Protesting the Injustices I Preferred Not to See

By David R. Willcox

Born less than eight months before the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and only four years old when World War II ended, I have few firsthand memories of that war, and none of the horrors of the Holocaust in Europe. Nor did I have any knowledge whatsoever about what subsequently happened in the British Mandate of Palestine. I was dependent upon our statesmen, historians, religious figures, and the media to educate me over the years.

I was a typical white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, American boy and, in retrospect, I fear that, as a teenager, I carried more than my share of prejudice, fear and bigotry in my head. These negatives encompassed Jews, although I had never really known any Jews on a personal level * When, eventually, I learned about the horrors of the European Holocaust, and the evils visited on the Jewish people throughout history, I was heartsick with guilt because of my personal prejudices. From that point onward, I looked upon the Jewish people with many of the same old prejudices in my head, but with tremendous sorrow and pity in my heart.

God has a wonderful way of getting your attention from time to time. When I was 20, I learned that the parents of a woman with whom I had fallen in love had come to the United States as German Jewish refugees from Hitler. Though my love truly was hopeless, in the time we dated her wonderful parents came to represent to me every decent, human ideal I could imagine.

As the years passed, I began taking an increasing interest in current affairs. The conflicting earlier feelings in my head and in my heart undoubtedly intensified my reactions to news from the Middle East. By then, the media were full of information about the state of Israel's perpetual struggle against the bloodthirsty Arab states encircling it. Because I was informed that these Arabs were bent on the total destruction of Israel and her people, I drew the obvious inference that the Arabs suffered a terminal case of what we called "anti-Semitism." This was the big picture, painted with a broad brush, and it didn't occur to me to ask myself why or how any of this could be so. I heard and saw only what my mind wished to hear and see.

Entering the 1970s and my 30s, I "witnessed, " through the various mainstream media, Israel's many battles for survival. I was very supportive of the Israelis throughout this period, although I was shocked when I "witnessed," again through the media, the Israeli attack on the USS Liberty in 1967 in which 34 Americans were killed. I assumed that it was just a case of mistaken identity which occurred because the American ship happened to wander into the wrong place at the wrong time. (War is hell.)

In the 1970s and 1980s I also "witnessed," through the various mainstream media, much activity on the part of Arabs, particularly the "Palestinian terrorists. " These bloody, random actions seemed senseless and purposeless. It did not occur to me to wonder why these people did these horrific things. I was increasingly aware, however, that something must be missing in my mental picture of Middle Eastern history.

The few times I was able to discuss the subject of Israel/Palestine with someone I thought might be knowledgeable on the subject, however, I was misled. If I feel guilt now, it is over my willingness to believe what so clearly was illogical. I was told that the situation had been going on since the beginning of time, and that the adversaries had "always" been mortal enemies. I also was told that the situation was so complex that there was no way to sort it out, and that peace could "never" be attained in the region. If I feel anger now, it is when I hear "experts" still spouting these same, tired, and completely erroneous statements.

Then came the Israeli "incursion" into Lebanon. When the mainstream media could only explain that what looked like simple aggression was, instead, "complex," my confusion became frustration. Who were the perpetrators and who were the victims of the slaughter at Sabra and Shatila? How many died there, and how many were old men and women, and young mothers and children? Then, who bombed the U.S. Marine barracks, killing 241 Americans in seconds, and why? These events were totally incomprehensible to me. The more I saw, heard and read, however, the more I was certain something was wrong. The information in our American media did not address the questions in my heart. I now realize that my difficulty can be expressed by the computer term "GIGO. " It was simply a matter of "Garbage In-Garbage Out. "

Such was the state of my Middle East knowledge on Dec. 24, 1987. Having been away from Washington, DC for some 25 years, I decided to go to the National Cathedral that evening for Christmas Eve worship services. I did, and, as in times past, I was suffused with the joyous awe that only such an occasion can arouse. Not wanting to dissipate the feeling of fulfillment in a jostling throng, I slipped out just before the end of the service.

As I hurried down a path leading to the street, I was greeted by a young man with "Mediterranean" features wearing a scarf wrapped around his head and face. (In my inexcusable ignorance, I was unfamiliar with the Arab keffiyeh, and simply assumed he was showing his "individuality" by dressing oddly.) The young man, in a shy, accented voice, asked me if he could give me some information on the Palestinian people, and their struggle for freedom from Israeli occupation. I shall be eternally thankful that, still aglow with the mysteries of my religion, I did not simply avert my eyes and proceed down the path. Instead I took the little brochure and thanked him.

For once I was in the "right place at the right time. " I made a mental note to read that brochure after I got home. Already I had a strong suspicion that I wouldn't be reading the "usual" stuff.

The next morning, over a cup of coffee, I read the brochure. As I did, I wished I could run back up the path and thank the young man a hundred times over. In one fell swoop I discovered the "other" view on the troublesome Israeli/Palestinian issue. I had long ago concluded that something was lacking in my understanding of the subject—something that would make seemingly random, inexplicable rage and violence comprehensible. And now, eureka! Here was the mysterious missing element.

There was, in point of fact, another Semitic people who belonged to the Holy Land; a people who were struggling, unrecognized and reviled, for their freedom and independence from a foreign government seemingly bent on doing everything in its power to eradicate all physical traces, even the historic memory, of their existence.

I had been distressed and ashamed, many years earlier, when I discovered the truth about what my British/American, colonist/settler ancestors had done to the indigenous people of what we now know as America. I had been distressed and ashamed all over again when I recognized in the European Holocaust the unspeakable consequences of the same kinds of prejudices I had so casually absorbed as a child. Now, for a third time, I recognized the same tragic too-often-told story.

Why would the government of a people who had suffered so much for so long visit such pain and destruction on their Palestinian brothers and sisters? These Palestinians had had nothing whatsoever to do with the pain and suffering inflicted on the Jewish people over so many ages and in so many places.

I prayed to God for answers, or directions. In barely an instant, I felt God speaking to my heart. I realized at that moment that God had been speaking to me for a very, very long time, but that I hadn't been hearing very well.

From that day onward, however, I have felt it my duty to contribute whatever I can to the freedom and independence of the Palestinian people. I've spent a lot of time at it, and sometimes, in moments of irresolution, I've found myself wondering how much longer that might take. The answer I've always found in my heart is that the task will continue until the job is done to God's satisfaction. Meanwhile, I know that I must continue so long as I have blood, sweat or tears left to contribute.

I felt suffused with a special energy as I left the Christmas Eve service five years ago. Today, I feel equally confident of finding the means and the wherewithal to continue making my contribution, while following the guidance I find in my heart.

The "task" is the most challenging I've ever undertaken. When my message reaches another heart, as the young man's message reached mine, I'm not there to see it. I am there, however, when angry remarks are made by those who cannot understand that the message I bear is one of compassion for the Palestinians, not hatred for the Jews.

I find it takes a special kind of courage to be ridiculed or reviled, day after day, by strangers for putting Christianity into practice. These five years have given me insights into my religion that I could not have obtained in any other way.

In writing these words now, I have two wishes. I hope that young man who stood alone in the cold on a night most people were spending with family and friends will learn that his efforts, and the sacrifices of many like him all over America, were not in vain. God used him to touch my heart. My second hope, of course, is to touch other hearts with this personal testimonial.

I cannot undo the misdeeds of my ancestors or co-religionists in their time. But I can atone for them by extending a helping hand to those who need it in my time.

Whether or not you are tuned in to God, he is talking to you this very minute. Please listen. If you can't hear God's directions for personal action, then, at the very least, carry Palestine in your heart. It is her people who need your help, in this place, and in our time.

David R. Willcox is a 52-year-old employee of the Washington Suburban Sanitary Commission. Shortly after writing this article at the request of the Washington Report, he was attacked and severely injured while carrying a sheathed Palestinian flag in downtown Washington by members of the Jewish Defense Organization, an extremist group suspected in previous beatings, shootings and bombings in various parts of the United States.

SIDEBAR

The Man With the Palestinian Flag

Israeli Embassy staffers in Washington, DC know his 6-foot 4-inch figure well. He's the man who has stood, sometimes in a crowd, sometimes all alone, holding aloft the Palestinian flag outside their front gate every Friday afternoon for the past four years. One Israeli always toots his horn as he pulls out of the driveway. Another emerged through the gate one day to say that, although they had never met, he had watched David Willcox from his window every Friday throughout the Israeli's entire tour of duty in the United States. "I'm returning home now," the Israeli said, "but I can't leave without telling you that, although your cause is not mine, I admire you for what you do."

White House guards know him well. He is the man who kneels on the White House sidewalk praying for Palestine every Saturday afternoon, while colleagues hand out leaflets explaining the Palestinian predicament to passersby.

Peace activists know him well. He's the man who holds the Palestinian flag in the center of their demonstrations supporting Palestinian human rights at Lafayette Square across from the White House, and facing the diplomatic entrance to the State Department.

Now the Washington, DC police, the FBI, the staff at George Washington University Hospital, and readers of The Washington Post know him well. He's the man who stood holding his Palestinian flag across the street from the Holocaust Museum during April 22 opening ceremonies attended by President Bill Clinton. Friends around him held signs calling upon the distinguished guests to "pray for Palestine."

Afterward, David Willcox and his fiance stopped at the Old Post Office Building for lunch, and then emerged onto Pennsylvania Avenue, the broad thoroughfare connecting the Capitol Building with the White House. As they waited for the traffic light to change, someone behind him jostled the Palestinian flag he was carrying sheathed in a plastic case. He turned just in time to see a steel pipe descending on his head.

He was unable to ward off the first blow, but then was able to protect his head as he was attacked by three pipewielding young men wearing matching boots, trousers and jackets topped by yarmulkes, each bearing the Star of David. They beat him to the ground and, after passersby halted the assault, escaped with the flag and a Palestinian head scarf in a vehicle with Vermont license plates driven by a fourth uniformed man.

An ambulance took David Willcox to the hospital, where doctors stopped the bleeding from his scalp with 12 stitches. The FBI, one of whose employees witnessed the daylight attack, promised an investigation, and a spokesman for the Jewish Defense Organization, a violent uniformed offshoot of the murderous Jewish Defense League, boasted that its members had conducted the assault.

David Willcox's physical wounds have healed, but now as he kneels in prayer each Saturday in front of the White House, he cannot close his eyes until he is certain that, instead of closing their eyes with him, at least one of his colleagues is standing with eyes open, on guard against another sneak attack.

The assault was covered fairly and accurately by The Washington Post, but the story of an attack by uniformed storm troopers in broad daylight on one of the national capital's busiest streets was not picked up nationally. Nor was the incident's most remarkable fact.

Of all the demonstrators present at the Holocaust Museum on opening day—historical revisionists, skinheads, American Nazis, Klansmen, and angry U.S. taxpayers—only one was so menacing to them that he was followed and singled out for a physical assault by the young enforcers of the Jewish Defense Organization. He was David Willcox, the man with the Palestinian flag. —RHC