"As Tel Aviv's Mayor, I Refuse to Stay Silent on Settler Violence."
For a long time, I have struggled with whether I should speak out publicly. I am a mayor in Israel. My responsibility is to care for the city I lead, its residents, their safety, their children's education, their cultural life and the quality of their lives. There are moments when silence is no longer an option. Moments when a person cannot hide behind the boundaries of their office and pretend that what happens beyond the borders of their city is none of their concernThe images of recent days have led me to a clear conclusion. I refuse to remain silent at the sight of dozens of masked assailants attacking Palestinian farmers who merely wanted to harvest their olives.
I refuse to remain silent at the sight of Heidi Levine, an American photojournalist, lying on the ground, being beaten and kicked, simply because she sought to do her job.
I refuse to remain silent about the attacks on European diplomats and a French mayor who came to take part in the olive harvest.
And yes, in the face of the silence of Israel's political leadership, I refuse to remain silent.
I am ashamed of these acts. But even more so, I fear the loss of sense of shame. I fear the possibility that these images will become just another passing news story, another political argument, another incident to be explained away, justified, obscured and eventually forgotten.
Over a century ago, at the height of the Dreyfus affair, the French writer Emile Zola chose to break his silence. In his famous essay, "J'Accuse," he confronted France's institutions with the conscience of the nation. Zola understood that patriotism does not require a person to defend everything done in the name of their country. Sometimes, it demands precisely the opposite.
I do not seek to compare the periods or the events. But it seems to me that we, too, are facing such a test. A test of our national conscience.
The State of Israel was built through an extraordinary Zionist endeavor. A country that welcomed millions of people, established democratic institutions, built a legal system, developed institutions of science and education, a free press and a vibrant civil society. Despite wars, threats and immense hardships, we succeeded in creating a country that earned admiration around the world.
Not a perfect country, but one with deep commitment to freedom, the rule of law and the equal dignity of every human being.
These are not minor matters to be set aside whenever they become inconvenient. These are the foundations of our home. The core moral and civic values of Zionism. The principles enshrined in Israel's Declaration of Independence, in which the country's founders pledged that Israel would be based on liberty, justice and peace.
And those foundations are eroding before our eyes.
When violent groups terrorize civilians; when a journalist is being attacked simply for attempting to capture moments; when people fear for their lives while working their own land, this is no longer just another political disagreement between right and left.
It is a fundamental question: Is Israel a country where the law applies to everyone, or are there those who are allowed to take the law into their own hands?
For years, I have worked to build an open, free, democratic and tolerant city. A city where people of every religion, nationality and opinion have a place. A city that encourages culture, creativity, science and freedom of _expression_. A city that maintains ties with partner cities around the world, welcomes diplomats, scholars, artists and researchers, and strives to be part of the family of the world's great, open cities.
I am proud of this city. I am proud of what we have built here together.
But a city is not an island. We cannot build a bubble of tolerance within it while ignoring what is happening in the country around us. We cannot defend freedom of speech on our streets and remain silent when a journalist is beaten bloody simply for trying to report what she witnessed.
I am not prepared to accept a reality in which everything we have built over decades, everything we aspire to represent, is slipping away beneath our feet, while our silence risks making us complicit in something that we cannot justify.
I know full well that these assailants do not represent the Israeli public as a whole. I know that many people living in Judea and Samaria are decent, law-abiding citizens. But that is precisely why we have a duty not to allow violent groups to speak in our name.
This is not the Judaism that I know. This is not the Zionism that I believe in. And this is not the Israel that I want our children to inherit.
I write these words in pain, but not in despair. I am not prepared to give up on this country. It is precisely because I love it, that I refuse to accept the idea that what we are witnessing now is its inevitable fate.
In just a few days, Israel will hold an election. Voting is not only a democratic right; it is an act of civic responsibility. It is an opportunity for each of us to reflect on the values we wish to uphold, the public culture we seek to foster and the shared future we hope to build together.
I call on the citizens of Israel to go out and vote. To bring to the ballot box not only their political convictions but also their love for this country, their conscience, their sense of responsibility and their commitment to our shared future.
This home is too precious for us to accept the weakening of its foundations.
I am ashamed of what is being done in our name. But I refuse to be ashamed of a country that can still be repaired.
Ron Huldai is the mayor of Tel Aviv-Jaffa.