Jerusalem with the Gloves Off

"Nobody leaves this place indifferent," says Raphie Etgar, curator of The Museum on the Seam, for Dialogue, Understanding, and Coexistence. The assertion is a simple statement of fact, the truth of which is evident to anyone who visits the Museum, particularly as part of a group. The Museum on the Seam presents Jerusalem in all its harsh complexity. It is provocative, painful, tough to take and pulls no punches. It pleads eloquently for dialogue, understanding and coexistence, while at the same time deliberately highlighting the problems that have to be overcome, if such lofty aspirations are to be realized.

Physically, the Museum is situated in the "Turjeman House," built in 1932 on a plot belonging to a local landowner, Hassan Bey Turjeman. Following Israel's War of Independence in 1948 and the resulting partition of Jerusalem, the building was situated just on the Israeli side of the border. It became an Israel Defense Forces position, adjacent to the Mandelbaum Gate, the only official passage between Israel and the Kingdom of Jordan. Opposite, just across the road, was the Steiner House, occupied by soldiers of Jordan's Arab Legion. Nearby was the site of the Israel-Jordan Mixed Armistice Commission. With the unification of the city, following the Six Day War of 1967, the military outpost bcame redundant and was abandoned. In 1980, the Jerusalem Municipality and the Jerusalem Foundation restored the building and created a museum there, celebrating the unification of Israel's capital.

Following the Oslo Agreement of 1993, and the beginning of negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians, the Museum's sponsors felt that both the style and message of the Museum needed to be completely rethought. Raphie Etgar presented a proposal for a multimedia display to convey a message of tolerance and diversity, particularly designed for exploiting group dynamics.

With the support of several donors, notably the late German publishing magnate, Georg Von Holtzbrinck and his family, the project moved forward and the Museum on the Seam in its present form was opened in 1999.

The new concept is clear from the moment one walks through the entrance. "Welcome to the Museum on the Seam..." proclaims the recorded guide, designed to direct individual visitors around the exhibits, "...to the seam between Jews and Arabs, between secular and orthodox, between the various communities that make up the multicultural society of Israel in general and Jerusalem in particular. We will point out the conflicts to you, and ask questions. The answers lie inside each and every one of us. Are we willing to contend with them?"

The first presentation shows a man and a woman wearing different clothes: secular Jew, Arab, ultra-Orthodox Jew, Christian priest, Moslem kadi, rabbi, traditional eastern Jew, modern youngster; the costumes follow each other with bewildering speed, often mixed up on the two figures. The clear message is that, outward appearances notwithstanding, people are essentially the same underneath.

Nearby, a section of Israel's Declaration of Independence is prominently displayed:

"The State of Israel will be founded on the principles of liberty, justice, and peace, in the light of the vision of Israel's prophets. It will extend absolute equal social and political rights to all of its citizens, regardless of religion, race, or sex."

That established, the question posed is: are we, the Israeli people, 50 years on, still committed to these principles? Are we, as individuals, even aware of them? Are we actively promoting their fulfillment?

Swooping back from 1948 to around 2000 BCE, the dispute between Abraham and Lot is presented in 26 languages: "And Abraham said unto Lot, Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdsmen and thy herdsmen; for we are brethren." (Genesis 13: 8.); and Abraham proposes: "Separate thyself, I pray thee, from me: if thou wilt take the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left."

The point is that Abraham speaks with Lot. There is nothing new under the sun, it seems, territorial disputes have been with us for millennia, but the problems must be solved by dialogue, debate and compromise, even if an eventual solution lies in separation.

Back in the present: a triple-screen presentation of the diversity of modern Jerusalem. Images appear of synagogue, mosque, and church, Torah scrolls, candles, bells, prayers in three different forms to the One God. The United Nations partition vote is followed in quick succession by dancing, conflict, and explosions. Ancient and modern, sacred and secular, Jewish, Moslem and Christian motifs are displayed side by side on the different screens; the Arab market, the Jewish market, buildings in stone, cemeteries of all faiths. The blessing over bread is juxtaposed with a modern discothèque. The unification of the city, demonstrations by different groups; Arab prisoners, hands on their heads, are detained, President Anwar al-Sadat's visit to Israel is glimpsed momentarily, a quill is sharpened and writes a Torah scroll. Buildings are demolished and rebuilt.

The next display is devoted to divided Jerusalem between 1948 and 1967. There are notices: "Border Ahead!" "Danger: Mines!" A photograph, enlarged to near natural size, shows Israeli policemen and Jordanian Legionnaires separated by just a few metres. It is not just that they are separated by barbed wire, but each group is turned in on itself, apparently unaware of the other. The visitor is invited to look through gun-slits in a concrete wall at a film shot across the border in the 1950s, creating the illusion of spying on the Jordanian half of the city. A feeling of claustrophobia is evident, and the message of enforced separation is manifestly clear.

Following this, in a brutal display that is difficult to watch with equanimity, three screens at right-angles present the Museum's view of today's reality. This time the scenes are of almost uninterrupted violence and confrontation: demonstrations, stone-throwing, gasoline-bombs, baton-wielding mounted police, beatings, arrests, explosions, ambulances, dead and wounded. The images, accompanied by a deliberately deafening soundtrack, are bleak and disturbing. A notice proclaims in Hebrew, Arabic, and English: "It's not me!" The unasked question is: "Really? Are you sure it isn't you?"

And then a relaxation of the pressure. Short films about four other cities where there is confrontation are screened. Belfast, where the majority defied the extremists and voted for peace; Sarajevo, where a deadly ethnic conflict has yet to be resolved; Johannesburg, where the magnanimity of Nelson Mandela channeled hatred into the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission; Berlin, where the wall came down without a single shot being fired. Again, an unasked question: do these cities represent hope for conciliation? Maybe they do, or possibly it is simply a small comfort to be reminded that there are conflicts in other places as well.

Then, for the first time, no questions: a black and white wall spells out a clear statement in favour of racial and ethnic tolerance. There is no black without white, says the message. Black and white are not opposites, they complement each other. Every human being is a rainbow of hues. Everyone of every colour has the right to live in freedom.

A space for temporary exhibitions is currently occupied by an exhibition, "A Touch of Grace," of photographs by Didier Ben-Loulou, accompanying poems by Yehuda Amichai. Ben-Loulou, born in Paris, came to Israel in 1993. His photos have been displayed all over the world and have won many prizes. Amichai, who died shortly before the opening of the exhibit, was Israel's best-loved and most widely-translated poet. (See pages 17-20).

Up in an elevator to the "Talking Heads" exhibit. On the way, there are visitor's books to record the visitor's reactions. There is an electronic graffiti device, for visitors to "write" on the wall. These reactions are also stored in the museum's memory bank. A huge representation of a human being on a screen is constantly transformed into man, woman, Jew, Arab, visitor. The images repeat in Hebrew, Arabic, English, and other languages: "Let's talk."

The Talking Heads represent residents of Jerusalem, visitors, leaders, the person-in-the-street; Israelis and Palestinians, Jews, Moslems, Christians. They appear on small screens, giving brief messages. An ultra-Orthodox Jew in Hassidic garb states that everyone is made in God's image, and of course we can all live together. An Arab in a keffiya insists that Jerusalem belongs to all three religions and all who believe in God are free to pray here. At the other extreme, a Jewish settler declares that the Jews must control the Temple Mount - anything else is unthinkable - while an elderly Arab proclaims that Jerusalem has always been Arab and will be so for another million years. Former Mayor Teddy Kollek explains that peace and quiet can only come if there is compromise. Palestinian academic, Sari Nusseibeh, notes a distinction between the political structure and the complex mosaic of people, feelings, senses, and memories. A Jewish Jerusalemite, claiming his family's residency in the city from the 17th century, asserts that Jews and Arabs were always able to live together. Yasser Arafat calls for Jerusalem to be the capital of two states, "like the Vatican."

There is another corner, which presents stereotypes and stigmas: "the Arabs only understand force," "the ultra-Orthodox don't pay taxes and don't serve in the army," "the whole world is against us," with which the visitor is invited to agree or disagree, before proceeding to a conference room, where groups hold their summing-up discussion around a long table.

How do visitors react? "We pose questions," explains curator Raphie Etgar, "we don't give answers. Former Israeli President Ezer Weizman after a visit told us that museums don't make peace. He is right of course. We cannot solve the world's problems, but maybe our Museum can make a small contribution to understanding them."

The most impressive thing about the visit of a unit of army paratroopers was the very fact that it took place, that the soldiers were exposed to what might be considered the "subversive" ideas presented in the Museum. They held a short discussion on the Declaration of Independence, with some staunchly defending the section displayed, and others saying it was not possible for the state to be both Jewish and democratic, and calling for greater rights for Jewish citizens.

There was a general consensus that the presentation of current reality was very one-sided. No, they conceded, it wasn't untrue, everything shown was true, but it was not the whole truth. The presentation ought to have included more positive features about Israeli society.

The Museum guide chose to direct the final discussion to a relatively marginal issue: the statement by a scantily-clad girl in one of the video presentations that she wanted to be free to walk through the ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighbourhood of Mea Shearim dressed as she wished. A lively debate ensued, with some of the soldiers defending the girl, but most suggesting that honouring the feelings of the religious residents superceded the absolute freedom demanded by the girl.

The reaction of a group of American teenagers was not notably different from that of the soldiers. They were similarly divided on the Declaration of Independence. The guide drew their attention to the Abraham-Lot dispute only after they had seen the split-screen presentation of Jerusalem's modern history. The present reality struck the young people silent. But they too protested that the presentation was one-sided. However, did they think that youngsters like themselves visiting Israel, should be exposed to this sort of material? The answer was overwhelmingly in the affirmative.

Undoubtedly the strongest reactions to the Museum came from a group of elderly Israelis from a Jerusalem retirement home. They gave their guide a difficult time from the first minute, challenging the section from the Declaration of Independence, repudiating what they saw as the manifest bias of the modern history of Jerusalem, and furiously condemning the video of the current reality. Some of them walked out in protest, and the guide was almost overwhelmed by the torrent of enraged criticism.

One person wanted to know where the Jews were; "We saw only Arabs and Christians," she insisted. A third demanded to know why the terms "conquest" and "occupation" were used in the presentations. "Jerusalem is ours," he said, "we liberated it." One of the most interesting reactions came when they viewed the four other confrontation cities. Looking at the video of blacks and whites in Johannesburg, an elderly lady, who previously had been insisting, "It's ours, it's our country," thoughtfully commented, "we also came to a country that had another population."

In the discussion room, the guide skillfully deflected the acrimonious debate. "As the Jewish-Arab conflict is so painful for us, let us look at another social problem," she suggested, and produced a newspaper article on the question of whether a scout troop should have a special section for Ethiopians. Her move worked well. The ensuing discussion on Israel's absorption problems was focused and reasonable.

"We are not always good at absorbing immigrants," maintained one elderly lady. "We can be presumptuous and superior. It was the same with other immigrant groups - we didn't take them to our hearts."

"We all have these problems," sums up the guide. "We must try to think about these things. We don't have to agree with "the others," but we have an obligation to respect and accept them."

The Museum on the Seam is small. The largest group that can visit at any one time is about 20 persons; larger groups have to split up. To spread the message of tolerance and coexistence further afield, Etgar conceived the idea of an international design competition. He turned to some 200 artists across the world to submit graphic presentations on the subject of coexistence. Out of the many entries, a panel of judges chose 26 designs. The images were digitally enlarged for an open-air display some 500 metres long. The outdoor exhibition began its journey in Jerusalem, where it was displayed inside the Jaffa Gate along the Old City wall.

The images are now due to be shown in Belfast, Sarajevo, Nicosia, New York, Cape Town, Berlin, Prague, Paris, Florence, and London. In each town, there will be a local competition, and the winning picture will be added, thus the exhibit will expand, as it makes its way around the world.

Raphie Etgar's explicit aim is to educate young people. He realizes that there is little that can be done about people who have already made up their minds on all the issues. The groups described above - just three of dozens that visit the Museum every month - indicate that his assessment is accurate. Is the picture presented by the Museum indeed one-sided? Etgar is not trying to be "fair," but rather, he presents the Israeli-Palestinian confrontation in a direct and brutal manner. This is Jerusalem with the gloves off. If it is provocative, that is its purpose: to make people think.