6.7.2005

Dear Friends,

Two years ago, I was quoted in the Jerusalem Post about the events leading up to the Gay Pride Event in Jerusalem.  In the days preceding that parade, individuals had burned some of the pride flags adorning the downtown city streets.  My quote is one I've questioned for the past two years: I likened the flag burning and the authority's flagrant disregard for the vandalism to the public book burnings that took place in Germany prior to the Second World War which led to much more drastic forms of violence.  A dramatic analogy to be sure.  Had the spontaneous desire to suddenly produce a juicy soundbyte for a reporter pushed me toward hyperbole?  It may have seemed that way then, but that statement now seems eerily prescient. 

Last Thursday's Gay Pride event in Jerusalem almost didn't happen.  What was supposed to be a "World Pride Event" -- to which hundreds of thousands from around the globe were expected -- was "postponed" until next year in deference to the GGaza Disengagement and the uncertainty that it will certainly bring.  And so a good old-fashioned Pride Parade on a more modest, local scale was planned instead..  As has happened similarly in past years, even that was blocked by the Jerusalem Municipality - funding frozen at the eleventh hour, and only after an emergency court case was convened on the Sunday before the event, was the parade re-instated on the city's calendar. 

Three weeks earlier was Tel-Aviv's pride parade: a massive hedonistic bash with tens of thousands of participants.  Big name performers, corporate sponsors, floats, dancers – the Israeli scale equivalent of the grand and commercial Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  And why not?  In Tel-Aviv, a forty-five minutes' drive from Jerusalem, gayness is normalized, if not arguably trendy.  And in my life, and its relatively short period during which I have been relieved of the shackles of my own closeting, that's really what my experience has been.  The only gay oppression, fear or discrimination I personally had ever faced was an internal construct, self-inflicted.  The Stonewall Uprising may as well have happened in the Middle Ages.  The 1998 beating and murder of Matthew Shepard might just have well happened in 1898.  Sure, issues of gay marriage, gay adoption, gay military service -- these all remain part of an ongoing critical struggle for equality and acceptance, but these occupy a realm of discourse annd debate; vital topics, but not overtly violent.    

And so Thursday's parade in Jerusalem began as it should: an assembly of hundreds of people which grew steadily into thousands, some holding signs advocating issues of gay rights; a souvenir stand hawking rainbow paraphernalia; even a marching band.  On the sidelines were hecklers and disapprovers also with signs.  Annoying, but within the boundaries of peaceful demonstration.

All was very gay indeed.  POP.  BANG.. BOOM.   A balloon filled with noxious materials exploded on my head and on the head of a friend standing to my side.  Its indeterminate contents emitted a putrid aroma that grew in its intensity with every passing second.  The smell was almost unbearable.  Deeply soaked into my newly re-dyed hair; my favorite watch band; my gayest pair of shoes.  All soiled.  All stink bombed.  As people approached me and then recoiled from the stench, an overwhelming urge to flee and bathe took over.  "Don't be such a Queen," my partner-in-stink admonished.  And it wasn't told in jest.  The meaning of this gay parade was clear: this was not about being a diva.  This was not Amsterdam, not New York.  And though an hour before I had been there, this was a world away from Tel-Aviv. This was a demonstration for rights; a struggle for dignity; a proclamation of identity; an act of expression; a protest for peace.  Styled hair, smart clothes and smelling sexy were luxuries this parade could not afford.

I marched on.  And then the real stink bomb exploded.  Turning the corner around the apartment building where I once lived in Jerusalem, the band was reaching its crescendo.  My pride flag had suddenly morphed into a baton, and like the captain of the cheerleaders at the high school homecoming, I was twirling it with virtuosity (as captured that evening and following morning on the Israeli news).  Then screams: "chovesh (medic)!" "rofeh (doctor)!" "ambulance!"  Two feet away to my left was a man oozing blood, legs convulsing in seizure.  Like the car accident by the side of the road that everyone slows to observe, and then passes, everyone passing observed.  And like that car accident where everyone observing passes, the reveling crowd passed on.  The result: A mob scene.  Not the typical mob scene where an act of violence leads to anarchic violence..  Apathy was this mob's contagion, or maybe more aptly diagnosed: habituation.  Habituation to violence.  Did people simply not care, or could they just not be bothered to face the toxic shock of reality?   As the injured were being attended to by professionals, a euphorically orderly crowd took on its new identity of a mob with a mission: DON'T RAIN ON MY PARADE!    The band marched on.  I marched on..  My make-shift baton flew higher, accompanied now with fervent dancing.  Ambulances rushed past meandering through the marchers.  Two others were stabbed within minutes.  Nothing stopped.  The parade continued.  I continued – into the party in the park:  laughing, dancing, drinking, flirting, eating, singing, greeting old friends, making new ones.

Three people had been stabbed; maybe they were dead.  Like the horror movie that can be turned off when the gory scenes become too much to bear, I – everyone -- changed the channel. 

The next morning, with a lingering scent of excrement still looming over my head, the remote control in my brain was finally out of order.  The horror was playing.   The parade titled "Love Without Borders" had been desecrated by boundless hatred.  There was indeed much to celebrate on Thursday night, and I don't regret that I did.  There is yet much to do before a parade for gay rights, indeed for human rights, is a true celebration.

Danny