Израильская военщина

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"Израильская, - говорю, - военщина
Известна всему свету!
Как мать, - говорю, - и как женщина
Требую их к ответу!
Который год я вдовая,
Все счастье - мимо,
Но я стоять готовая
За дело мира!
Как мать вам заявляю и как женщина!.."

Песня Галича была написана в ключевом 1968-ом году. Митинги «в защиту мира» организовывались тогда в качестве махания кулаками после победы Израиля в Шестидневной войне.

Лексика об «израильской военщине» прочно вошла в советский обиход. Из одной из многочисленных статей в газете «Правда»:

"Наглые действия израильской военщины вызывают гневное возмущение и решительное осуждение всей миролюбивой общественности, требующей положить конец агрессивным вылазкам Тель-Авива. Советский народ на митингах и собраниях поднимает голос протеста против провокационных действий правителей Израиля, требует прекращения бомбардировок мирного арабского населения. Наш народ горячо поддерживает справедливую борьбу арабских народов с израильскими захватчиками в защиту своих национальных интересов, против посягательств империализма, неоколониализма и сионизма, клеймит позором преступления агрессоров. 2 марта советские общественные организации провели день протеста против эскалации Израилем агрессивных военных акций против арабских стран."
https://coollib.net/b/675662-sbornik-sionizm-otravlennoe-oruzhie-imperializma/read

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Шестидневная война сыграла ключевую роль в мировой истории. Стремительный переход от страха за выживание израильских евреев перед лицом превосходящих сил противника к ликованию от победы заставил евреев всего мира обнаружить, порой неожиданно для самих себя, национальное самосознание.

Джонатан Сакс, в будущем - английский лорд и главный раввин Великобритании, был в это время студентом философии в Кэмбридже. Он вспоминал про события в 1967 так:

"Then, in May, we began to hear disturbing news from the Middle East. The Egyptians had blocked the Gulf of Akaba. They demanded the withdrawal of the United Nations troops, who instantly complied. War was in the air. The State of Israel was exposed to attack on all fronts. A catastrophe seemed to be in the making. I, who had not lived through the Holocaust nor even thought much about it, became suddenly aware that a second tragedy might be about to overtake the Jewish people. It was then that an extraordinary thing began to happen. Throughout the university Jews suddenly became visible. Day after day they crowded into the little synagogue in the center of town. Students and dons who had never before publicly identified as Jews could be found there praying. Others began collecting money. Everyone wanted to help in some way, to express their solidarity, their identification with Israel’s fate. It was some time before we realized that the same phenomenon was repeating itself throughout the world. From the United States to the Soviet Union, Jews were riveted to their television screens or radios, anxious to hear the latest news, involved, on edge, as if it were their own lives that were at stake. The rest is history. The war was fought and won. It lasted a mere six days, one of the most spectacular victories in modern history. We could celebrate and breathe safely again. Life went back to normal. But not completely. For I had witnessed something in those days and weeks that didn’t make sense in the rest of my world. It had nothing to do with politics or war or even prayer. It had to do with Jewish identity. Collectively the Jewish people had looked in the mirror and said, We are still Jews. And by that they meant more than a private declaration of faith, “religion” in the conventional sense of the word. It meant that they felt part of a people, involved in its fate, implicated in its destiny, caught up in its tragedy, exhilarated by its survival. I had felt it. So had every other Jew I knew. Why? The Israelis were not people I knew. They were neither friends nor relatives in any literal sense. Israel was a country two thousand miles away, which I had visited once but in which I had no plans to live. Yet I had no doubt that their danger was something I felt personally. It was then that I knew that being Jewish was not something private and personal but something collective and historical. It meant being part of an extended family, many of whose members I did not know, but to whom I nonetheless felt connected by bonds of kinship and responsibility. It made no sense at all in the concepts and categories of the 1960s. That was when I first realized that being Jewish was an exceptionally odd thing to be, structurally odd. Jewish identity was not simply a truth or set of truths I could accept or reject. It was not a preference I could express or disavow. It was not a faith I could adopt or leave alone. I had not chosen it. It had chosen me. Everything I had studied in modern philosophy, everything I had experienced in contemporary culture, told me that truth was universal and all else was individual—personal preference, autonomous choice. But what I had experienced was neither universal nor individual. Jewish identity was not, nor did it aspire to be, the universal human condition. Nor had I chosen it. It was something I was born into. But how can anyone truly be born into specific obligations and responsibilities without their consent? Logically it didn’t add up. Yet psychologically it did. Without any conscious decision I was reminded that merely by being born into the Jewish people I was enmeshed in a network of relationships that connected me to other people, other places, other times. I belonged to a people. And being part of a people, I belonged."
https://media.rabbisacks.org/20231019181239/A-Letter-in-Scroll-extract-digital.pdf

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