A club of heartbroken activists: at the Parents' Circle, Israelis and Palestinians pursue reconciliation

Robert Hirschfield

Robi Damelin's dark hair is close-cropped. She looks like a Jewish monastic. Or, quite simply, like a woman demanding to be taken seriously.

She wrote: "My youngest son, David, was killed on March 3, 2002. There can be no worse sentence for a mother to write than this."

David was an officer killed on the West Bank by a Palestinian sniper. He opposed the occupation. He served on the West Bank with qualms of conscience. He felt if he refused to serve he would be letting his men down.

Seated beside Ms. Damelin at the oceanic conference table of the New York law firm of Arnold & Porter was Nadwa Sarandah, a Palestinian woman from Jerusalem. Ms. Sarandah's older sister, Naila, a Harvard-educated public health consultant, was stabbed to death on a Jerusalem street.

"A single stab wound. Very professional. The killer was a Palestinian, but Naila and I had been having a dispute with Jewish settlers. I suspected it was a contract killing."

Whatever it was, Ms. Sarandah's bitterness toward the Israelis grew worse after her sister's death. It softened only after a visit from Yitzhak Frankenthal, the orthodox Jewish founder of the Parents' Circle who apologized to her for Naila's murder and for the cruelties of the occupation.

"I thought if an orthodox Jew, an Israeli, can reach out to a Palestinian, then maybe there is hope."

For her, as for Ms. Damelin, the Parents' Circle was what they found on the other side of their losses. It is a peace, reconciliation and support group of 500 Israelis and Palestinians who have lost loved ones in the conflict.

It is a club of heartbroken activists on whose behalf the two women raise their hoarse voices in mosques, synagogues, churches ("We have an insurance policy God can't refuse," Ms. Damelin jokes) and the occasional law firm.

"The Parents' Circle has set up a toll-free telephone hot line between Israelis and Palestinians called 'Hello Shalom/Hello Salaam,' "Ms. Damelin informs her dozen or so listeners. "A million calls have been made so far. In one case I know of, a right-wing settler spoke with a Palestinian. They began by exchanging abuse; they ended up exchanging phone numbers."

Ms. Sarandah, whose brown hair is as long as her partner's is short, adds to this: "Peace is too important to be left to the politicians. It is something ordinary people must work toward among themselves."

Ms. Sarandah manages a cement factory. Ms. Damelin used to own a public relations firm before she gave it up to devote herself completely to the Parents' Circle. They have opened a new path out of the old: the nonviolent politicization of grief, the flagless topography of shared suffering.

"We dialogue with everyone," Ms. Damelin says. "There can be no such thing as selective reconciliation. Sometimes, here in the U.S., when Nadwa and I are speaking, we are harassed by hecklers. When people try to force them to leave, I protest. I want them to stay. These are the people we are trying hardest to reach."

A Presbyterian minister approached Nadwa at one of their stops. "I want you to know I am pro-Palestinian," he said. She found herself with mixed feelings.

"So, where has it gotten us?"

She seeks a more elastic loyalty now from fellow travelers. A more subversive loyalty. She may have been thinking of what Yitzhak Frankenthal once said: "I am angry. We were unable to make peace with the Palestinians, so my son was killed."

The killer of David Damelin sits in an Israeli prison. Robi Damelin plans to visit him one day. She does not expect it to be easy.

"I will talk to him about David. Maybe he will want to talk to me about himself. Maybe we can both talk about justice. Then, who knows? Maybe I can find closure."

[Robert Hirschfield is a freelance journalist who lives in New York. He has written widely about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.]

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