Through my car window, I watched the protesters. The Jerusalem sun beat down on their faces, accompanied by the cold, but their burning eyes made it clear that even if it had snowed, it would not have deterred them from carrying out their mission: stopping the legislation.
Monday, noon, I'm on my way to the Knesset. Crowds are on their way in front of the Mishkan, trying to block, trying to prevent. Even the Waze was spinning around, not really knowing how to guide me. In the end, a kind policeman honored the ID I presented to him and allowed me to make my way through the empty opposite lane, straight to the real place - where they voted late at night on the law that is tearing the country apart.
I was stuck on the road for a long time, so much so that I could think sad thoughts. I believed the protesters, that the belief in the righteousness of their path motivated them. My mind sailed back years, to the turbulent days of the disengagement, and I was then a young reporter for a haredi newspaper. I really don't identify myself with the right, but as a woman, as a mother, as a human being, I couldn't help but cry in front of interviewees who were forced to say goodbye to their home in Gush Katif, to pack up an entire life, including their worldview, of holding on to the ground.
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The image of an interviewee in Ashkelon floated before my eyes. Her family was injured in an attack in Gush, she too was evacuated from there to the southern city, with the memories of "there," of where the house used to be, tearing her heart apart.
But this is democracy, they explained then. The majority rules, the majority decides.
Another memory floats before my eyes, piercing my heart with pain. The court decides, by majority opinion, to repeal the "Tal Law." The government, from which the haredi parties were excluded, enacts a conscription law. The "million-man demonstration" in Jerusalem, on the orders of the rabbis, but who cares. The majority decides, the majority legislates. Democracy, they said.
Then, my conscience also struck me. While the "million demonstration" was held in a respectful manner, with prayer books in hand, on the fringes there was a handful of extremists who continued to demonstrate over the years, and not always "politely." In dozens of interviews with the media, I explained: They do not represent our mainstream, they are extremists. But the media beat the protesters mercilessly. They disrupted traffic, blocked intersections, I also saw a father who brought a baby in a stroller, placed her on one of the roads and shouted in protest.
Last Monday, when I saw the protesters on the roads of Jerusalem, making their way to the Knesset, I thought to myself that maybe someone in the country was leading somewhere. Tell me who you are, what you represent, and I'll tell you whether it's right for you to protest - or not.
If you belong to the "righteous" camp, you can block traffic, you will be forgiven. We will not be angry even if you smash the glass in the guest gallery in the Knesset, because you are expressing the cry of the heart, you are truly anxious about the fate of the state, about your fate. If you belong to the right camp, nothing will happen if you enact a law that harms the soul of a minority. And when the Haredi public cries out from the depths of its heart - it tears us apart, who will listen to it.
If you are an Arab minority, your right to demonstrate or protest will not really be respected. The same goes for if you are an ultra-Orthodox minority. Through my car window, last Monday, I thought to myself that even to be a minority, you need a lot of luck. You have to be in the "right" minority.
We are one people, one family. But a family that, unfortunately, has children who are more popular and those who are much less. The truth? Last Monday, I arrived at the Knesset with a great deal of sadness.
