In my last post, I observed a practice that in Jacket2 may have seemed too sensitive, but which has a long history: I refused to name names. Rather than associate specific people with my own decisions in attending an overseas academic conference at a politically volatile time, I wrote: "The next day, four of us from the conference — whom I will not name until I have their say so, such is the difficulty of this topic — took a cab . . . for the day." The "two scholars and two poet/critics" of the group are otherwise not named; each will have their own senses of what the politics of the moment, or of the present, might be, and they are free to express them (or not) as they wish.
This is an ambiguous image. In preparing this entry, I looked at it for some time. Should I post it? I took the picture. It depicts a detachment of Israeli soldiers on security duty in front of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. The time is 1997, a time of relatively relaxed tensions. The women are relaxed, at ease, rifles slung across their backs. Sunglasses and hair styles typical of college students in the period. I refused military service in the Vietnam War, just after graduating from Berkeley. Some feminists advocate for the right of women to serve in combat roles. I heard of discos in Tel Aviv with service weapons stacked up at the entry. The Wailing Wall is segregated into male and female zones, with the women's distinctly marginal, subordinate. What are the gender politics in this complex? At what point may I ask that question? On the other side of the material wall is an alternate spiritual order. I caught a glimpse of the Dome of the Rock through the crack between ancient wooden doors of the Arab quarter of the Old City. It seemed like paradise, bodies effortlessly moving in wide space. The Wailing Wall is crowded, pressed, a different order of experience. Incommensurate. What am I doing there?
Writing on the debate over Israel/Palestine and BDS, while reflecting on the poetics conference I attended at Tel Aviv University in 1997, I am aware of the limits of discussion in public and academic spheres. The boycott itself has occasioned acts of recrimination, but at the same time there is a lack of more general discussion lest prior, fixed commitments be unveiled.
1997 was a relatively quiet time, between the first and second Intifadas, in Israel/Palestine (Wiki here): a period of sustained tensions but relatively few new acts of violence after the 1998 Israeli invasion of Lebanon, with 1100 air strikes, Hezbollah counterattacks, and numerous civilian casualties, which led to the 1999 election of Ehud Barak and withdrawal of Israeli troups. In 1997 there had been three major suicide bombings in Israel, one at a centrally located cafe in Tel Aviv in March, and two in Jerusalem markets in July and September.
In a post on Jacket2, "Boycott Language" might mean the Poetry Wars of the 80s, when a boycott mentality around Language writing was manifest in certain quarters of the public sphere. My cover image says otherwise; it is evidence of the ongoing human rights horror in Israel and occupied Palestine that should be at the forefront of political discussion now. As a poet and critic attentive to "language," I want to contrbute to the current debate on the boycott of Israeli universities advocated by the BDS movement and the American Studies Association, along with the more narrow but also controversial resolution on the rights of Palestinian scholars to travel to the West Bank by the Modern Language Association.