He is No More: A Case Study of Yizkor Literature and the Israeli Commemorative Tradition, 1967-1973 Master’s Thesis Presented to The Faculty of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences Brandeis University Department of Near Eastern and Judaic Studies Ilan Troen, Advisor Eugene Sheppard, Advisor ChaeRan Freeze, Advisor In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for Master’s Degree By Adam Eisler May 2013 Copyright by Adam Eisler © 2013 Acknowledgements This thesis would have never materialized without the help of my friends, family, and professors. It is truly a daunting task to thank everyone. I extend a sincere and loving thank you to Adina, Aron, Roni, and Alon Shorr for graciously hosting me and providing me with moral support during my two month research trip in Israel. The same gratitude goes to Martin and Tamar Shacham-Barr for helping me coordinate my visits to the Golani Brigade Archive and Museum and hosting me during my many weekend hafsakot in the Galil. In addition, thank you to Noam Lekach, my friend and roommate, for providing so much moral support and helping me translate ideas and emotions that were seemingly untranslatable. I am indebted to Professor Ilan Troen for drawing my attention to the existence of Yizkor literature. Without this suggestion I may never have stumbled onto this treasure trove. Thank you to Professors Maoz Azaryahu and Uri Bialer for meeting with me in Israel to organize my ideas, Professor Yael Zerubavel for pointing me in the direction of background material, and Professor Kanan Makiya for his continued support and friendship. Last but certainly not least, a warm thank you to Professors Eugene Sheppard and ChaeRan Freeze for the countless meetings, revisions, notes, and guidance throughout the writing of this thesis. Most importantly, this thesis is dedicated in its entirety to Jacob Eisler, my father and best friend, for his solidarity and inspiration. iii Abstract He is No More: A Case Study of Yizkor Literature and the Israeli Commemorative Tradition, 1967-1973 A thesis presented to the Department of Near Eastern and Judaic Studies Graduate School of Arts and Sciences Brandeis University Waltham, Massachusetts By Adam Eisler Commemorative practices within Israel have received considerable scholarly attention yet remain limited and understudied. These studies focus overwhelmingly on the commemoration of Israel’s founding myths without exploring the impact of subsequent historical events on the myriad of commemorative modes. This thesis analyzes arguably the most central of these modes, Yizkor [memorial] literature, following the watershed October War of 1973 while consistently referencing Yizkor books from the Six-Day War (1967). Given the October War’s far reaching effect on Israeli society, one should naturally assume that Yizkor literature would reflect the social mood on the eve of the war however this is not necessarily the case. An analysis of similarities in the structure and content of memorial books for over 25 combat soldier, challenges popular conceptions of Yizkor literature as a private mode of commemoration while raising important questions about the nature of the commemorative genre as a whole. Against this backdrop, the thesis explores ostensibly rare instances where commemorative narratives go “off script”, expressing pain, disillusionment, and bereavement. Finally, I argue that memorial literature’s ability to remain largely insulated against the post-war discourse lies in its inherent structure. iv Preface So the nation, in tears of amazement, will ask: And even on that Friday I was informed of his “Who are you?” death, before going to identify him, very lonely, And they will answer quietly: wandering across lawns, between university “We are the silver platter on which the Jewish buildings, under a fierce sun, even then I began State was given to you.” to think of you, of the things I should say to you, This was their answer as they fell back into the how out of my private sorrow a common truth shadows would illumine us all … And the rest will be told in the history of Israel. A.B. Yehoshua “Early in the Summer of 1970”2 Natan Alterman, “The Silver Platter”1 My journey toward this research topic may be more interesting than the thesis itself.12I grew up knowing that my father had been in the Israeli army. I was certain that he had fought in a war, though I’m not sure that he ever explicitly told me this. When I think back to our relationship, I can’t seem to overcome how preoccupied-- perhaps even obsessed—I was with my father’s military service. I remember playing with an army of toy soldiers, imagining my father as the hero of the battle, an act that is captured on a dusty VHS tape somewhere in my childhood home. At a certain point in my youth, I became acutely aware that my father had seen something during his military service that had profoundly impacted his life trajectory. Though wholly disinterested in the politics and history of Israel, these topics began to slowly creep into my consciousness. My father would become enraged at Israeli political events. This was always in Hebrew and always at the dinner table. One of my father’s 1 Yehoshua, Abraham B. Early in the Summer of 1970. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1977. 2http://jpress.org.il/Default/Scripting/ArticleWin.asp?From=Archive&Skin=TAUHe&BaseHref=DAV/1947/1 2/19&EntityId=Ar00205&ViewMode=HTML. v most recurrent expressions, “this is why we are here” appeared more and more frequently. And while I can’t remember ever probing the value of his decision, Israel nevertheless held a dear place in both of our hearts. Jumping ahead in the timeline, I became familiarized with the lore surrounding the Six-Day War and Yom Kippur War. I learned that my father had served in the latter and also that he did not want to discuss this at all. During my undergraduate years, I grew increasingly interested in the history of Israel and the Middle East. Alan Dershowitz’s A Case for Israel, a gift from my father, sparked an interest that subsists to this day. I began to ask my father questions about his military service which in retrospect may have been invasive. His repeated refusals to share his experiences with me did little to allay my fascination. I continued to delve deeper into the Arab-Israeli conflict, even deciding to enroll in a semester abroad at Tel Aviv University, yet I could not seem to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, during a 2008 Passover Seder, my father unexpectedly opened up to my sister, mother, and myself about everything that had happened to him during October 1973. His experiences, which I have no right or permission to share with the reader, are unimaginable. What remains is a date and location: October 22, 1973 and Fayid Airbase. My father endured something that should not be part of the human experience. And yet, generation after generation endures these experiences. Some people integrate them into their overall life story, as if only an unpleasant but necessary stage in life. Others carry this trauma on the surface of their consciousness. My father is somewhere vi in between these two categories, outwardly discounting the war’s traumatic effect on him while also admitting to its profound influence on his life trajectory. Rather than presenting a sense of closure, my father’s story only inspired more questions. I contacted the IDF Archives, read through military histories and personal memoirs from the Yom Kippur War, and spent hours scouring the internet for any pictures or stories that might clarify what I had heard from my father. The IDF Archive, still under strict censorship, could not release any information concerning Fayid Airbase on October 22. The more I struggled to understand my father’s experience the less this struggle seemed possible. In the end, I was left with an interpretation of the Yom Kippur War as a disruptive, traumatic event which pushed my father to relocate our family to the United States. In no uncertain terms, it is this complex relationship between memory and history which has inspired this study. My research began with the assumption that memorial literature following the Yom Kippur War would reflect the same feelings of disillusionment and betrayal that were foundational to my father’s interpretation of the war. The prominence of these reactions in Israel’s post-war protest movement was matched by Israel’s leading visual artists and poets, strengthening my resolve that I would be able to locate these feelings in many of the Yizkor books. After a cursory examination, I discovered that in fact most of them remained faithful to the preexisting national narrative. My problematica thus shifted to accommodate the marginal position of deviant narratives. By dissecting the structure and content of Yizkor books, I discovered that narratives which I had originally interpreted as deviant were in fact integral to the overall vii structure of memorial literature. I dissected the structure and thematic content of Yizkor literature revealing that seemingly critical narratives were all directed at abstract conceptions of God or land. Motti Ashenkazi’s famous placards calling for the resignation of Golda Meir, Moshe Dayan, and other ministers during the winter of 1974 never find expression in Yizkor literature.3 Instead, each book follows a standardized format, never fully allowing any deviation from the traditional national narrative. In this way, the Yizkor book resembles the military cemetery with its rows of uniform headstones. The changing national discourse vis-à-vis patriotic sacrifice and national service after the Yom Kippur War would present a challenge to Yizkor literature and inevitably result in its gradual marginalization.