and Palestinians working together in the BDS
movement, and there are Israelis (and Jews in the Diaspora) who question
the conventional framing of pro-Israel policies, such as the group “Not in
My Name.” Although many disagree on the efficacy of a boycott strategy in
the case of Israel, especially given Jewish psychology and fear due to a long
history of persecution at the hands of the Europeans, it is nevertheless being
used by some Israelis who reject government policies toward the Palestinians
and advocate a different, nonmilitary approach toward peace and security. The
Shministim—high school seniors who refuse to serve in the Israeli army for
reasons of conscience—are yet another example of Israelis who signal their
disagreement with state policies by distancing themselves from society. Given
the central role of military service in the construction of Israeli identity—

and in the allocation of economic and social benefits postservice—refusing to
serve is a matter of significant consequence. These Israelis overtly refuse on
political grounds, which results in imprisonment in most cases, in contrast
to the many who engage in “gray refusal” by getting medical or psychological
exemptions from service.
In some cases, BDS was a strategy of last resort given that negotiations had
not worked, nonviolent resistance in villages like Bil'in had (as of July 2008)
not succeeded in implementing the 2004 ruling of the International Court of
Justice, and numerous joint projects were seen to have perpetuated unequal
relations between Israelis and Palestinians. The so-called joint industrial zones
set up as part of the Annapolis process illustrate why the concept of joint proj-
ects has been discredited. Not only do these industrial zones legitimize Israeli
settlement expansion, but Palestinians can only access these zones as day la-
borers and consequently lack work visas, health care, and other benefits. For
Palestinians this is a flagrant injustice and a mockery of the term “joint,” not
only because the industrial zones are built on land between the separation bar-
rier and the Green Line (that is, on Palestinian land) but also because they are
under Israeli control with Palestinians supplying only the cheap labor. Beyond
this, the very premise of the industrial zones is problematic to many because
the Palestinian economy has not been devastated by a lack of Palestinian busi-
ness acumen but rather by Israeli policies since 1967 designed to make the Pal-
estinian economy dependent on Israel combined with a series of institutional
obstacles erected by the Oslo process and the unstable political environment.
Israeli restrictions on Palestinian businesses, as well as the expense incurred
by the checkpoints and permit system, pose substantial obstacles to the Pales-
tinian business community (Cobham, Kanafani, and Kanafani 2004). In this
context, a BDS strategy seeks to emphasize that the root cause of Palestinian
economic trouble is the Israeli occupation, and not simply insufficient or inef-
ficiently targeted foreign aid.
Not all groups responded to the constricting of political space through
the boycott strategy, however. Some, like al Mubadara, tried to create new
opportunities for engagement in the political sphere. Identifying the social,
economic, and political problems facing Palestinian society as stemming in
part from the Israeli occupation and in part from limited political choices for
Palestinian voters, al Mubadara created a new political party marketed as the
“third way.” Seeking to attract younger voters, women, and other marginalized
populations, al Mubadara differentiated itself from the existing political par-
ties by emphasizing its desire to implement genuine democracy and institute

social justice programs from a secular (rather than religious) framework. By
establishing itself as a secular institution that cares for the poor and seeks
to institute an inclusive, pluralistic democracy, al Mubadara distanced itself
from the corrupt practices of the Fateh old guard and also from the conserva-
tive social views of Hamas. The goal of al Mubadara, like that of Tarabut and
Bringing Peace Together, was to influence decisions at the government level
regarding negotiations with the Other and setting socioeconomic policies
through participation in the political process.
9
Conclusion
In its initial incarnation, this research project was called “Building Space for
Peace: Challenging the Boundaries of Israel/Palestine,” and it looked some-
what hopefully at the potential for Israeli and Palestinian peace movements
to lead the way back to the negotiating table and arrive at a just and lasting
peace on the basis of UN resolutions and the Road Map. Group efforts to build
joint institutions (albeit informal ones for interacting across national lines)
and awareness-raising efforts aimed at breaking down barriers of distrust,
ignorance, and fear, combined with constructive confrontation—from dem-
onstrations to court cases brought against the route of the separation barrier
in villages like Beit Sourik or Bil'in—provided a small glimmer of hope. The
disengagement from Gaza and the dawn of a new era in Palestinian politics
with the death of Yasser Arafat seemed to provide an opportunity for shifting
the dynamics of interaction at the political level; unfortunately, no real prog-
ress was made. However, as noted by peacebuilding scholars, “success needs
to be defined within the specific conflict context and at the appropriate level,”
since conflicts can remain frozen at the political level for significant periods
of time before change occurs, even despite “significant success in building
up relations and cooperation between civil society actors across the conflict
divide” (Zelizer and Rubinstein 2009: 5).
When examining the macro-level political situation, at the beginning of
2009 the ultimate peacebuilding goal of “preventing violence and building
inclusive economic, political, and social institutions” (Zelizer and Rubinstein
2009: 5) seemed far off. Since the initial period of research in 2004–2005,
social, political, and geographical boundaries have been transformed gradu-
ally into more concretized (in some cases, literally) barriers to interaction.
Israeli court decisions have been ignored by the army, Israeli settlements have
continued to be built, and the many “illegal outposts” documented by the
Israeli government–commissioned Sasson Report remained in place. Settle-
Conclusion · 225
ment construction continued despite the existence of additional information

regarding the settlement enterprise and its influence in key government offices
(Zertal and Eldar 2007), as well as documentation that 75 percent of Israeli
settlements were built without the necessary permits (or contrary to permits
that were issued), thereby making them illegal not only under international
law but also under Israeli law (Blau 2009). Massive construction projects—
which literally moved a hill at Qalandia—transformed “temporary” structures
into permanent, large-scale “international terminals” complete with new
roads, multilane car-checking booths, nicely bricked roundabouts, parking
complexes, and an extensive system of gates, turnstiles, and electronic surveil-
lance equipment for regulating and checking foot traffic through a compli-
cated warehouse in which Israelis and Palestinians are kept completely sepa-
rate from each other. Updated checkpoints built in the “improved,” “modern”
look have also been built nearby at Hizma (next to Pisgat Ze'ev settlement)
and at al-Khadr along the road to the Gush Etzion settlement block and He-
bron. Groups that had been models of partnership and joint action against
the occupation, like Ta'ayush, had fallen apart, and my original title seemed
inappropriate, disconnected from the current reality.
A discussion I heard in July 2008 between two Israeli peace activists while
driving to an action in the Negev illustrates the polarization of narratives that
has occurred along with the consolidation of the separation infrastructure.
On the southern side of the al-Khadr checkpoint, the road is flanked by a high
concrete wall with an overhang that angles out over the road and continues,
parallel to the road, for several hundred meters. One of the Israelis said he
had heard from a Palestinian tour guide that the wall was aimed at prevent-
ing Israeli drivers (we were on an Israeli bypass road) from having to see the
Palestinian landscape on the other side of the wall (Bethlehem, al-Khadr, and
Dheisheh refugee camp). Another passenger replied how the wall was simply
a sound barrier to protect the inhabitants of the other side from the noise of
the traffic. While both statements have an element of truth, they also reflect
the obstacles—physical and psychological—facing efforts at awareness raising
and joint action. The tendency of humans to filter information in accordance
with existing cognitive screens, as well as the general Israeli preference to “not
know” what is happening on the other side of the separation barrier (as was
mentioned by several Israelis when contrasting Israelis’ focus on cultural fes-
tivals with the realities of life in the West Bank), makes it difficult to transform
relationships through the sharing of information.
Yet, although the landscape of separation had rigidified, several activists
I interviewed in 2008 argued that one of the major successes of the peace
movement during the second intifada was the creation of an infrastructure of
activists on both sides of the Green Line. Thus, although they may not have
been able to successfully mobilize this infrastructure for sociopolitical change,
its existence and readiness to be activated should the occasion arise was, ac-
cording to at least one activist, a positive sign. However, to be successful, such
an infrastructure needs to be recognized and supported by activists in the
international community. Palestinian activists in particular need recognition
and support given the many obstacles and restrictions they face as well as the
perennial blindness of the Western world when it comes to Palestinian nonvi-
olent resistance (as evidenced in the canard asking, “Where is the Palestinian
Gandhi?”).1 Although the international community should follow the lead of
Palestinian and Israeli activists (rather than take control), the all-too-frequent
dismissal (or lack of knowledge) of grassroots peacebuilding movements in
Israel and Palestine hinders constructive efforts for sociopolitical change.
Furthermore, although several of the groups I studied in 2004–2005 had
experienced declines in numbers or activity, others recounted limited suc-
cesses, and some new peacebuilding groups, like Combatants for Peace, had
emerged. Although most groups that I studied did not conduct formal self-
evaluations, they did regularly assess their accomplishments vis-à-vis their
stated goals (that is, evaluate their strategic impact). A major goal for most
of these groups is ending the Israeli occupation; however, they recognize this
is a long-term struggle and not likely to be accomplished for end-of-the-year
reporting. One basic indicator of success for many of the groups was their
continued existence as an organization and continued pressure for a just and
lasting peace despite increasing challenges. Many I interviewed acknowledged
that simply continuing without making observable change was not necessarily
success, but, as Machsom Watch activists noted, their continued presence did
contribute to keeping issues like the checkpoints on the radar and provided a
source of information regarding what was occurring across the West Bank.
There were, of course, a few self-reported successes, such as the growth and
expansion of Sabeel’s youth programs, and a survey project about Palestinian
Christians that served as a catalyst for follow-on work conducted by other
organizations. AIC staff members noted that their connections within Pales-
tinian society had grown stronger and were flourishing; one particular marker
of their success was taking the lead in coordinating the Nakba commemora-
tion events in Bethlehem as a joint Israeli-Palestinian organization. This joint
leadership sent a powerful message since it provided Israeli recognition of the
Conclusion · 227
Palestinian narrative of the events of 1948 and also Palestinian recognition of

the possibility of genuine partnership with Israeli activists. Although Ta'ayush
as a national entity had dissolved, its success at constructing durable relation-
ships was evident in the continuation of projects in areas where Ta'ayush had
worked; its members sought to remain faithful to their friends and not leave
them isolated and alone. Thus, projects in the South Hebron Hills and Wadi
’Ara continued in the name of Ta'ayush. This commitment to maintaining re-
lationships even when institutional structures had largely disintegrated is itself
a sign of partial success, given that Ta'ayush emerged due to the isolation of
Arab Israeli activists and their sense of being abandoned by the Jewish Israeli
Left.
Perhaps the greatest area of success, however, has been in the international
realm, as international debate on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has begun to
shift, particularly in the wake of the December 2008–January 2009 intensified
conflict in Gaza.2 This shift is partially due to the increase in democratized
media reporting; even though Israel shut all foreign reporters out of Gaza,
it could not prevent the broadcasting from Palestinian correspondents for
select news agencies or the transmission of local voices and amateur videos
via cell phones and the Internet. At the same time, the availability of alterna-
tive sources of information—made available by groups like the AIC via their
podcasts, blogs, Web sites, and electronic newsletters—and the ongoing ef-
forts of groups like Bringing Peace Together to put forth alternative strategies
and circulate them among politicians domestically and internationally, helped
spur critical reevaluation by many regarding Israeli actions in Gaza. The vast
power differential between the Palestinians and Israelis was evident to all who
watched the media coverage; for perhaps the first time in recent history, Israeli
efforts to justify their massive air assault on Palestinians in the name of de-
fense against terrorism did not gain widespread acceptance, although many in
the United States continued to support Israel’s “right to defend itself ” against
Hamas rocket attacks.
One of the leverage points that activists had begun to exploit more strategi-
cally was the use of digital media such as YouTube and cell phone transmis-
sions. Both of these technologies permitted a broader distribution of informa-
tion from a more diverse array of points of view than was the case in the past,
since Israel has regularly engaged in efforts to control foreign journalists in
the occupied territories. Like the geographic fragmentation of the West Bank
and legal restrictions hampering cross-border travel, this silencing is part of
Israel’s strategy to undermine the possibility of a successful nonviolent mass
movement in the occupied territories; media coverage displaying Israeli bru-

tality against Palestinians during the first intifada had negative repercussions
for Israel’s image.
Two examples of the role of alternative media in changing public awareness
and preparing the ground for peace efforts were seen during Israel’s Operation
Cast Lead. One was the story of Gazan doctor Izz el-Din Abu al Aish, who
worked in one of Israel’s main hospitals before the siege and was well known
in Israeli circles, often giving interviews on Israeli television. The articulate
doctor, who epitomized individual-level peace efforts through relationship
building, lost three of his children in the bombing, and two were seriously
wounded. His story, which was widely publicized, personalized the situation
experienced by Gazan civilians for some in Israel and many abroad. Personal
stories such as his offset, at least partially, the dominant depiction of Palestin-
ians in Gaza as terrorists equated with radical members of Hamas or “animals”
needing only the essential materials for survival (Li 2008). A second example
of the power of technology is the ability of Israelis and Palestinians, unable to
meet in person, to have conversations through Facebook, YouTube, and blogs.
During Operation Cast Lead, several such bloggers came to the fore, and we
were privy to the connection between “Hope Man,” an Israeli in Sderot, where
many rockets have fallen, and “Peace Man,” a Gazan. These two formed a re-
lationship over the Web that allowed them to change their perceptions of the
Other as Enemy, and they shared their experiences of the conflict, and their
concern for their friend on the other side, for the digitally connected to see.3
Need for a Different Approach

What can peace activists, policymakers, and scholars learn from this study of
Israeli and Palestinian peace and justice movements and their changes over
time? First, sociopolitical changes in the landscape impact, and are impacted
by, the actions of the peace movements. Thus, heightened divisions between
political parties or between so-called moderates and extremists posed signifi-
cant obstacles to many peace activists, who felt the need to address divisive
boundaries within their own society prior to seeking out ways for peace with
the Other community. Disillusionment with existing political institutions and
their ability to bring about socioeconomic justice as well as peace and secu-
rity contributed to the emergence of several new political parties by 2008.
Although not a direct descendent of Ta'ayush, some former Ta'ayush activ-
ists were involved in the founding of Hitchabrut-Tarabut, which has a party
Conclusion · 229
platform that reflects similar goals, such as breaking down boundaries sepa-
rating groups within Israel while also seeking to work for a just and lasting
peace with Palestinians. Al Mubadara also completed its transformation from
a movement to a political party, and even won a cabinet seat in the short-lived
Palestinian unity government. Both Tarabut and al Mubadara emphasized
the linkages between negative socioeconomic conditions within Israeli and
Palestinian societies and the ongoing occupation, in the process seeking to
undermine socioeconomic pillars of support for the policies of ruling regimes.
The AIC similarly focused on this dynamic and worked to forge new activist
communities mobilized around common socioeconomic goals, reconfiguring
relationships in an effort to leverage limited resources and combat divide-and-
rule strategies.
The research indicates the importance of regular reevaluation of group strat-
egies and tactics in the pursuit of peacebuilding goals. It also highlights the
need for resources—time, energy, social and political connections, money—to
carry out the work. In the four years between my initial observations and fol-
low-up interviews, one group all but disappeared, one shrank to about half its
size, and others became more overtly political. Those groups that were growing
and achieving greater success in 2008 were those that had strategically adapted
their processes to reflect the changing situation and that managed to attract
and retain staff and volunteers to carry out the work despite widespread feel-
ings of helplessness and hopelessness. The AIC, for instance, continued to en-
gage in awareness raising, but discontinued its English language newsmagazine
and shifted to using electronic media: podcasts, blogs, and an interactive Web
site. Although al Mubadara continued to support Palestinian villages engaged
in nonviolent resistance against the separation barrier, they also adopted ad-
ditional methods of nonviolent struggle, such as boycott and participation in
international forums like the International Socialist. These new strategic ini-
tiatives sought to harness the power of the international community, given al
Mubadara’s need for additional leverage in its efforts for democratic reform in
the Palestinian Authority and rerouting (or removal) of the separation barrier.
Additional mechanisms observed in 2008—reconfiguration and dis-
tinction—were a response to the consolidation of separation between Is-
raelis and Palestinians resulting from completion of the separation barrier
and imposing checkpoint terminals as well as political stalemate. Groups
like Tarabut acted as brokers linking together traditionally antagonistic
groups—such as Yemenite Jews in South Tel Aviv and Arab Israelis from
Jaffa—through acts of solidarity. The AIC connected the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict with domestic Israeli concerns, teaching social movements about

the common sources of their challenges and seeking to engage new popu-
lations in the struggle to end the occupation. At the same time, Bringing
Peace Together and al Mubadara became more engaged in the sphere of
formal politics, not only seeking new ways to promote their message but also
voicing discontent with an increasingly factionalized and divided political
system failing to make peace. The adoption of new mechanisms emphasizes
the context dependency of peace work and the need to reconsider strategies
and goals in changing times. These mechanisms in particular also highlight
the relational nature of power, which is mobilized through sociopolitical
relationships. Reaching out to new constituencies was not merely a matter
of converting more to the cause of peace but also about reconfiguring rela-
tionships of power and disconnecting oppressive regimes from their social
pillars of support.
What Went Right: Successful Group Processes

One of the major findings of my study is that the groups that succeeded
in continuing to work for peace in times of intensified conflict were those
grounded in relationships of equality and mutuality. This finding supports
research on the contact hypothesis that says mere contact, absent sustained
interaction, common objectives, and relative equality, can do more to rein-
force stereotypes than overcome them. The seven groups studied worked to
create inclusive images of the Other based in an affirmation of their humanity.
Although most secular groups did not use the religious language of Sabeel
and RHR in justifying equality due to humanity’s creation in God’s image,
groups like the Israeli human rights group B'Tselem (which means “in the im-
age”) did make reference to the same biblical passage. Machsom Watch and
Ta'ayush sought to challenge tendencies to displace the relationship between
the occupier and the occupied onto “neutral” laws and impersonal regulations
by sharing the stories of Palestinians facing impossible situations, such as the
Nu'aman residents, who were deemed West Bank residents even as the houses
they lived in were deemed part of Israel. The agonized cries of Dr. Abu al Aish
gave emotional content—as well as a face—to the otherwise impersonal Pal-
estinian casualty statistics.
A second major finding of the research is the importance of group process
over group characteristics. Of particular import in this regard are democratic
processes tending toward consensual decision-making practices that provide
Conclusion · 231
space for the minority viewpoint to be expressed and affirmed. Although such
practices take more time and energy, they result in more durable relationships,
a more equitable distribution of power within the group, and a greater degree
of successful implementation of decisions based on general support. Just be-
cause a group was joint did not mean it had a democratic, consensual process.
In contrast, at times joint groups had their agendas imposed by the organizer,
or by a subgroup that had more time, energy, and interest in planning. In the
case of the code of ethics project, the joint project was actually conducted
largely in parallel, which led to widely divergent results difficult to assimilate
into a final report. As mentioned earlier in this chapter, one of the valuable
benefits of joint work is the creation of space for pluralism and constructive
engagement with divergent views. Such engagement, which is more than mere
dialogue, can strengthen critical thinking skills and provide opportunities for
creative problem solving out of which win-win scenarios can emerge.
A related point deals with the importance of shared decision making and
affirmation of diverse points of view in uninational as well as binational or
joint groups. Al Mubadara was successful in growing and establishing new
branches because it gave voice to marginalized populations and sought to
bridge rural-urban divides prevalent in Palestinian society. Al Mubadara also
sought to give equal voice to Palestinians living in the West Bank/Gaza Strip
as well as those living in the Diaspora, bringing in the perspectives and using
the leverage of many who had been sidelined by the political establishment.
Rabbis for Human Rights sought to find space for commonality among rabbis
from a range of political and theological perspectives, seeking to refrain from
divisive political statements or platforms. Likewise, Machsom Watch sought
to attract a wide membership by having a limited number of principles to
which all agreed, such as “No to checkpoints,” while allowing a great deal of
latitude for interpretation on the part of the individual. The problem made
evident with this approach, however, was occasional incoherence of message
or internal group conflict, since actions taken by any one Machsom Watch
activist would reflect back on the organization as a whole and impact group
relations with Palestinians as well as with the army, even if other Watchers
disagreed fundamentally with said actions. Regardless, the heterogeneity of
membership within RHR and Machsom Watch also provided the groups with
the ability to speak with broader swaths of Israeli society about the situation
in the occupied territories; using their positional power and social ties with es-
tablishment officials, the groups worked to undermine social pillars of support
for policies contributing to human rights violations and continued conflict.
A third finding has to do with the fact that organizational form (staffed
NGO or voluntary organization) does not necessarily reflect the group’s orien-
tation to change (“reform” versus “transform”). Staffed NGOs like the Alterna-
tive Information Center and Rabbis for Human Rights were more radical in
their relationship with the political-religious establishment than were some of
the members of Machsom Watch, which was volunteer based.4 However, one
could observe a difference between groups focused on action and doing things
in common and those focused on talking or writing reports. This gets back to
the distinction between peace works and peace words. Groups like Ta'ayush
and al Mubadara differed from Machsom Watch in that they were planning
and conducting actions that they then implemented together, whereas Mach-
som Watch focused more on observing and documenting; however, in its early
days, going to observe and report on the checkpoints was most definitely ac-
tive. Bringing Peace Together was unable to move to action as a collective
body given the fixed positions of individual group representatives and the
format of periodic, discussion-based meetings. As a whole, BPT lacked a co-
herent group identity because it was a collection of representatives, and thus
it was difficult to continue group activity in between sessions as there was no
group to be mobilized. By 2008 BPT was reconfigured as more of an advocacy
group and had a stronger sense of identity; although it still did not carry out
actions per se, it did write and circulate policy papers.
In most cases, the seven groups studied worked to reconfigure relationships
of power between Israelis and Palestinians and within their respective societ-
ies. Whether that had to do with raising the profile of Reform and Conserva-
tive Jews vis-à-vis the dominant Orthodox, lifting up religious voices against
injustice alongside secular ones, intentionally meeting in both Palestinian and
Israeli spaces for planning sessions, or (re)claiming civilian control over the
military through regular observation of its activities at the checkpoints, the ac-
tivists used rhetorical, positional, and relational forms of power in an effort to
combat structural violence and exclusivist categories of identification. How-
ever, the broader structure of the Israeli-Palestinian relationship of occupier
and occupied made actual equality virtually impossible. Not only did Israeli
Jews have citizenship and (usually) a relatively privileged socioeconomic sta-
tus vis-à-vis Arab Israelis and Palestinians in the West Bank, but they also had
freedom of movement, were part of the dominant Hebrew-speaking culture,
and generally could go home at night and “turn off ” the conflict. In contrast,
Palestinians—with and without Israeli citizenship—had limited access to so-
cial, economic, political, and territorial resources, and generally faced signifi-
Conclusion · 233
cant challenges within their own communities vis-à-vis traditional authority

structures in addition to challenges with Israeli civil and military authorities.
Palestinians, especially in the West Bank, could not turn off the conflict, since
occupation policies affected everything from where and how they could go to
work to who they could marry to whether they could get medical attention for
a sick child.
Efforts to achieve equality within groups were also hampered by the asym-
metry between Israel (with sovereignty, the largest and most powerful military
in the region, a developed economy, and extensive military, economic, and
political support from the United States) and the Palestinian Authority (no
sovereignty, no armed forces, intentionally undeveloped or “de-developed”
economy, and lack of reliable allies in the often self-serving Arab regimes) at
the international level, even as international discourse obscured this inequal-
ity (Roy 1999). Despite the fact that Israel controls Palestinian borders and
tax revenues and even established the Palestinian Authority (giving it what
limited powers it does have), the international community talks as if they are
both states with equal capacity for fulfilling obligations or equally expected to
make “compromises.”
Palestinian organizations like Sabeel and al Mubadara sought to offset their
structural power deficit by developing relationships with their supporters in
the international community. Through these relationships, Palestinians could
raise awareness and build additional support for Palestinian efforts to end the
occupation and build a just, lasting, and secure peace in countries, particu-
larly in Europe and North America, where citizens had the ability to lobby
their governments to take action and support particular policies related to the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israeli groups like the AIC, RHR, and Machsom
Watch also had international networks to which they would circulate materi-
als and updates, although of those, only RHR had a “Friends of ” organization
overseas.
One of the major limitations to the peacebuilding efforts of the groups
studied was their inability to affect significant on-the-ground change beyond
establishing a network of relationships on either side of the Green Line. One
of the reasons for this inability is the small scale of the peace movements and
the enormity of the problems. As many of those I interviewed stated, peace
activists were always responding to crises and “putting out fires” rather than
setting and implementing a constructive agenda for change (Shulman 2008).
Furthermore, the Israeli Left remained generally fragmented, despite efforts
by the nascent Tarabut, and although individual activists might participate
in multiple groups, each group carried out its own program of action with-
out strategic coordination (apart from specific coalitions like the one for the
olive harvest) or large-scale mobilization. Palestinians remained fragmented
geographically and politically, and ongoing feuds between Hamas and Fateh
leaders contributed to a lack of coherence in the Palestinian platform. While
individual villages, like Bil'in, have led sustained nonviolent protests against
the separation barrier, Palestinians had not succeeded in mobilizing nonvio-
lent demonstrations on a large scale.
Yet, as this study shows, some Palestinians and Israelis have continued to
struggle nonviolently for a just, lasting, and secure peace despite—or because
of—the ongoing conflict, seeking to create the conditions for peacemaking by
putting pressure on governments and demonstrating that there is a constitu-
ency for peace. Repeated calls over the years for a “Palestinian Gandhi” or a
nonviolent campaign such as was conducted in the first intifada have glossed
over the Palestinian resistance in the occupied territories and have done harm
to local nonviolent activists by making nonviolent resistance appear to be yet
another internationally imposed strategy. Why has the international com-
munity ignored Palestinian nonviolent activists? First, nonviolent struggle is
overshadowed by the use of violent tactics such as suicide bombings or rocket
attacks, which leave a lasting shadow even when many months go by without
any bombings or shells; media footage of a nonviolent demonstration in the
midst of olive groves pales in comparison with the graphic media imagery
that always accompanies an attack on Israeli civilians. Second, the call for a
“Gandhi” implicitly dismisses strategic nonviolence as it focuses on an ex-
ceptional leader who repudiated all forms of violence on moral grounds; the
vast majority of nonviolent struggles have been strategic nonviolent struggles.
Furthermore, Israeli “requirements” regarding the type of nonviolent activ-
ism obscure the nonviolent struggles that are occurring, or Israeli efforts to
systematically undermine them by arresting key leaders or designating entire
villages as “closed military zones” to prevent joint demonstrations (Hass 2010;
Izenberg 2010). This practice also illustrates Israel’s power to set the discursive
agenda, as few in the international community question the lack of a wide-
scale pacifist movement within Israeli society (most Israeli peace activists con-
tinue to serve in the Israeli military when it is their turn for reserve duty), or
the integral role of the military in forming Israeli (Jewish) national identity.
Furthermore, little attention has been given to Israel’s targeting of groups like
New Profile, which seeks to “civilize” the militarization of Israeli society, as in
the April 2009 seizure of staff members’ computers by Israeli police on charges
of inciting to evade military service (Goren, Harel, and Zarchin 2009).
Conclusion · 235
At the time of writing there are several strategic nonviolent struggles aimed
at reconfiguring power relations and toppling the occupation regime that are
based in an analysis of the occupation regime’s pillars of support. One of these
is the aforementioned struggle in Bil'in, which has consisted of a sustained
on-the-ground struggle each Friday for over four years (since February 2005).
Despite the Israeli army’s consistently violent response of tear gas and some-
times live ammunition, the Palestinians have continued to use nonviolent
means of struggle, even when one of the leading village activists, Bassem Abu
Rahme, was killed during a demonstration.5 The village of Bil'in is politically
unified, lacks divisive interclan feuds, and has strong relationships with Israeli
and international activists who attend the weekly demonstrations in solidar-
ity. In addition to the ongoing protests, which have continued even after the
wall was completed, Bil'in brought its case (which it won) for rerouting the
barrier to the Israeli High Court of Justice (although the barrier has not been
moved) and, more recently, submitted a suit in a Canadian court charging two
Canadian companies with violating international law by constructing settle-
ment buildings and infrastructure on village lands. Through continued physi-
cal pressure, creativity, international/Israeli solidarity movements, and diverse
legal instruments, Bil'in has continued its campaign against Israel’s separation
barrier and for the reclamation of its land.
The boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) campaign is another exam-
ple of a strategic nonviolent struggle that has achieved several victories in the
first half of 2009. Although some critics rebuff the movement as misguided,
anti-Semitic, or damaging to the peace movement in Israel, the vehemence in
some of the response reflects the power of the movement. BDS is an explicitly
nonviolent strategy that seeks to undermine the occupation’s pillars of support
through an effort modeled on the international campaign that helped bring
down the apartheid regime in South Africa.6 The BDS campaign involves a
call for an academic boycott, to force self-examination within Israeli society
regarding its complicity in the occupation; a consumer boycott, to put pres-
sure on Israeli businesses and multinational corporations doing business in
Israel; a cultural boycott; and a program of religious and university divestment
from companies (like Caterpillar or Motorola) that assist Israel in carrying out
the occupation. A solidarity campaign in Belgium succeeded in pressuring the
Belgian Bank Dexia to end its financing of Israeli settlements in the occupied
territories, and the efforts of French activists helped convince Veolia to pull
out of its contract to build the controversial Jerusalem light rail project linking
East Jerusalem settlements with West Jerusalem.7 BDS calls on the power of
the consumer, the academic, and the artist to refuse to cooperate with systems
of domination and oppression by boycotting the target regime. It uses the

power of the international global market-based economy to put consumer
pressure on corporations desirous of a profit, and capitalizes on existing legal
frameworks that incorporate international law.
Moving Forward in the Pursuit of Peace

International diplomatic efforts at resolving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict
have largely failed to engage in strategic thinking regarding what has and has
not worked. By studying the mechanisms used by peace and justice groups,
and reevaluating their goals, tactics, and audiences, international policymak-
ers might be able to find new ways of gaining leverage in their peacemaking
efforts. The Road Map, for example, was cut-and-pasted from previous agree-
ments with little rhyme or reason. Like the Oslo process, it lacked enforcement
mechanisms and delayed negotiations over core conflict issues. Furthermore,
the Quartet-led peace efforts have not only failed to engage new constituen-
cies for peace, but they have explicitly excluded groups such as Hamas, Hez-
bollah, and Syria even when democratically elected or when openly request-
ing negotiations with Israel. In contrast, the peacebuilding groups studied in
this book explicitly engaged with pluralism and sought to build bridges and
spaces for joint action grounded in equality and mutual interest. Peacebuild-
ing groups also recognized the internal differences within Israeli and Pal-
estinian societies as well as commonalities across lines of national division;
policymakers could learn to better distinguish between different factions of
Hamas, for example, or stop the use of blunt policy instruments that cause
undue harm to civilian populations. In particular, policymakers should seek
to distinguish between the peace words and peace works of political leaders
before bestowing praise or financial support; leaders’ statements should also
be carefully examined for potential openings as well as for potential pitfalls
in the cause of peace.8
Policymakers should also be aware of the extent to which the discourse of
peace has been delegitimized within Israel and Palestine due to the continued
failure of official peace efforts to meet their needs for a just, lasting, and secure
peace; this is true even for those active in the peacebuilding groups studied,
who became more alienated from the language of peace. Although many in
2004–2005 qualified their conception of peace by equating it with ending the
occupation or with changing the structure of inequality and injustice, in 2008
many shied away from the term “peace” altogether. This trend is disturbing in
many ways, as it reflects distrust in the capacity of diplomatic efforts to bring
Conclusion · 237
about a negotiated solution to the conflict. It also means that with the lack
of a political horizon, extremist groups have greater leverage for setting the
parameters of discourse and political interaction. The dominance of militant
voices was evident in the three-week assault on the Gaza Strip in December
2008 and January 2009. Not only did the intensified conflict indicate Israel’s
willingness to break the existing cease-fire with Hamas, it also highlighted the
willingness of Hamas leaders to engage in a spiral of reciprocal violence rather
than holding firm to their desire to renegotiate the terms of the ceasefire.
Dominant approaches to managing the Israeli-Palestinian conflict have
completely ignored the lessons of Israeli and Palestinian peacebuilding groups.
They are grounded in inequality; they have consisted of on-again off-again
short-term interactions rather than sustained engagement; and they have
been focused on us-versus-them zero-sum negotiations without a concerted
effort to reframe core conflict issues as matters of common concern. As the
intensified conflict during Operation Cast Lead demonstrated, the insecurity
of Gazans contributes to the insecurity of Israelis and vice versa. Likewise,
environmental pollution resulting from Israeli settlements dumping their raw
sewage onto Palestinian villages ultimately affects everyone living in the area.
Perhaps the increased concern expressed by leading officials and media pun-
dits regarding the closing of the window of possibility for a two-state solution
will contribute to Israel’s reorientation toward peace negotiations. Israel has
tried almost all of its options for arriving at a resolution to the conflict with
the Palestinians except for negotiation on final status issues. The checkpoint
regime, the boycott of Hamas, and military bombardment of the Gaza Strip
have only intensified anger and solidified images of Israel as enemy.
Yet it is not sufficient to think about the resolution to the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict in terms of a one-state versus two-state solution. As the peacemaking
approaches of the groups studied indicate, the quality of the institutions and
the types of structures used to mediate between parties are critical to peace-
building efforts. Furthermore, sociopolitical and national boundaries are not
congruous with geographical ones. The settlement enterprise, the routing of
the separation barrier through Palestinian lands, and shifting identity patterns
on the part of Israel’s Palestinian citizens make it even harder to neatly divide
Palestinians from Israelis in a two-state framework. While a political solution
that establishes political and geographic boundaries for Israel and Palestine is
necessary (and still the preferred solution of most activists I interviewed), it
is not sufficient to bring about a just, lasting, and secure peace. Instead, peace
efforts must also address psychological, social, and cultural boundaries that
create obstacles to coexistence.
Rather than solidifying boundaries of us-versus-them through efforts

to blockade or close borders or to divide Fateh and Hamas into extremists
and moderates, Israelis and Palestinians—and their international partners—
should seek to create space for challenging such boundaries and finding alter-
native ways for interacting that focus on issues of common concern. Such ap-
proaches must take into consideration the importance of facilitating equality
and not repeat previous efforts at joint endeavors that institutionalize inequal-
ity, such as the so-called joint industrial zones constructed in the seam zone.
Peace efforts should also recognize the diversity within Israeli and Palestinian
societies and make a concerted effort to engage diverse constituencies in the
peace process, taking a lesson from those peace groups seeking to integrate
previously disconnected communities rather than perpetuating feelings of
alienation and neglect.
Although one could easily feel pessimistic regarding the possibility of peace
between Israelis and Palestinians in the near future, the ongoing efforts of
some Israelis and Palestinians despite the odds provide a glimmer of hope.
Furthermore, with the start of a new U.S. administration and international
outrage at the brutality of the Gaza war, in which over a thousand Palestinians
were killed, the opportunity is ripe for a new approach to the situation. Just as
peace and justice groups have adapted their approaches to new environments,
reaching out to different actors and engaging with constituencies traditionally
seen as outsiders by the peace community, it is time for Israeli and Palestinian
negotiators to engage substantively with each other and with those—including
the Arab League and Hamas moderates—willing to participate in the difficult
work of peacebuilding.

Notes
Introduction
1. For example, Khalili has documented the national narratives perpetuated in Pal-
estinian refugee camps in Lebanon compared to those in the West Bank. She notes the
role of these narratives in “keeping the Palestinian conflict . . . at the forefront of the in-
ternational stage” and their role in “forging a nation out of communities of dispersed and
disparate Palestinians” (2007: 225). Thus, while processes of identity formation and the
continuation of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict are mutually co-constitutive, the existence
of different narrations of Palestinian identity—and the presence of Palestinian national
institutions—suggests that this identity can be manifested in a variety of ways and is
not reducible to the conflict. In fact, numerous ways in which boundaries of Israeli and
Palestinian identities have been shaped and enforced over the decades—from discourses
on water scarcity to architectural practices—are documented in the edited volume Reap-
proaching Borders (Sufian and Levine 2007).
2. The Israeli Coalition of Women for Peace is an umbrella organization with member
groups comprised of Palestinian citizens of Israel (Israeli Palestinians) as well as Jewish
Israelis.
3. They were present in the state of Israel but, having been displaced from their
homes, were considered absentee property holders under state law, and thus many lost
their lands.
4. New Profile, an antimilitarist Israeli organization, has excellent materials that
document the role of the military in the construction of Israeli identity and society.
http://www.newprofile.org/english/?cat=7. Many books and articles have been written
to document the role of the military in Israeli society and the special privileges that only
those who have completed military service receive. See, for example, Kanaaneh (2002);
and Kimmerling (2001).
5. I use a variety of terms for this population in this book, seeking to reflect the terms
used by those I interviewed and trends in sociopolitical discourse while also providing
clarity for the reader, especially when the contrast between Palestinians in the West
Bank/Gaza Strip and Palestinians with Israeli citizenship is critical.
6. Both of these institutions intentionally bring Israeli Jews and Palestinian Israelis
together in institutions where they are usually segregated (schools and towns), and dem-
onstrate through team teaching and communal decision-making processes that Jews
240 · Notes to Pages 8–17
and Arabs can live and work together. See Feuerverger (2001); and http://www.handin-
hand12.org/ for more on these institutions.
7. For example, the Alternative Information Center (AIC) was a donor-funded NGO
with a sizable staff, yet it was much more radical in its orientation to sociopolitical and
economic change than Machsom Watch, a voluntary protest group (although a sizable
subgroup within Machsom Watch was more aligned with the AIC in its orientation
toward change).
8. Partway through my research I learned of the Interfaith Encounter Association
(IEA), which brings together members of all three faiths. I attended a few meetings at
that time as well as a presentation in 2006. However, at the time, the IEA’s orientation
and activities were substantially different from those of the other groups I was studying
and so I did not add it, although I conducted some informal interviews with members I
met. Since that time, their activities and membership have expanded.
9. By “texts” I refer to the broad definition used for text found in Fairclough (1992).
He discusses the process described here in terms of the “intertextuality” of texts, as dis-
course is generated through its relationship with other discourses, past and present (40).
10. For some of the groups I was a participant in that I went to their demonstrations
or other activities (although I was not on the front lines or directly involved in confron-
tational or negotiation activity if there was any). For other groups, I was an observer and
sometimes note taker, keeping a record of the proceedings for the organizers.
11. A variety of different types of military refusal exist, from those who refuse to serve
in the occupied territories to those who refuse to serve at all for reasons of conscience or
for political reasons.
12. All formal interviews are duly noted in the text when they are the source of infor-
mation or a particular insight; many of the presentations and informal interactions do
not appear explicitly in the book, although these events and interactions informed my
understanding of the significance of the work of the seven groups studied.
Chapter 1. Examining the Boundaries of “Peace”

1. Palestinian residents of Jerusalem were permitted to receive Israeli citizenship if
they met certain conditions. However, for political reasons most of the residents did not
request Israeli citizenship as the conditions included swearing allegiance to the State
of Israel, proving they were not citizens of any other country, and demonstrating some
knowledge of Hebrew. Permanent residents do not have the same rights as citizens, and
this status does not necessarily pass on to children. See B'Tselem on the legal status of
East Jerusalem and its residents, http://www.btselem.org/English/Jerusalem/Legal_Sta-
tus.asp.
2. After 1967, Israel gained control of the Old City (previously under Jordanian con-
trol and hence part of “East” Jerusalem) and reconstituted the Jewish Quarter of the Old
City, a process that involved the destruction of the Moorish neighborhood to build the
expansive Western Wall plaza complex. Israeli officials also began establishing Jewish
settlements throughout East Jerusalem, including the French Hill neighborhood con-
necting the Mount Scopus campus of Hebrew University with West Jerusalem.
Notes to Pages 18–24 · 241
3. Even the naming of this group is highly problematic, as the terms applied reflect a
wide range of assumptions related to the conflict. See, for example, Rouhana (1997). In
this book I use the terms “Arab Israelis” or “Palestinian citizens of Israel” to describe this
group unless I am quoting or paraphrasing a specific interchange.
4. Until April 2002 Israeli ID cards were marked by nationality as either “Jewish,”
“Arab,” “Druze,” or other ethnic classification. IDs issued after 2002 do not have this
classification, although previously issued IDs remained unchanged.
5. This issue remains hotly contested within the Israeli activist community. I wit-
nessed several debates between Israeli leftists over whether there was a significant differ-
ence between the wars of 1948 and 1967; the mainstream Israeli Left (i.e., the Zionist Left)
asserts that 1967 was the turning point in terms of the legitimacy of Israeli government
actions toward Palestinians.
6. This number is taken from “Threatened Villages” Fact Sheet published by the Stop
the Wall Campaign, available at http://www.stopthewall.org/downloads/pdf/Threat-
enedvillagesFS.pdf. The number does not include East Jerusalem.
7. This supports Ben-Eliezer and Feinstein’s (2007: 173) argument that “internal strug-
gles over sovereignty and collective identity are nowadays often quite related to actual or
potential wars” as the conflict has encouraged extremist elements in both communities,
furthering internal divides regarding the best way to engage with the Other. Examples
of this can be seen in the increasing conflict between the Israeli army and Jewish settlers
in the West Bank, for example, in Hebron over the “House of Contention” (Gradstein
2008b; Issacharoff 2008) or in the existence of separate Palestinian governments in the
West Bank and Gaza following the Hamas-led coup against the Palestinian Authority in
Gaza (Abu Toameh 2007).
8. Although the international community recognizes the 1949 armistice line (also
called the Green Line) as the boundaries of Israel, Israeli schoolbooks do not show the
Green Line but rather often show Israel as spanning all of the territory between the Med-
iterranean Sea and the Jordan River (i.e., Historic or Mandate Palestine; Eldar 2006).
Israel has never formally annexed the Palestinian territories it acquired in 1967 (the West
Bank and Gaza Strip), apart from East Jerusalem (an annexation deemed illegal by the
international community). Thus, although Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza Strip
are under Israeli control, they lack citizenship and consequently rights.
9. Also called the 1949 armistice line, this boundary is the internationally recognized
border of Israel, although Israel has always said it is not an official, secure boundary but
rather a de facto one. This boundary is also called the pre-1967 boundary as it demarcates
the territories called the West Bank (Judea and Samaria in the Israeli press) and the Gaza
Strip.
10. The separation barrier is also called the apartheid/annexation wall or the security
fence. My usage will vary depending on the point being made and the perspective being
described.
11. Chapters 2 and 3 examine the history of the conflict and discourses surrounding
the Oslo Accords in greater depth.
12. Yasser Arafat, whose wife was Christian, often attended the Christmas mass at the
Church of the Nativity, but during the last few years of his life he was practically under
house arrest in his Ramallah compound, needing Israeli permission to visit other parts
of the West Bank. However, our conversation occurred in March 2005, four months after
Arafat died.
13. For more information on the history and ongoing construction of Har Homa
(Jabal Abu Ghneim to the Palestinians), along with maps, see “Har Homa Settlement”
between 1997 and 2007, put together by the Applied Research Institute of Jerusalem
(ARIJ) and the Land Research Center (LRC), http://www.poica.org/editor/case_studies/
view.php?recordID=1207. For more on the expansion of Jerusalem area settlements after
the Annapolis Conference, see Friedman and Seidman (2008).
14. Ringmar argues that “all notions of closeness and remoteness denote not only
spatial distance but also accessibility and concern.” Thus, distinctions between “close”
and “far” are closely related to distinctions made between “us” and “them” (1996: 78).
Those Israelis who do enter Bethlehem (other than peace activists) are the ultrareligious
settlers who have established an enclave around Rachel’s Tomb. They have their own
entrance through the wall, and are walled off from the remainder of the city. Consistent
with the broader pattern of settlement and wall construction since the second intifada,
the settlement has resulted in the closure of the main (Palestinian) road that used to
connect Jerusalem with Bethlehem and points south.
15. French citizens took Veolia to court for violating international and French law,
and the Galway City Council in Ireland has decided not to renew its contract with Veo-
lia because of Veolia’s engagement with the Jerusalem light rail project. For more, see
Gauthier-Villars (2009) and Madden (2009). In June 2009, Veolia “abandon[ed] the
project,” due in large part to the domestic court case as well as to loss of international
contracts. See Haaretz, “Jerusalem Rail Operator Jumps Ship, Tel Aviv Group Isn’t Even
Responding,” June 9, 2009. http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1091186.html.
16. Official peace efforts are discussed in more detail in chapter 2.
17. Many of the people I interviewed were of this opinion, especially those connected
to the more mainstream groups, such as the Bringing Peace Together program of Pan-
orama. Several Israeli professors and Palestinian NGO staffers also expressed disbelief
that more marginal groups were capable of real change or that they were representative
of Israeli and/or Palestinian opinion. The large silence in the mainstream media (print,
electronic, and visual) and in the international relations literature on such nonviolent
activism is another indicator of this phenomenon. However, the media attention that
shifted onto the village of at-Tuwani in the South Hebron Hills as a result of the work
of Ta'ayush in combination with Christian Peacemaker Teams and other such “extreme
Left” groups is one indicator of the ability of such groups to enact change.
18. I define peacebuilding broadly, including those activities that seek “to address the
sources of current hostility and build local capacities for conflict resolution” through
strengthening civil society, dealing with issues such as land reform and respect for eth-
nonational identities, and promoting those institutions (formal and informal) and atti-
tudes that prevent differences (and sociopolitical conflicts) from turning violent (Doyle
and Sambanis 2000: 779). Peacebuilding work can encompass the efforts of civil society
members to construct new frameworks for interpreting the conflict and envisioning the
future that transcend oppositional and divergent narratives (Broome 2004: 193–94). It
can involve Track II efforts to shape the negotiating agenda and/or develop relationships,
local community processes addressing conflict issues, or efforts to build public support
for particular agreements (Barnes 2005: 19–21).
Chapter 2. Historical Overview of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict

1. The terms “Arab” and “Jew” are problematic here, as many of the Jews living in Pal-
estine at the time of the British Mandate were socioculturally Arab. They spoke Arabic,
lived among Arabs, and ate the same food as their neighbors. The challenge with these
terms is that “Jew” is used to describe both a religious grouping and an ethnic group, and
the line between ethnicity and cultural affiliation can be difficult to define, especially as
there are those who define themselves as both Arab and Jewish.
2. In fact, the armistice line (also known as the Green Line or the pre-1967 boundary)
is not present on Israeli maps, including maps in textbooks and tourist maps. Although
Israel has never annexed this territory, it acts as the de facto state power in those areas.
When in 2006 the minister of education proposed including maps showing the Green
Line in school textbooks, he caused an uproar in the Israeli government. Palestinian
textbooks also have problematic maps when it comes to defining “Palestine.” However,
the issue of Palestinian statehood and borders has continually been postponed by Israel,
and thus there is reason for confusion. Israel is the only country in the United Nations
that has no defined borders.
3. See, for instance, Pappé (2004); Khalidi (2006); Lesch (2008); and Shlaim (2009b).
4. The “new historians” include Avi Shlaim, Benny Morris, and Ilan Pappé, who used
archival materials that became available in the late 1980s to challenge conventional Is-
raeli historiography of the 1948 war and standard Zionist accounts of the causes of the
Israeli-Arab conflict.
5. For a thorough account of the rise of Palestinian nationalism, see Khalidi (1997).
6. Aliyah literally means “ascent” or “rising up,” in this case to the land of Israel (Eretz
Yisrael).
7. In a genealogy of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Ran Greenstein notes the impor-
tance of “creating and maintaining ethnic and national boundaries . . . based on myths,
symbols, and means of communication, rather than mere geographical or physical divi-
sions.” This is particularly important in the case of Zionism as Palestinians did not have
a problem with the preexisting Jewish population (which spoke Arabic and worked with
the local Arabs), only with the Jewish national movement, which was based on exclusiv-
ity (Greenstein 1995: 22, 82–84). Although Zionism is often treated as having a cohesive
identity, the divides within the movement (and between Jewish subpopulations) were
significant and took decades to resolve, often through civil or military coercion (Green-
stein 1995; Campos 2007; Shlaim 2009b: 236–38).
8. This strategy, which also incorporates later historical developments involving Jor-
dan, is called the Jordanian option and was popular with former Israeli prime minister
Ariel Sharon. For more on the evolution of this strategy (and Jordan’s reaction to it), see
Lynch (2004). One example of a Zionist perspective on the creation of Transjordan—
“Transjordan was closed to all Jewish migration and settlement, a clear betrayal of the
British promise in the Balfour Declaration,” and “Most people forget that Arab claims to-
ward Palestine were already satisfied once”—can be found at http://www.palestinefacts.
org/pf_ww1_british_mandate_jordan.php.
9. For a more in-depth look at the different narratives surrounding the history of Is-
rael/Palestine, see Sandy Tolan’s The Lemon Tree (2006), which follows the stories of two
families: a Jewish woman who immigrated from Bulgaria and was placed in the house
built by the second family, Palestinians who fled due to the war, never able to return. See
also Scham, Salem, and Pogrund (2005), a collection of discussions between Palestinian
and Israeli intellectuals providing different accounts of historical time periods up to the
1948 war.
10. This attitude is also part of the Zionist narrative of “making the desert bloom” and
can be seen today in Western statements of support for Israel due to its being the “only
democracy in the Middle East” or having “shared values.”
11. Much of Arab resistance during the 1936 strike was nonviolent, and nonviolent
means of resistance—ranging from protest to noncooperation to formation of alterna-
tive leadership—continued throughout the mandate period, even though the violent
incidents receive more attention. See King (2007: 25–58); and Kaufman-Lacusta (2010).
12. For example, in March 1947 more than twenty British servicemen were killed in
an officers club by IZL (Irgun Zvai Leumi, or National Military Organization) forces, and
a Haifa oil refinery was sabotaged by LHI (Lohamei Herut Yisrael, Freedom Fighters of
Israel), also known as the Stern Gang (Morris 1999: 181).
13. A series of UN-brokered ceasefires preceded this final one, including one that
lasted between July and October 1948. Count Bernadotte, the UN-appointed mediator
who had brokered this and earlier ceasefires, was assassinated in September 1948 by ele-
ments of LHI (Lehi), approved by Yitzhak Shamir although not condoned by the Israeli
government, after he proposed a modified UN partition plan that would have allowed
Palestinian refugees the right to return to their homes, given the Negev to the Arabs,
and given the Galilee to Israel. After this plan, Ben-Gurion felt the need to create addi-
tional “facts on the ground” (Lesch 2008: 144). The language of the ceasefire agreements
also changed over time, from a focus on withdrawal to pre–second ceasefire lines (UN
Security Council Resolution 61) to withdrawal being negotiable as part of future peace
agreements (UN Security Council Resolution 62; Gerson 1978: 61). This debate is echoed
in Israeli and Palestinian disagreements over the status of the pre-1967 boundary.
14. The documentary Route 181 chronicles the journey of a filmmaking team of an
Israeli Jew and a Palestinian along the route of the UN partition plan and their interviews
of people in communities along the way. The 2004 documentary serves as a reminder
that this line once existed, since it has been quite erased through settlement activity as
well as the political focus on the 1967 boundaries.
15. The Israeli group Zochrot (Hebrew for “remembering”) seeks to fill the void of
information about the destruction of Palestinian villages that exists in Israeli society. See
their Web site, http://www.zochrot.org/index.php?id=341, for more information on this
initiative and the context for their work. See also Children of the Nakba, a 2005 documen-
tary produced by the Mennonite Central Committee, for the phenomenon of Palestinian
villages turned into parks.
16. The full text of the resolution can be accessed at http://daccess-dds-ny.un.org/doc/

RESOLUTION/GEN/NR0/240/94/IMG/NR024094.pdf?OpenElement.
17. According to the Israeli Bureau of Statistics, as of 2003 Arabs comprised 52 percent
of the population in the Northern district of Israel. Given that Israeli Arabs tend to have
a higher birthrate than Israeli Jews (except for the ultra-Orthodox), this should remain
true today. http://www1.cbs.gov.il/www/statistical/arab_pop03e.pdf.
18. In 1998 the Knesset passed the Jerusalem Day Law, which legally enshrined Jeru-
salem Day as a national holiday; since 1968 it had been a symbolic holiday. http://www.
knesset.gov.il/holidays/eng/jer_intro.htm.
19. “Israeli Settler Population 1972–2006,” chart in the Settlement database, Foun-
dation for Middle East Peace, http://legacy.fmep.org/settlement_info/stats_data/set-
tler_populations/Israeli_settler_population_in_occupied_territories.html.
20. Israeli domination of the Palestinian productive sector continues in 2010, and a
recent (February 2010) report documents that Israel deducted more than NIS 8.3 billion
from the wages of Palestinian workers for social benefits they never received, and for
promoting the Israeli construction sector (Zohar and Hever 2010). For more on this
subject, see Shir Hever, “Economy of the Occupation,” Alternative Information Center,
http://www.alternativenews.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=category&id=1
72&Itemid=131.
21. Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin changed this legislation only after the signing of the
Oslo Accords.
22. Palestinian activists in the first intifada were not seeking destruction or elimina-
tion of Jews or the State of Israel but rather accepted the idea of a two-state solution,
which was a radical departure from earlier Palestinian insistence on a single, binational
state on all of mandate Palestine.
23. For instance, Ariel Sharon was known as the Father of the Settlements, and in 1988
he bought an apartment in the heart of the Old City’s Muslim Quarter to signify Israeli
control of all of Jerusalem.
24. “Clinton Parameters,” http://www.fmep.org/documents/clinton_parameters12–23
–00.html; “Barak’s Generous Offers,” http://gush-shalom.org/archives/offers.doc.
25. B'Tselem Web site, http://www.btselem.org/english/Statistics/Casualties.asp.
Chapter 3. Interrogating “Peace” and “Nonviolence” in the Israeli-

Palestinian Context
1. For more on the strengths and weaknesses of the PBC, especially as related to the
integration of local civil society actors, see Journal of Peacebuilding and Development 4,
no. 2 (2008), special issue on the UN Peacebuilding Commission.
2. One part of reconfiguring power relations (a key element in nonviolent struggle)
is raising awareness about existing power imbalances and injustice resulting from struc-
tural violence that contributes to actual and potential violent conflict. For a graphical
depiction that includes these concepts, see figure “The Progression of Conflict,” in Led-
erach (1995: 13).
3. For more on the differences between strategic and philosophical approaches to
nonviolent activism, particularly within and across Israeli and Palestinian societies, see
Halper (2010).
4. I heard this from Palestinians living in Nablus or with relatives living in Nablus as
well as from an Israeli spokesperson for the Israeli Defense Force (IDF) giving a briefing
and tour of the security fence to a predominantly American Jewish student audience.
The spokesperson assured the group that Israel was taking “offensive measures” almost
every night in areas like Nablus.
5. The Israeli feminist organization New Profile has done an excellent job document-
ing the myriad influences of militarism on Israeli culture and society in its exhibit com-
prised of advertisements collected from magazines, lessons in schoolbooks, and other
everyday media. See their Web site at http://www.newprofile.org.
6. The relationship between the Israeli military and the settler movement is quite
complex, and different military units interact with radical settlers differently. For more
on the settler movement and its connection to Israeli state and military institutions, see
Zertal and Eldar (2007); and Gradstein (2008b). On the many actions I observed in the
West Bank, the military did generally side with the settlers. Although some units were
torn in their responsibility to both the Israeli activists and the settler population, many
saw the activists as being provocative and therefore at fault. Soldiers did tend to treat
Palestinian populations differently when Israeli activists were present to mediate.
7. Flying checkpoints are temporary, usually consisting of a military jeep or two, set
up in strategic locations for a few minutes to a few hours to selectively check cars and
IDs.
8. This incident—which resulted in the bombing of the Palestinian police station in
Ramallah—was highly publicized and broadcast internationally. The Israelis were found
in the midst of a highly emotive funeral procession for a Palestinian who had been killed
by Israeli settlers. For more on the incident see Abukhater and Miller (2000); and Asser
(2000).
Chapter 4. Peacebuilding as Process

1. The Palestinian Authority has only limited self-rule in noncontiguous “bantustans”
or enclaves, with borders, airspace, and tax income (among other things) controlled by
Israel; it does not govern the millions of Palestinian refugees outside of the West Bank
and Gaza Strip, many of whom are stateless. Israel has no defined state borders and is
home to all Jews everywhere in the world, rather than a population living in a defined
territory. For more discussion of this topic, see Hallward (2010).
2. Lisa Hajjar (2005) also argues that even though Palestinians criticize Israel for not
abiding by international law, Israel goes to considerable effort to portray its actions as
consistent with international law, thereby demonstrating the significance of these norms.
3. In part, peacebuilding is long-term work, and it is difficult to see systemic changes
in the short period of research. Furthermore, even the most successful groups were not
engaged in what Sharp would consider a mass strategic mobilization. I return, however,
to Sharp’s mechanisms of change in the book’s conclusion when evaluating group impact.
4. While I do not suggest that the activities of the groups studied here constitute a
full-scale mobilization, they were mobilized relative to the moribund official and civil
society efforts at the time of research.
5. Michael Barnett, “Building a Republican Peace: Stabilizing States after War,” Inter-
national Security 30, no. 4 (2006): 87–112.
6. What is right or good of course is contextually dependent as it is partially a func-
tion of culture and what is deemed legitimate authority. The basic mechanism works the
same way regardless of how “good” is defined.
7. Not all nonviolent activists are pacifists, and many use nonviolent methods for
strategic (as opposed to moral) reasons, for example, if they lack the capacity to respond
effectively using the force of arms.
8. I use “radical” to distinguish those groups of ideologically motivated settlers who
often use violence against unarmed Palestinians (as well as Israeli activists and Israeli
soldiers) from settlers living in the occupied territories primarily for economic reasons
and those who do not engage in direct violence.
9. In 2004–2005 Israel had not yet withdrawn settlements from the Gaza Strip; even
in 2008 many groups still identified Gaza as occupied given that Israel controlled all of
its entry and exit points. Groups and individuals differed in terms of what was meant by
occupation, and the parameters of any possible withdrawal.
10. Matzpen split off from the Israeli Communist Party, was anti-Zionist, and was ex-
plicitly antioccupation after 1967. For more on the history and principles of Matzpen, see
http://www.matzpen.org/index.asp?p=140. See also the film Matzpen by Eran Torbiner.
11. As a result of its views, the AIC is often identified as the “extreme Left” or “radical
Left” within Israel.
12. Many donors funded joint projects during the Oslo era in an assumption that
such activities would build peace through people-to-people contact. However, as
Connie Hackbarth, director of the AIC, stated repeatedly in presentations to visiting
groups, most of the new organizations created as a result did not share power and
decision-making responsibilities equally, and no strong relationship existed between
the parties to ensure the continuance of the relationship once the political situation
became challenging or funding became an issue.
13. Here I use the term “illegal” as defined by the Israeli government, which has the
power to set domestic law. AIC activists and others would challenge this definition.
14. The term “international” is often used in the context of Israeli-Palestinian activism
to denote those present (for work, activism, travel, or study) who have citizenship from
a third country and who generally lack either a Palestinian huwwiya (identity card) or
Israeli citizenship. Internationals may also include Jewish or Palestinian citizens of third-
party countries.
15. For a more in-depth account of the founding of Machsom Watch and an insider’s
view of the organization and its struggles, see Checkpoint Watch (Keshet 2005), written
by one of the three founding women.
16. The Container checkpoint is located east of Jerusalem in Wadi Nar and is the main
Palestinian connection point to the southern West Bank (Bethlehem and Hebron areas).
17. As is discussed in later chapters, by 2008 group membership had shrunk consider-
ably and groups were smaller and did not necessarily frequent as many checkpoints.
18. For example, those observing Qalandia checkpoint would also observe the a-Ram
checkpoint for a period of time, and those going to the Abu Dis area would observe al-
Bawabeh as well as Container and a few other spots in the area depending on the group
and the day’s events.
19. During 2004–2005, for example, there was a debate as to whether it was okay for
the Watchers to bring cookies to the soldiers on duty (many of the women had children
currently or previously serving in the army). This outraged the more political activists.
20. Yesh Din seeks “long-term structural improvement in the human rights situation
in the OPT (Occupied Palestinian Territories),” not only documenting abuses but also
“applying public and legal pressures on government agencies.” http://www.yesh-din.org/
site/index.php?page=about.us&lang=en.
21. In 1967 Jerusalem unilaterally annexed parts of more than twenty surrounding
Palestinian villages, dramatically expanding what had been considered East Jerusalem
under the Jordanians and British. Thus, Palestinians families live intermingled, with dif-
ferent color ID cards, on either side of the barrier built by Israel.
22. The general idea is that you may act differently if your grandmother is watching
you than if you are unobserved.
23. The Wisconsin plan (officially Me-ha-Lev, “From the Heart”) was approved by
the government in 2003 (implemented in 2005) to privatize social services and eliminate
welfare. Its name comes from the policies used in the mid-1990s in Wisconsin, U.S.A.
24. Sabeel particularly targets church communities because of the role particular in-
terpretations of Christianity play in perpetuating the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, as well
as the feeling of abandonment Palestinian Christians often feel vis-à-vis their fellow
Christians.
25. Like RHR, Sabeel emphasizes that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not a religious
conflict between Jews and Muslims, as it is often portrayed, but rather a political conflict
in which religion gets used to fuel the flames and create lines distinguishing “self ” from
(enemy) Other.
26. This was said by one of the Palestinian citizens of Israel whom I interviewed in
Kfar Qasem (2004). The Arabic phrase literally means “What is this? What happened to
the [Israeli political] Left?”
27. As one Israeli noted, this can require overcoming cultural differences and being
willing to slow down the pace of work by accepting that cup of tea rather than impa-
tiently focusing solely on tasks.
28. The kipa, or yarmulke, is the head covering worn by practicing Jewish men. The
more radical settlers who have committed acts of violence against Palestinian farmers—
razing crops, uprooting trees, destroying property—tend to wear a “knitted kipa” (Zertal
and Eldar 2007).
29. The film can be ordered for free from the Foundation for Middle East Peace.
It is also available for on-line viewing at http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-
5019069779131312650#.
30. It is virtually impossible for Palestinians to receive building permits from the
Israeli government. Thus, many build illegally due to lack of options, in which case Israel
can demolish the home for having been built without a permit. For more on the issue see
the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolition’s Web site, www.icahd.org. Palestinian
homes are also demolished for other reasons, for example, as punishment for family
members who have committed acts of violence.
31. A number of Sabeel board members have been engaged in systematic nonviolent
action throughout their personal and professional lives. Zogby Zogby, for example, di-
rects the Wi'am Palestinian Conflict Resolution Center (see http://www.alaslah.org/);
and Jean Zaru, clerk of the Ramallah Friends Meeting, documents some of her own
nonviolent resistance in a recent book (Zaru 2008).
32. Israelis are prohibited from entering Area A for “security reasons,” to protect them
from Palestinian violence (as Israel has security control in B areas and full control in C
areas), although, as several Israeli activists noted, the pretense of Palestinian control in
areas A and B was shattered after the 2002 reinvasion.
33. The United States gives Israel, a developed, industrialized economy, nearly $3
billion in grants each year, making it the largest recipient of U.S. foreign aid; U.S. grants
comprise 20 percent of Israel’s annual military budget. According to the Congressional
Research Service, “U.S. military aid has helped transform Israel’s armed forces into one
of the most technologically sophisticated militaries in the world” (Sharp 2008: 1).
34. Weekly demonstrations against the proposed route of the separation barrier in
the village of Bil'in began in February 2005 and continued through the time of writ-
ing in February 2009. Although the demonstrations often end up in violent exchanges
(sometimes due to rock throwing, sometimes due to Israeli firing of tear gas or even live
ammunition), they begin as nonviolent protests. For more on the struggle in Bil'in, see
Hallward (2009).
35. This kind of imagery was used (in separate interviews) by a number of Ta'ayush
activists, including one by a young woman who had recently immigrated from Russia
with a very different set of political views.
36. Yesh Din goes out to Palestinian villages and spends extended periods of time
listening to stories and documenting cases of rights violations in order to have evidence
to bring to Israeli courts on behalf of Palestinians or to use for lobbying Knesset officials
regarding specific policies.
37. Many Palestinians call joint initiatives, partnerships, or other relationships with
Israelis “normalization” and are critical of such activities, saying that not only do they
ignore the “abnormal” and unjust situation of the Israeli occupation and the asymmetry
between the parties in terms of military, political, and economic might, but they also risk
positing an acceptance and legitimation of such circumstances as normal.
38. For more on these divisions and the activities of Machsom Watch activists, see
Hallward (2008a).
39. Although these groups were independent of al Mubadara, a number of activists
explained that they first learned about the organization through their participation in
these emergency response teams.
40. Given that all Israelis (Palestinian citizens and ultra-Orthodox Jews aside) are
required to serve in the Israeli military, the relationship between Israeli Jewish activ-
ist civilians and the military starts from a different point than the divide described by
Helvey, which more accurately depicts the relationship between the Israeli military and
Palestinian civilians. Other Israeli groups, like Breaking the Silence, and the Shministim
movement of young Israeli refusers also worked to undermine unquestioning military
support for Israeli policies that harmed Israeli democracy and contributed to increased
violence.
41. Such differences contributed to dramatically different Palestinian views of Mach-
som Watch as an organization; Ta'ayush had a much more coherent organizational face.
Chapter 5. Identity in Action

1. I use the term “group” somewhat loosely, given that the boundaries of activist orga-
nizations are fuzzy and contested. Not only do many activists belong to multiple groups,
some groups like Ta'ayush have no clearly defined membership. Thus, I use “group” to
signify the social space in which activism occurs since the group itself does not act as
one. My primary focus here is on the boundaries separating the various categories used
to define “Israeli” and “Palestinian” and their respective territories. Many of the groups
also go on speaking tours or attend conferences in other parts of the world, but that type
of activity is beyond the scope of this study.
2. The AIC does regularly have international interns, mostly from Europe, who are
able to travel back and forth between the two offices due to their foreign passports. Dur-
ing the time of my research, there were two international staff members based in Beit
Sahour and three in Jerusalem.
3. While this is still a somewhat problematic construction, as it implies that the Is-
raelis “give” power to the Palestinians, thereby reproducing the power dynamic the AIC
members are trying to get out of, it is illustrative of the challenges binational organiza-
tions face in terms of negotiating the different resources available to Palestinians and
Israelis. Of course, I am also avoiding here the issue of how this all plays out in actual
meetings in my effort to analytically freeze the situation.
4. See Daphna Golan-Agnon’s book Next Year in Jerusalem (2005) for a recounting
of the challenge an Israeli-Palestinian women’s coalition had in planning an event in
Jerusalem. Words like “shared” and “joint,” or Jerusalem itself (the [aspirational] capital
of both peoples) are controversial in each society, as Israelis speak of a “united Jerusalem”
and shudder at the thought of dividing the city, and Palestinians recognize the problems
of “joint” if there is not equal power and a separate political and cultural authority.
5. Israeli public transport to Bethlehem is restricted to the nascent settlement of Ra-
chel’s Tomb, and there is not a regular bus. Palestinian transport to Bethlehem basically
stops at dark. On several nightly excursions to Bethlehem I ended up having to walk
halfway back to Jerusalem before I could even find a cab willing to pick me up.
6. I call this the code of ethics project because that is what the working group called
it in everyday discourse and correspondence. However, the official name and goal of
the project was a source of extensive debate, which exceeds the scope of this chapter;
the final UNESCO report was entitled “Guiding Principles for Dialogue and Coopera-
tion.”
7. The seam line refers to Route 1, the major artery that moves north from the Old City
and heads toward Sheikh Jarrah, French Hill, and so on. This area marks the Green Line
boundary from 1949 to 1967. Although Jewish settlement activity and the Israeli govern-
ment’s intentional erasure of formal boundary distinctions have lessened the extent to
which this seam can be seen by a first-time visitor, one wandering the streets can quickly
sense the difference between the neighborhoods, municipal services, language, and so
on on the western and eastern sides of this seam.
8. Shu'afat, technically part of East Jerusalem, was a Palestinian village prior to the
1967 war. Much of its land was taken by Israel for the building of French Hill, one of the
first Israeli settlements in Jerusalem, and the Shu'afat refugee camp is housed on other
village lands.
9. Similarly, West Jerusalem is like another world to many Palestinians from the West
Bank, although Palestinians tend to have more knowledge of Israeli society than Israe-
lis do of Palestinian society, if only from watching Israeli TV. When I was teaching in
Ramallah, my students would go to Jerusalem at any opportunity to go to the fast food
restaurants like McDonalds, go to the movies, go bowling, and hang out at the mall
because there were not similar recreational opportunities at home. During the course of
my research, however, Palestinian travel became much more restricted, and few of my
informants, even those living in East Jerusalem, went into West Jerusalem regularly (if at
all). The higher cost of goods and services combined with the periodic ID checks at the
top of the hill separating East from West Jerusalem made the cost of the trip too great.
10. While Ta'ayush is an Israeli organization, there is no “Israeli” nationality; ID cards
are marked “Jewish” or “Arab” or “Druze.”
11. For a good color map showing the complexity of the boundaries (Green Line,
separation barrier route, municipal boundaries), see B'Tselem’s map “The Separation
Barrier—Jerusalem Area,” dated September 2005. http://www.btselem.org/Download/
Jerusalem_Separation_Barrier_Eng.pdf.
12. Ta'ayush activists cannot enter the Palestinian areas of Gaza and have not had any
activity there as a result. They did once have a spontaneous demonstration outside of the
Eretz checkpoint, but that is as far as they got; they were still on Israeli soil.
13. Indeed, on this particular visit thirty of the forty of us who traveled to Hebron
were arrested. I was part of a small group of ten who managed to sneak past the soldiers
and settlers in order to visit the Palestinian families living on Tel Rumeida, besieged by
the violent, radically ideological settlers expanding their presence there. A fuller ac-
count of this journey can be found in “The Threat of Solidarity,” http://www.kibush.co.il/
show_file.asp?num=3317.
14. The road’s expansion coincides with sociopolitical events, as the late 1980s saw
the first intifada, and Israeli fear of entering the West Bank; 1995 was the Oslo era when
settlement construction increased dramatically and bypass roads were introduced; and
2002 was the height of the second intifada and the beginning of the construction of the
separation barrier. With their own new, improved road to Jericho, Israelis were not af-
fected by the cutting off of the old (Palestinian) route.
15. By 2008 this same phenomenon was also increasingly present in East Jerusalem
neighborhoods like Silwan and Sheikh Jarrah.
16. Private settler security forces and Israeli military forces do not always allow Jewish
“leftists” into Hebron because they might “provoke” the tenuous calm with the settlers.
As is evident here, Israeli peace activists do not always recognize the boundaries of eth-
nopolitical division dividing the populace.
17. This is just one of many ways that the United States is involved in the broader
structure of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, financing projects “as part of its ongoing
support for the peace process between Israelis and Palestinians.” For a full listing of the
U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) activities in Hebron as part of the
Protocol Concerning the Redeployment in Hebron, see the text of the minute on the
Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs Web site, http://www.mfa.gov.il/MFA/Peace+Process/
Guide+to+the+Peace+Process/Agreed+Minute+-Hebron+Protocol-.htm.
18. Most of the settlers in Hebron either work in Jerusalem or they are full-time ye-
shiva students and do not have paid employment.
19. Jerusalem-based activists in general tended to be more intense or radical due to
the very different situation in the city and its practically (and legally, according to inter-
national law) divided (Arab East versus Jewish West) but technically united (according
to Israel) status. On many occasions Israeli activists told me they would never choose to
live in Jerusalem.
20. Even this latter more political orientation is severely criticized by some Palestin-
ian activists who see such friendships as perpetuating cycles of inequality since the rela-
tionship between consumer and vendor is economically, politically, and socially asym-
metrical.
21. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is where Catholic and Orthodox branches of
Christianity believe Jesus was crucified and raised from the dead. Many different reli-
gious denominations share the space (or argue over it), to the extent that use of the space
is timed to the minute and fights have been known to break out. A Muslim family holds
the key to the building as none of the Christians trust each other. Christmas and Easter
are celebrated on a variety of different dates—Orthodox, Catholic, Coptic, Armenian—
although in the West Bank most Christians, due to their small numbers, have agreed to
celebrate Western Christmas and Eastern Easter.
22. This is discussed more in later chapters, as Sabeel’s call for “morally responsible
investment” was issued only in the latter part of my 2004–2005 fieldwork and received
more of a focus in the years that followed.
Chapter 6. “We’ve Lost This Round”

1. Most Palestinians voted against Fateh (largely for reasons of corruption and domes-
tic mismanagement) rather than for Hamas, which ran on a platform of domestic reform.
For more on the election of Hamas and what it signified in terms of domestic Palestinian
issues as well as Israeli-Palestinian relations, see Aysha (2006); Usher (2006); and Zweiri
(2006).
2. Conflict escalated in Gaza in June 2006 after Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit was kid-
napped from an army outpost near the Egyptian border. In retaliation, Israel moved
tanks into Gaza and bombed the only power station in Gaza (which provided power
to 42 percent of the population), leading to a lack of power, water, and refrigeration for
months. Israeli planes also destroyed three bridges, thereby severing connections be-
tween Gazan cities (Erlanger 2006; Fisher and Erlanger 2006). The 2007 Hamas takeover
resulted from internal fighting due in part to a U.S.-supported coup attempt by Fateh
(Rose 2008).
3. Under Prime Minister Barak, Israel unilaterally withdrew from Lebanon in 2000.
The Summer War between Hezbollah and Israel in July 2006 involved rocket fire on
many towns and cities in northern Israel.
4. In fact, fighting had begun before 1948, and half of all Palestinian villages de-
populated during the course of the war were actually evicted before Israel’s declaration
of independence (Morris 1999: 191–214; Tolan 2006; Qumsiyeh 2009).
5. In a discussion on the progression of Israeli discourse and policy strategy on Gaza
from 1967 to present, Darryl Li describes the transition as one “from Bantustan to intern-
ment camp to animal pen” (Li 2008).
6. The United States had been dismissed as an honest broker by most Palestinians
due to the special relationship between Israel and the United States. Furthermore, the
Clinton administration blamed Arafat for the failure of Camp David II, and President
George W. Bush all but promised Israel continued control over settlement blocs in an
April 2004 letter.
7. The Shebaa Farms region was one area that was left unresolved in the wake of Is-
rael’s unilateral pullout in 2000. The border raid in July 2006 did not occur in this region,
which made it all the more provocative.
8. The August 3, 2006, edition of Common Ground News Service (www.common-
groundnews.org), for example, includes pieces from former U.S. national security advi-
sor Brent Scowcroft, Israeli author David Grossman, former Lebanese prime minister
Michel Aoun, and HRH El Hassan bin Talal of Jordan, all calling for substantive peace
negotiations.
9. At the time, Israel was engaged in indirect negotiations with Hamas for the release
of Gilad Shalit.
10. I use the term “activists” here to include all of those involved in nonviolent efforts
for a just, lasting, and secure peace, regardless of whether that work takes the form of
protest activity or NGO programming.
11. Blair’s “progress” was noted primarily in terms of four roadblocks (one of which
was merely relocated) that, while blocking Palestinian freedom of movement, are not the
massive, staffed checkpoints that most Palestinians point to as humiliating and as stifling
their ability to maintain an economic life (Ravid 2008).
12. An OCHA report for the period during which I conducted my interviews con-
firmed the removal of the one staffed checkpoint and additional removal of one hundred
unstaffed obstacles, only twenty-five of which were “significant” and had limited impact
(OCHA 2008b).
13. Machsom Watch women were already speaking ironically of “improvements” in
2004–2005, but this cynicism was even more noticeable in 2008. They were particularly
irritated with the use of the term “humanitarian” as they emphasized there was noth-
ing humanitarian about the checkpoint system, which they see as a violation of human
rights. Not only does the interaction cause humiliation and discomfort, but it disrupts
the Palestinian economy, school system, and health care delivery and breaks up families.
14. Much of this activity took place in Jewish settlements of East Jerusalem and in-
tensified after the Annapolis talks in November, with the vast majority (747) of the 2007
tenders being issued in December (Lazaroff 2008). This has led to further disillusion-
ment with peace.
15. Bil'in and other villages have used a variety of legal mechanisms along with
direct action in their struggle against the separation barrier (Eldar 2008a; Hallward
2009). For more on the rulings of the Supreme Court, see the Web site of the Village of
Bil’in, for example, http://www.bilin-village.org/english/articles/press-and-independent-
media/Thanks-to-the-Cowardly-High-Court.
16. Tarabut will be discussed more as an organization in chapters 7 and 8. The orga-
nization, although different in strategies and aims, has been seen by some as a successor
to Ta'ayush, which was largely defunct by 2008.
17. The conference program and selected papers are available for download from the
Center for Democracy and Community Development’s Web site, http://www.bringing-
peacetogether.org/default.asp?mode=page&pageID=22 (cited January 5, 2009).
18. The group, Shovrim Shtika in Hebrew, consists of Israeli soldiers who served in
Hebron and have published testimonies regarding their activities there. Most of the
group’s members are not pacifists or opposed to army service, but they are concerned
about the extreme immorality of some of the actions routinely committed by the military
(especially in Hebron) and what impact that might have on Israeli society. More infor-
mation about the group can be found on their Web site, http://www.shovrimshtika.org/
about_e.asp.
19. The boycott movement is discussed in more depth in chapter 8. Some Israelis have
participated in the boycott movement, although the general trend has been for Israeli
groups to boycott settlement products only. The Gush Shalom settlement boycott Web
site is one example: http://zope.gush-shalom.org/home/en/campaigns/boycott_settle-
ments_products/. However, in recent years, some Israelis have called for a more inclusive
boycott, divestment, and sanctions movement (BDS) to force Israel into compliance with
international law (Klein 2009).
20. By “direction” I do not mean necessarily a linear one. For example, the direction
of Ta'ayush’s action was often in the forging of bonds of solidarity and shared identity, or
in demonstrating the power of heterogeneity in confusing the military.
21. This particular activist argued that such nonviolent mobilization could not come
from Israeli groups, although Israeli groups could support the Palestinian leadership of
such a mobilization. He suggested that the entrenched system of the occupation makes
it difficult for change to come from the inside.
Chapter 7. Mechanisms of Reconfiguration

1. This is not to say that groups in 2004–2005 did not pay attention to internal socio-
political dynamics, but rather that these dynamics were studied only insomuch as they
directly related to international (cross-boundary) issues, such as the concern of Israeli
activists in the Bringing Peace Together group meetings in 2004–2005 regarding the fate
of Israeli democratic institutions in the lead-up to the Gaza disengagement. Ta'ayush
worked on issues both inside Israel and within the Palestinian Territories, but its work
within Israel dealt primarily with Palestinian citizens of Israel (Israeli Arabs) in unrec-
ognized villages or in mixed cities like Ramleh or Haifa who were targeted with home
demolitions. Neither of these groups worked on specifically socioeconomic issues affect-
ing non-Palestinian populations. The exception was Rabbis for Human Rights, which
already had a significant program focusing on economic justice in 2004–2005.
2. I place “within” and “internal” inside quotation marks because the boundaries of
Israeli and Palestinian society are contested and not uniform. In particular, the “place”
of the Mizrahi (Arab/Oriental) Jews and the Palestinian citizens of Israel (Israeli Arabs
or ’48 Palestinians) varies according to the context and the particular set of boundaries
to which the speaker belongs.
3. Although religiously based parties are increasingly powerful within Israel and the
Islamist movement Hamas won the Palestinian parliamentary elections in 2006, the
conflict is generally still discussed in secular terms through the lenses of nationalism
and territory. This avoidance of religion is problematic, however, since Israel’s identity
as a Jewish state is a core requirement for any final peace agreement (even a precondi-
tion for negotiations), and many scholars and policy makers argue that Hamas must be
included to prevent it from continuing as a spoiler. Most politicians and negotiators are
fearful of any shift in conflict parameters to religious terms as that shifts the conflict to
the irrational, metaphysical realm and away from traditional diplomatic techniques. For
more on the role of religion in the conflict, see Gopin (2002); and Landau (2003).
4. By “national” boundaries here I refer primarily to Israeli and Palestinian national
(in terms of identity, not territory) boundaries. These boundaries are blurry and con-
tingent, depending on the context and the particular people involved in the boundary
making, as in certain instances the Mizrahi might be bounded out of the Israeli Jewish
mainstream, whereas at other times, they are clearly bounded in and the Palestinian
citizens of Israel are bounded out.
5. Two of the active groups regularly cited by informants during my 2008 visit in-
cluded Combatants for Peace (http://www.combatantsforpeace.org/) and the Bereaved
Families Forum (http://www.theparentscircle.com/). I did not have the opportunity to
interview members from these groups, although I met with them on a 2006 visit.
6. Interestingly enough, two of the groups in my study—Rabbis for Human Rights
and Sabeel—do explicitly link the religious and the secular as well as the political and
the social. These two organizations are relatively unique, however, within Israeli and
Palestinian activism.
7. Yoram Meital (2006) argues, for instance, that while Israelis are quick to point out
the domestic challenges facing any Israeli negotiating team, they do not recognize the
domestic challenges facing their Palestinian counterparts.
8. The weekly mailings began after the 2004–2005 research period.
9. The Wisconsin Plan is a work-for-welfare program passed by the Israeli Knesset in
2004. It was based on the welfare reform program initiated by U.S. president Bill Clinton
in 1996. Unlike some of the other Israeli peace groups that support the Palestinian olive
harvest, RHR works with Palestinian farmers in high-friction areas throughout the ag-
ricultural year, providing support during plowing, pruning, and planting. These farmers
are required to have Israeli military presence (and are only granted a few days) in order
to access their fields, due to high rates of settler violence. RHR helps coordinate with
the IDF to ensure that the soldiers come, and maintains an Israeli and/or international
presence to help reduce the possibility of violence.
10. The same is true for hundreds of thousands of other Palestinians, based on Israel’s
1950 absentee property law. For more on the legal claims and activist statements on the
Israeli court ruling, see the 2008 European Parliament statement on the Al-Kurd fam-
ily, http://www.europarl.europa.eu/sides/getDoc.do?type=MOTION&reference=B6–
2008–0610&language=EL; and RHR’s commentary (2008b).
11. Such phrasing has been used repeatedly in e-mails from RHR regarding the plight
of the Al-Kurd family (RHR 2008).
12. For a number of reasons the term “secular” is imperfect in describing Israeli ac-
tivist groups, but it serves to distinguish them from openly religious ones like RHR
(Hallward 2008b).
13. While such rabbis can and do perform marriages, the marriages are not recog-
nized as legal under Israeli law. There is no option for a civil marriage in Israel, so those
Jews who are nonpracticing or who are non-Orthodox must either go abroad for their
wedding or must have an Orthodox wedding as well.
14. I did not observe the Wisconsin Plan activities directly in 2004–2005 as my focus
was activism around the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and my visit in 2008 was aimed at
following up on my 2004–2005 observations. It was only retrospectively, when examin-
ing the new directions of the AIC and Tarabut, that this project seemed groundbreaking
in terms of Israeli activism.
15. For more information on the issue of the Bedouin in the Negev and the Recogni-
tion Forum, see the Negev Coexistence Forum Web site, http://www.dukium.org/mod-
ules.php?name=Content&pa=showpage&pid=48.
16. The Black Panthers were a radical movement organized for the rights of the Ori-
ental Jewish population. See Hall-Cathala (1990).
17. Once Shabbat begins on Friday evening, observant Jews are to refrain from all
work (which includes, for example, driving, turning on lights, and cooking) until the end
of Shabbat Saturday night. In Israel, all buses and other public transport cease shortly be-
fore Shabbat begins. Tel Aviv has a reputation for being highly secular, and some public
transportation continues to operate despite Shabbat. In contrast with the RHR-related
activists from Jerusalem, some of whom were observant, none of the Tel Avivis were.
18. Of course, one could argue that one reason why few RHR members participate is
the concern for getting back in time for Shabbat.
Chapter 8. Operating with Distinction

1. For more on the political circumstances surrounding the Annapolis Conference
and views on the viability of a “shelf agreement,” see the four differing views in “Suppose
a Peace Agreement Is Reached,” Bitterlemons, August 11, 2008. http://www.bitterlemons.
org/previous/bl110808ed30.html.
2. Israeli Defense Force; many Palestinians refer to it as the “IOF” or Israeli Occupa-
tion Force.
3. For more on the academic boycott and its rationale, as well as for examples of the
Israeli treatment of Palestinian students, see the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic
and Cultural Boycott of Israel, http://www.pacbi.org/about.htm, as well as Birzeit Uni-
versity’s Right to Education Campaign at http://right2edu.birzeit.edu/news/catindex28.
Palestinian students with Israeli citizenship also face challenges in the Israeli education
system. For example, the chairman of the Arab Student Union at Hebrew University was
detained and had his ID confiscated in November 2008 for refusing to shake the hand of
Israeli president Shimon Peres, who was visiting campus.
4. For more on the BDS movement, its rationale, and its various campaigns, see The
Big (Boycott Israeli Goods) Campaign Web site, www.bigcampaign.org.
5. Every time the women used the word “humanitarian,” they did so with a sense of
irony or even scorn, often adding commentary such as “as if there is anything ‘humane’
here.” They also pointed out a trailer that was supposed to be a humanitarian supply
center at the Huwarra checkpoint that has never been opened and is used for storing
military equipment.
6. This point differentiates the work of Machsom Watch, which focuses on obser-
vation, from accompaniment efforts in which international volunteers act as unarmed
bodyguards who often spend twenty-four hours a day with human rights activists
or other targeted communities to protect them from political violence (Mahony and
Eguren 1997: 1). While members of both groups observe and document human rights
abuses and seek to mobilize diplomatic pressure, accompaniers often take a principled
stand alongside those they accompany; furthermore, as foreign volunteers they often
cannot easily go home at the end of their shifts the way Watchers do.
Conclusion
1. Although this question is repeatedly posed, little coverage is given to Israel’s sys-
tematic arrest of Palestinian nonviolent activists in villages like Bil'in, who are seen as
“provocateurs” by the Israeli military. For more on this topic, see Jamal Dajani, “De-
porting Gandhi from Palestine,” http://www.linktv.org/mosaic/blog/post/404/deport-
ing-gandhi-from-palestine; and “Local Activists Targeted in Occupied Palestinian
Territories,” Amnesty International blog, http://blog.amnestyusa.org/iar/local-activists-
targeted-in-occupied-palestinian-territories/.
2. Israeli and Palestinian human rights activists who I interviewed on their strategies
for responding to this crisis expressed the challenge of finding accurate language for
describing this event. Most dismissed terms of war and used “intensified conflict” to
emphasize that conflict had been ongoing in Gaza.
3. For more on this story, see “All Things Considered,” National Public Radio, January
6, 2009, http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=99053041.
4. To some extent RHR actions were driven by the more radical executive director,
whose stances did not always reflect those of the board or other staff.
5. Bassem was unarmed, and the incident was captured on YouTube. For more on
Bassem and Bil'in’s struggle, see Arraf (2009); and Hallward (2009).
6. In the 1980s South African activists began a campaign of school, consumer, and
election boycotts. They also drew on a tradition of labor strikes against the apartheid
regime. The United Democratic Front (UDF) played a coordinating role as an umbrella
organization of about eight hundred organizations, and Cosatu brought together trade
unions; both were prohibited from action by the South African government (Gidron,
Katz, and Hasenfeld 2002: 70). An international movement for boycott, divestment, and
sanctions included student campaigns for university divestment, an Olympic ban, and
U.S. legislation banning investments in South Africa as well as a number of South Afri-
can imports.
7. French activists brought a lawsuit against Veolia in a French court for violations of
international law. The company was also losing contracts in other European cities due to
its involvement in the project. For more, see coverage in the Israeli daily Haaretz, http://
www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1091186.html.
8. For example, Hamas’ statements issued after their 2006 election offered several
openings for diplomacy. In contrast, Israeli prime minister Netanyahu’s much-heralded
June 2009 speech in which he “endorsed” a Palestinian state stripped the word “state” of
all meaning and conditioned it on several problematic (for Palestinians) prerequisites.
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Index
Abbas, Mahmoud, 154, 164 Arab League Peace Initiative, 156, 161, 164, 205
Abbott, Andrew, 201 Arab nationalism, 27–30, 32, 36
Abu Dis, 77, 125 Arab solidarity, 190
Abu Rahme, Bassem, 235 Arafat, Yasser, 24, 47, 224, 241n12; first intifada
academic boycotts, 82, 211, 235, 257n3 and, 40; Oslo Accords and, 42, 45; Six Day
activist burnout, 158, 161, 165, 186–188 War and, 36
al-Aqsa intifada. See second intifada Ascherman, Arik, 83, 96, 175, 194
Allon Plan, 37 asymmetrical power, 71, 214, 233, 249n37;
Alternative Information Center (AIC), 75–76, economic, 210; nonviolent struggle and,
103, 108–112, 181–186; alternative media 51–53, 245n2
and, 227–229; Annapolis Conference and, Ateek, Naim, 84
162; awareness-raising activities of, 93, Augusta Victoria Hospital, 123
167–169, 229; as binational group, 157; café, awareness raising, 73, 74, 93–97, 103–104, 164,
168; category space of, 12; constructive 167–170, 212; Machsom Watch and, 78;
confrontation and, 98; demographics of, 13; reconfiguration and, 178
institution building and, 88–90, 172–173;
international community and, 233, 250n2; Balfour Declaration, 29–30
radicalism of, 232, 240n7; reconfiguration Barak, Ehud, 45
and, 178 Barghouti, Mustapha, 78–79, 99, 104–105, 162,
alternative media, 227–229 174, 215; presidential campaign of, 212–213
Ambassador Hotel, 113 Bedouins, 32, 130, 179, 196–197, 256n15
Anderson, Tristan, 25 Beit Sahour, 93
Annapolis Conference (2007), 25, 151, 156, Ben-Gurion, David, 32
161–163, 169; failure of, 176 Bereaved Families Forum, 255n5
annexation wall. See separation barrier Bernadotte, Count, 244n13
antinormalization, 61, 64, 206 Bethlehem, 24, 32, 112, 242n14
Arab Higher Committee, 31 Bil’in, 160, 173, 222, 235, 249n34, 254n15
Arabic (language), 65, 86, 91, 118–119; military Birzeit Solidarity Committee, 60
decrees in, 220 Blair, Tony, 159
Arab Israelis, 3–4, 9, 18–19, 25, 149, 239n5, boundaries, 100; contemporary activism and,
241n3; AIC work with, 183; changing role of, 201–202; Green Line as, 122–123; iden-
203; inequality of, 102; nonviolent resistance tity and, 146–147; relation to history, 28;
and, 101; Ta’ayush and, 117–118, 227, 254n1; sociopolitical challenges to, 139, 182. See also
uncomfortable position of, 156; War of geopolitical boundaries; identity boundaries
Independence and, 35 boundary crossing, 6, 199
Arab League, 34, 37, 238 boundary-focused research, 4–7, 17–25, 182
280 · Index
boundary formation, 201–202 Church of the Nativity, 112

boundary maintenance, 6, 107 civil disobedience, 51, 53–54, 88, 124, 146. See
boundary transcending, 107, 109, 132, 147, 180, also noncooperation; nonviolent resistance
221 civil society organizations, 80
Boutros-Ghali, Boutros, 49 Clinton, Bill, 45, 46
boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) code of ethics project, 81–82, 91–92, 103, 113,
strategies. See boycott campaigns 115, 231, 250n6
boycott campaigns, 171, 205–211, 221, 235–236, coexistence, 47, 58, 86, 116, 237
254n19, 258n6; of academic institutions, 82; cold war, 36, 70
of Hamas, 150–151, 153–154, 156 Combatants for Peace, 226, 255n5
Breaking the Silence, 170 Committee Confronting the Iron Fist, 60
Bringing Peace Together (BPT), 80–81, 91–92, conflict resolution, 2, 8, 51–52, 54, 70, 242n18
113–115, 157, 211–212, 223; Annapolis Process constructive confrontation, 74, 98–102,
and, 162–163; awareness-raising activities 103–104, 173–176
of, 169; category space of, 12; institution consumer boycotts, 235. See also boycott
building and, 173; political institutionaliza- campaigns
tion of, 214–215, 230; reconfiguration and, Container checkpoint, 78, 133, 247n16
178 Contemporary Way of the Cross, 97, 139, 169,
British Mandate, 27 201
B’Tselem, 41, 60, 208, 230; as human rights Corrie, Rachel, 25
group, 58 cross-border partnerships, 172, 184, 188, 190,
building permits, 7, 128, 248n30 207; limitations of, 171, 227
Burqin, 199 cross-boundary work, 83, 188, 193, 197, 199
Bush, George W., 57 cultural differences, 3, 60, 109–111, 248n27
bypass roads, 22, 23–24, 121, 160, 225, 251n14; cultural festivals, 205, 210
effect on Palestinians of, 64; as physical bar-
riers, 128–130; territoriality and, 6 Damascus Gate, 15–16
Daqqaq, Ibrahim, 78
Camp David II Summit, 25, 45 Declaration of Principles (DoP), 42
Campos, Michelle, 3 Deir Yassin, 34
Canada, 146 demonstrations, 60, 79, 100, 118–119, 172–175,
Carmi, Nora, 85, 199 234–235; coordination of, 11, 64, 122, 161;
Carter, Jimmy, 25 first intifada and, 39–40; against home
category formation, 107, 140, 145, 148 demolitions, 175; against Lebanon war, 156;
Caterpillar, 235 against Operation Cast Lead, 177; second
Center for Democracy and Community Devel- intifada and, 46; against separation barrier,
opment, 215 98–99, 104, 120, 148, 249n34
checkpoints, 1, 125–126, 128–134, 216–219; development aid, 151
awareness raising and, 73, 93–95; construc- Dexia, 235
tive confrontation and, 102; human rights digital media, 227–228
and, 253n13; identity boundaries and, 20; disengagement, 67, 114, 151, 203. See also Gaza
institutionalization of, 151; Machsom Watch Disengagement Plan
and, 76–78; map of, 129; second intifada distinction mechanism, 164, 206–207, 221;
and, 62–63; terminal-style, 159–160; ter- boycott as, 207–211; Machsom Watch and,
ritoriality and, 6, 130, 218; in West Bank, 129, 215–220; politicization and, 211–215
144–145. See also Machsom Watch district coordinating offices (DCOs), 135
Christianity, 85, 97, 136, 200, 248n24. See also divestment campaigns, 207–208, 235. See also
religion boycott campaigns
Church of the Holy Sepulchre, 136, 252n21 “Don’t Say We Didn’t Know” series, 170
Index · 281
East Jerusalem, 15–17, 114, 123, 251n9; annexa- Hamas, 150–151, 177, 191, 213, 223, 258n8; boy-
tion of, 241n8, 248n21; home demolitions cott of, 153–154, 156, 205–206; conflict with
in, 175, 194–195; public transportation in, Fateh, 171, 203; dissatisfaction with, 143;
66; separation barrier and, 122; settlements election in Gaza of, 152–154, 252n1; exclu-
in, 251n8; Six Day War and, 37–38, 240n2 sion of, 163, 236–237; peacebuilding and,
Ecumenical Accompaniers, 168 238; use of religion by, 204, 255n3
ecumenism, 136 Hamoked, 208
emptiable space, 6–7 al Haq, 208
English (language), 86 Har Homa, 24, 120
environmental pollution, 237 Hebrew (language), 65, 86, 91, 118–119
equality, 89–90, 101, 103, 238 Hebron, 21, 43–45, 126–128; difficulties enter-
European Union, 176 ing, 170; settler-soldier confrontation in, 203
Hebron Protocol, 43
Falk, Richard, 69 Helvey, Robert, 53
Fateh, 36, 40, 143, 212–213, 223, 252n1; conflict Herzl, Theodor, 29
with Hamas, 154, 171, 203 Hezbollah, 155, 236, 253n3
first intifada, 39–42, 60, 145, 183, 228, 245n22; Hirchabrut-Tarabut. See Tarabut
nonviolent resistance in, 23, 46, 234 Holocaust, 32
flying checkpoints, 20, 62, 130, 246n7. See also home demolitions, 96, 98, 103, 175, 190–191,
checkpoints 194–195, 248n30
fragmentation, 150–151, 154, 171, 178, 180, 206; honor killings, 200
of peace movement, 157, 175, 233; of West humanitarian aid, 151
Bank, 6, 143–145, 158, 227 humanitarian orientation, 133–136, 219
French Hill, 20, 66 251n8, 240n7 human rights, 58, 60, 96–97; awareness rais-
Friends of Sabeel, 84, 198 ing and, 73, 169; boycotts and, 208–209;
checkpoint system and, 253n13; religion and,
Galtung, Johan, 114, 180 82–85, 142–143, 194–195, 197
Gaza Disengagement Plan, 67, 80, 114–115, 151–153 Human Rights Yeshiva, 142, 169
Gaza Strip, 93, 151–158, 166, 205, 227, 257n2; hunger strikes, 39
first intifada and, 39, 41; Israeli disengage- Hurndall, Tom, 25
ment from, 67, 80, 114–115, 151–153, 205;
Israeli invasion of, 69–70, 203, 237, 238, Ibrahim, Nassar, 163
252n2; War of Independence and, 35 identification cards, 18, 62–64, 108, 143, 203,
Geneva Accords, 115 241n4
geographies of affection, 16, 24, 66, 112 identity boundaries, 3–4, 17–20, 107, 255n4;
geopolitical boundaries, 107, 112, 146–147; checkpoints and, 126; geographical, 63–64,
transcending of, 132, 199, 201 146–147; language and, 118–119; territorial
Green Line, 4, 122–123, 241n8, 241n9; as conceptions of, 137–139
geographic boundary, 22; in Jerusalem, 35; identity definition, 149
maps of, 33, 44, 243n2; settlements and, 66; identity formation, 26, 193, 239n1
Six Day War and, 38 identity markers, 18–19, 61
Greninmann, Yehiel, 196–197, 207 identity narratives, 2–5
group processes, 102, 104, 230–231; successful, illegal outposts, 224
230–236 impersonal classification, 6–7, 120
Gush Emunim, 38, 204 inequality, 89, 99, 105, 185–186, 237; in Israeli
Gush Shalom, 89, 208, 254n19 society, 183; in joint projects, 5, 238; peace
agreements and, 71; structural, 106, 135;
Hackbarth, Connie, 89 violence and, 8
Halper, Jeff, 97 institutionalized separation, 205
282 · Index
institution building, 72–73, 80, 88–93, 103–104, 66–67; Sharon and, 245n23; Six Day War
164, 170–173; reconfiguration and, 178; and, 37–38
Ta’ayush and, 188 Jewish Voices for Peace (JVP), 208
interfaith dialogue, 139 joint industrial zones, 210, 222, 238
Interfaith Encounter Association (IEA), 193, joint projects, 68, 103, 117–119, 147–148, 179,
204, 240n8 190, 207, 224, 231, 250n4; academic disinter-
International Relations (IR), 3, 21, 69–70 est in, 82; Alternative Information Center
intifada. See first intifada; second intifada as, 75, 89, 108–111, 181, 184; boycott of, 171;
Israeli Arabs. See Arab Israelis difficulties in coordinating, 6, 61–62, 65, 113,
Israeli Coalition Against the Siege in Gaza, 150, 156–157, 187, 225; funding of, 247n12;
156, 171 language and, 91; limitations of, 56, 220–222;
Israeli Coalition of Women for Peace, 3–5, 120, normalization and, 249n37; reconfigura-
148, 239n2; awareness raising and, 73 tion and, 178; Ta’ayush and, 88, 90, 105, 116,
Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions 123–124, 186
(ICAHD), 194, 208 Jordanian option, 243n8
Israeli Declaration of Independence, 97. See Judaism, 85, 140–143, 195, 232; separation bar-
also Tractate Independence rier and, 96. See also religion
Israeli Defense Force (IDF), 34, 221–222,
249n40, 257n2; Arab Israelis and, 4; peace Kadima, 24–25
activists and, 59, 207; settlers and, 246n6 Karni crossing, 153
Israeli Left, 75, 114, 182, 189, 191, 196; Arab Kaufman, Edy, 81
Israelis and, 227; fragmentation of, 233; Kfar Aqab, 121
religion and, 193 Kfar Shalem, 190, 202
Israeli peace activists, 22–23; focus on separa- Khatib, Ghassan, 157
tion of, 59; fragmentation of, 157; IDF and, Kiryat Arba, 21, 127
59–60, 249n40; professional, 171. See also Koenig, Israel, 37
individual organizations al-Kurd family, 194–195
Izz el Din, Abu al Aish, 228, 230
language differences, 65, 91, 118–119. See also
Jerusalem, 15–17, 32, 112, 194–195, 251n9; an- Arabic (language); Hebrew (language)
nexations and, 248n21; contrasted with Law of Return, 35
Tel Aviv, 133–134; division of, 121–123; Lebanon, 146, 177, 253n3
Green Line in, 35; joint projects in, 147; Lebanon War of 2006, 59, 155, 157, 253n3
Oslo Accord and, 45; Palestinian residents legitimacy war, 69–70
of, 240n1; Panorama in, 113–114; Six Day Leibner, Gerardo, 191
War and, 37–38, 240n2. See also East liberation theology, 84
Jerusalem Lieberman, Avigdor, 19–20, 36
Jewish Agency, 32 Livni, Tzipi, 19
Jewish immigration, 29–32, 118
Jewish National Fund, 32 Machsom Watch, 76–78, 103, 125–136, 215–220,
Jewish settlements, 1, 129–131, 203, 237; 230, 257n6; awareness raising and, 73,
boycott of, 206–208, 211, 235, 254n19; in 93–95, 169–170; boycotts and, 207; category
East Jerusalem, 66, 251n8; expansion of, 24; space of, 12; demographics of, 13; divisions
Gaza disengagement and, 152; in Hebron, within, 101–102; frustration experienced by,
126–128; identity boundaries and, 20–21; 158–160; heterogeneity of, 231; humanitar-
joint industrial zones and, 222; map of, 129; ian vs political activity in, 133–136; identity
ongoing construction of, 150, 151, 160–161, definition and, 149; international commu-
178, 224; relationship with Israeli military, nity and, 233; orientation toward structural
246n6; settlers as Israeli citizens, 62–63, violence, 166–167
Index · 283
Manger Square, 112 movements as, 209, 235; constructive

Matzpen, 109, 247n10 confrontation as, 74, 98, 173–175; contrasted
Mifkad, 11, 215 with “peace,” 57, 164; during first intifada,
Mikado. See Warschawski, Michel 40–41; limitations of, 171, 222; Machsom
Milgrom, Jeremy, 96 Watch and, 77; during mandate period,
Miliband, David, 208 244n11; al Mubadara and, 229; obstacles
militarization, 65, 234 to, 156–157; outreach as, 146; pacifism and,
military refusal, 59–60, 152, 207, 221–222, 247n7; Sabeel and, 249n31; undermined by
240n11, 249n40 violence, 154
Mizrahi (Oriental) Jews, 31, 179–180, 183, normalization, 36, 89, 102, 109, 172, 185,
189–191, 202; Alternative Information Cen- 249n37; and antinormalization, 61, 64, 206
ter and, 185; Arab solidarity and, 229 Norway, 25
morally responsible investment, 207–208 Nu’aman, 120, 230
Morris, Benny, 34
Motorola, 235 object shift mechanism, 74
al Mubadara, 78–79, 103, 104–105, 143–146; cat- Officers’ Letter, 59
egory space of, 12; constructive confronta- olive harvests, 196
tion and, 98–100, 173–174; demographics of, Olmert, Ehud, 164, 171
13; institution building and, 173; internation- One Voice, 215
al community and, 233; nonviolent struggle Operation Cast Lead, 154–155, 177, 228, 237
of, 229; as political party, 212–215, 222–223, Operation Summer Rains, 154
229–230; success of, 231 Orr Commission, 62, 204
Oslo Accords, 25–26, 41, 42–45, 115; contending
Na’alin, 173 views of, 55–56; contrasted with Annapolis
Nablus, 47, 57, 113, 125, 246n4 Process, 162; failure of, 163; limitations of,
Nakba, 34–36, 152; commemoration of, 175, 226 236
Nasrallah, Hassan, 155 Ottoman Empire, 29
Nasser, Gamal Abdul, 36
national boundaries, 5, 9, 18, 21–22, 237, 243n7, pacifism, 53, 234, 247n7
255n4; identity and, 137–139; power inequal- Palestine, historical, 28
ity and, 185 Palestinian Campaign for the Academic and
national identity, 5–6, 19, 22, 48, 137–139; lan- Cultural Boycott of Israel (PACBI), 257n3
guage and, 118; military service and, 60, 234; Palestinian Christians, 199–200, 241n12,
territoriality and, 147 248n24
national liberation, 54, 106, 165 Palestinian citizens of Israel. See Arab Israelis
Netanyahu, Benjamin, 19, 45, 258n8 Palestinian Diaspora, 143–144, 146, 231
Newman, Isaac, 141 Palestinian economy, 24, 56–57, 166, 233,
New Profile, 234, 239n4 253n13; Gaza disengagement and, 150–153;
1967 War. See Six Day War Israeli control over, 162, 222
noncooperation, 40, 52, 54, 71, 75–76, 78, 98, Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), 37,
220; al Mubadara and, 79; Machsom Watch 40–41, 106, 145
and, 102; Rabbis for Human Rights and 175, Palestinian National Authority (PNA), 43, 145,
143, 83; Ta’ayush and, 88; travel as, 113, 147 154, 171; weakness of, 69–70, 158, 233, 246n1
nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), 183 Palestinian nationalism, 28, 32, 36
nonviolence, 52–54, 83, 85, 173–174; strategic, Panorama, 79–82, 103, 112–116, 149; category
39, 49, 74, 234–235, 247n17 space of, 12; constructive confrontation and,
nonviolent resistance, 8, 23, 51–54, 71–72, 98; demographics of, 13; institution building
102–104, 173–176, 234–235; of Arab Israelis, and, 88, 91
101; awareness-raising and, 245n2; boycott Pappé, Ilan, 34
284 · Index
peace, 85, 176, 221; conditions for, 166; con- activities of, 73, 95–97, 169; category space of,
tending views of, 54–56; discrediting of 12; constructive confrontation and, 98, 175;
term, 151, 164–167, 236; Israeli approach to, demographics of, 13; heterogeneity of, 231; as
58–60; obstacles to, 61–66; Palestinian per- human rights group, 58; identity definition
spective on, 56–58; positive vs. negative, 48; and, 149; international community and, 233;
structural, 180–181; terminology around, 49 radicalism of, 232; as religious organization,
peacebuilding, 7–14, 48–52, 70–71, 167–176, 204, 230; religious teachings of, 92
238; awareness raising as, 73, 93–97, 167–170; Rabin, Yitzhak, 42
challenges to, 105; constructive confronta- Ramallah, 24, 69, 144
tion as, 74, 98–102, 173–176; definition of, reciprocal violence, 237
242n18; goal of, 224; institution building as, Recognition Forum, 196
72–73, 88–93, 170–173; limitations of, 233, reconfiguration mechanism, 164, 178–179, 188,
246n3; nonviolent resistance and, 51–52; 206, 221; Alternative Information Center
pluralism and, 236; reconfiguration and, and, 181; religious groups and, 193; Ta’ayush
178–179; reevaluation of strategies for, 229; and, 188
relationship building and, 90, 93; religion refugees, 115, 144, 146
and, 92, 141, 193–201, 202–203; sociocul- relational power, 182
tural obstacles to, 64–66; successes of, 226; relationship building, 73, 80, 90, 93, 103, 105;
Ta’ayush’s approach to, 88, 90 religion and, 143; Sabeel and, 85
peacebuilding groups, 8, 26, 75, 107, 226, 236. religion, 9, 136–143, 181, 204; awareness raising
See also individual organizations and, 95–97; conflict and, 248n25; disentan-
Peace Now (Shalom Achshav), 42, 59, 91, 182; gled from conflict, 103; human rights and,
as Zionist Left, 191 82–85, 142–143, 230, 232; peacebuilding and,
Peel Commission, 31, 35 92, 193–201, 202–203; political parties and,
People’s Choice Campaign, 11, 215 255n3; sociopolitical issues and, 200
Performance-Based Roadmap for Peace. See religious peace groups, 81–84, 136–143;
Roadmap for Peace awareness-raising activities of, 95–96;
permit system, 132, 160, 222 identity definition and, 149. See also Rabbis
physical barriers, 61–64, 108; bypass roads as, for Human Rights (RHR); Sabeel Liberation
128, 130. See also checkpoints; separation Theology Center
barrier Rhodes Armistice Line. See Green Line
Physicians Against the Occupation, 60 Roadmap for Peace, 1, 25, 47, 115, 161–163, 236
Physicians for Human Rights, 169 rocket attacks, 151, 156
Pisgat Zeev, 20 Rosen, David, 92
place-clearing function, 6–7
pluralism, 106, 158, 236 Sabeel Liberation Theology Center, 9, 83,
political-activist orientation, 133–136, 219 84–85, 103, 104, 136–140, 193, 198–201, 202;
political parties, 24–25, 206, 211–215, 222–223, awareness-raising activities of, 95–97, 169;
228–230 boycott movement and, 207–208; category
power relationships, 139–140, 185–186, 221 space of, 12; constructive confrontation and,
prisoner releases, 157 98, 175; demographics of, 13; expansion of,
protests. See demonstrations 226; identity definition and, 149; interna-
public transportation, 66, 131–132, 250n5 tional community and, 233; nonviolent
resistance and, 249n31; relationship building
Qalandia checkpoint, 133, 160, 225 and, 93; as religious organization, 204, 230
Sack, Robert D., 6, 218
Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR), 9, 82–84, 103, Sagi, Michael, 130
104–105, 140–143, 193–198; awareness-raising Said, Edward, 78
Index · 285
Salem, Walid, 80–81, 113, 116, 171, 215 structural violence, 56, 166, 180, 245n2
sanctions, 53–54, 209–210; imposed on Hamas, suicide bombing, 16, 46, 66, 213, 234
153. See also boycott campaigns Summer War. See Lebanon War of 2006
Schirch, Lisa, 50–51 Syria, 36, 146, 236
Schlaim, Avi, 34, 155
Schnell, Izhak, 80, 176 Ta’ayush, 86–88, 104–106, 116–125, 186–188,
second intifada, 1, 45–47, 87; Arab Israelis and, 230, 254n1; as binational group, 157; category
19; checkpoints and, 62–63; Palestinian space of, 12; constructive confrontation and,
National Authority and, 145; peace activism 98–101; contrasted with Machsom Watch,
during, 68, 80, 188, 203–204, 226 232; demographics of, 13; disintegration of,
security fence. See separation barrier 165, 225; group processes of, 102; institution
Seeds of Peace, 2 building and, 88–90, 172; legacy of, 227,
separation barrier, 63–64, 67, 120–122, 237; 228–229; personalizing activities of, 148–149
changes in route of, 160–161; demonstra- Tarabut, 162, 188–192, 212, 223, 228–229, 233
tions against, 87, 103, 249n34, 254n15; Tel Aviv, 113–114, 256n17; contrasted with
finalization of, 150, 178; as geographic Jerusalem, 133–134
boundary, 22; identity boundaries and, 20; Temple Mount, 45–46
institutionalization of, 151; joint activism terminal-style checkpoints, 159–160, 216–217,
against, 147–148; Judaism and, 96; naming 225
of, 241n10; ongoing construction of, 171 territorial compromise, 42
Shafi, Haidar Abdul, 78 territoriality, 5–7, 122, 137, 146–147, 218; check-
Shalit, Gilad, 154, 163, 252n2 points as, 107, 125, 128–134, 130
Shalom Achshav. See Peace Now (Shalom tourism, 15–16, 112
Achshav) Track II agreements, 115
Sharon, Ariel, 24, 45, 47, 57, 243n8; disengage- Tractate Independence, 97, 103, 142–143, 169
ment and, 67; settlements and, 245n23 Transjordan, 30, 31, 35
Sharp, Gene, 53, 71, 104 travel restrictions, 10, 65, 112–113
Shebaa Farms region, 155, 253n7 Truman Institute for the Advancement of
Shovrim Shtika, 254n18 Peace, 81
Shu’afat, 251n8 Turner, Ma’ayan, 83, 96
Six Day War, 36–39, 240n2 Tutu, Desmond, 25
social boundaries, 6, 20, 27, 117
socioeconomic activism, 178, 182–183, 189, 191, Unified National Leadership of the Uprising
199, 201; nonviolence and, 52 (UNLU), 40, 46
socioeconomic violence, 176 unilateralism, 67, 150–151, 178, 205–207; in
sociopolitical boundaries, 16, 82, 140, 182, 191, Gaza, 154
203 Union of Palestinian Medical Relief Commit-
solidarity activities, 12, 42, 175, 179–181, 192, tees, 105
196, 202, 235; danger of, 25; Ta’ayush and, 90, United Nations, 70
101, 104, 254n20; Tarabut and, 190, 229. See United States, 146, 252n17, 253n6; foreign aid
also joint projects of, 249n33
South Africa, 235, 258n6 UN Resolution 181, 32–33
Special Committee on Palestine (UNSCOP), 32 UNSCOP. See Special Committee on Palestine
stereotypes, 9, 64, 96, 178, 185–186, 230
Sternhell, Zeev, 171 Wadi ‘Ara, 186, 227
strategic nonviolence, 39, 49, 74, 234–235, War of Independence, 34–36
247n7 “war on terrorism,” 70
structural peace, 180–181 Warschawski, Michel, 76, 89, 108–111
286 · Index
West Bank, 22, 43–45, 62, 158; awareness rais- World Zionist Organization, 29
ing in, 93; checkpoints in, 77, 129, 144–145; Wye River agreement, 45, 126
contrasted with Gaza, 151; economy of, 39;
first intifada and, 39, 41; settlements in, 37– Yesh Din, 77
38, 129, 131; settler violence in, 203; Ta’ayush Yesh Gvul, 59
in, 116; unions in, 173; War of Independence YouTube, 227–228
and, 35; worsening conditions in, 205
Western Wall, 38 Zionism, 28–32, 106, 243n7; critique of, 75,
Winograd Commission, 155, 177 118; peace movement and, 59; Zionist Left
Wisconsin Plan, 83, 197, 248n23, 255n9, 256n14 organizations, 191
Women in Black, 41, 60, 76 Zochrot, 244n15
Maia Carter Hallward is assistant professor in the Department of Political
Science and International Affairs at Kennesaw State University and serves as
associate editor of the Journal of Peacebuilding and Development. She received
her Ph.D. in international relations from American University’s School of In-
ternational Service in Washington, D.C., where she concentrated on inter-
national peace and conflict resolution and critical geopolitics. Dr. Hallward
taught at the Ramallah Friends Schools in the West Bank from 1998 to 2000
and was a research assistant at the United Nations International Leadership
Academy in Amman, Jordan, in 2000.

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POLITICAL SCIENCE/INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS

Struggling for a Just Peace

Maia Carter Hallward is assistant professor of political science and international

University Press of Florida

University Press of Florida

Florida A&M University, Tallahassee

Maia Carter Hallward

University Press of Florida

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

University Press of Florida

List of Maps and Tables viii

Introduction: Identity and Conflict 1

Table 0.1. Groups of study according to category space 12

I moved to Washington, D.C., in August 2001 to pursue a doctorate in inter-

When I returned to Israel/Palestine in 2003, after several years away, to con-

Identity and the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict

lom–Wahat al Salaam community; Fairclough 1992).6 A focus on boundaries

Territoriality: Boundaries as Power

from the relationship between controller (regime) and controlled (populace)

Selecting the Groups of Study

conflict (Cohen 1997; Abu-Nimer 1999). Implicit in this selection is an avoid-

metrical with a priori characteristics, I intentionally focused on how groups

Although I limited myself to in-depth study of seven groups, I did addi-

Table 0.1. Groups of study according to category space

Geographic Binational Uninational

NGO Voluntary NGO (religious) Voluntary

Israel Omitteda Ta'ayush Rabbis for Human Machsom

Palestine Panorama/ Null setb Sabeel Al Mubadara

to time constraints, I spoke with a more limited number of activists, many of

Outline of the Book

Table 0.2. Demographics of formal interviews

Organization Palestinians Israelis (M, W) Palestinians Israelis

Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and chapter 3 looks more specifically at narratives

Boundary-Focused Research: Examining the Contours of Conflict

conflict as one of rival nationalisms, religions, cultures, civilizations, or ethnic

Negotiating Boundaries of Identity

social, political, and geographical boundaries are intertwined, overlapping but

more successful . . . at building rather than removing the innumerable walls

Negotiating Boundaries of Peace

Peace Studies and Examining What Has Gone Right

Although conventional treatments of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict by poli-

The Emergence of Rival Nationalisms

migration (the first aliyah)6 to Palestine (1882–1904) consisted of twenty to

and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine,

To Arab nationalists, this declaration contradicted promises made to Sharif

Moves toward Partition

The War of Independence/the Nakba

The 1967 War

ment (including dumping of Israeli goods) and severe curtailing of freedom

The First Intifada

The Oslo Process

thority (control) over the movement. The subsequent creation of a Palestinian

The Second Intifada

Defining Peacebuilding and Nonviolent Resistance

external identities or visible characteristics (for example, whether groups are

dination efforts are supposed to include a broader array of actors, including

Peacebuilding efforts often focus on strengthening civil society associa-

Relationship between Peacebuilding and Nonviolent Resistance

tially increase conflict in an effort to have structural violence acknowledged

From Nonviolence to Nonviolent Resistance and Popular Struggle

in the power-politics framework (Abu-Nimer 2003: 18). Nonviolent activists

dermine the regime’s power. Noncooperation and disobedience, the heart of