Nakba Day—the Memory of the Catastrophe—is observed annually on May 15. It commemorates the Nakba, the violent uprooting and expulsion of more than 700,000 Palestinians, following the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948.
Hundreds of villages were destroyed, families torn apart; many people were forced to flee or prevented from returning. Gaza became one of the places where a large number of these displaced people and their descendants were crowded together. But May 15 is also International Conscientious Objectors’ Day—a day to remember those who, for reasons of conscience, refuse to bear arms. Tens of thousands of young people have taken to the streets in Germany in recent days for this very reason. The fact that both commemorations fall on the same day seems significant. The history of Palestine is not just a history of war and displacement but also a warning of what happens when militarization, nationalism, and dehumanization run rampant. In Germany, remembrance of the Shoah, or Holocaust, is rightly made a central issue. But remembrance ought not to be selective. It is precisely from our awareness of the Shoah that we must develop the ability to sensitively perceive early signs of any denial of rights or collective punishment. “Never again” ought not to be a national slogan that looks only backwards. The phrase must apply universally—across all times, including the potential future—or it loses its moral significance.
Justifying Inequality in the Name of Security
I grew up as a South African Orthodox Jew during apartheid. As a child, I collected money to plant trees in Israel—an activity that was presented to us as an expression of rebuilding, hope, and solidarity. It wasn’t until many years later that I understood how some of the Jewish National Fund’s reforestation projects were established on the ruins of destroyed Palestinian villages. This knowledge profoundly changed my perspective on memory, repression, and responsibility. In South Africa, I experienced how a state categorizes people based on their origins and affiliations, how freedom of movement is restricted, land is partitioned, speech is controlled, and a system of permanent inequality is justified in the name of “security.” Whoever has experienced apartheid knows the patterns: segregated spaces, unequal rights, military control, walls, checkpoints, and the daily humiliation of an entire people.
That is precisely why the debate in Germany deeply troubles me. Anyone who points out the suffering of the Palestinian people is quickly viewed with suspicion. Criticism of the Israeli government’s policies is labelled as anti-Semitic. But it is precisely because of our knowledge of German history that we must make it possible to have open and self-critical discussion. What is currently going on in Gaza is shocking large segments of the global public. Destroyed hospitals, bombed-out residential areas, starving children, and a trapped civilian population dominate the media. International aid organizations speak of a humanitarian catastrophe of historic proportions. Ships carrying aid are destroyed in international waters. The International Court of Justice in The Hague did not dismiss South Africa’s genocide case against Israel as unfounded but spoke of a plausible risk. This alone should have sparked a much deeper public debate in Germany.
Language Can Enlighten or Numb
Instead, we often see language that obscures what is actually quite obvious. When tens of thousands of people die, when a population is cut off from water, food, and medical care, when entire neighbourhoods are wiped out, it is no longer enough to speak of a “conflict.” Language can enlighten—or numb. Germany’s role as a primary arms supplier is particularly distressing. After the U.S., Germany has been the most important supplier of military goods to Israel during the Nakba. Thus, Germany is not only morally but also materially linked to this war.
The Shoah ended. Can the same be said of the Nakba? The occupation, expulsion, and military destruction continue to this day. What does it mean when a militant metaphor like “mowing the grass” in Gaza becomes a cynical expression of a policy that does not end the Nakba, but rather manages and perpetuates it? What does it mean when people now speak openly of “transfer,” permanent expulsion, or the resettlement of Gaza? What does it mean when processes of destruction and displacement in Gaza and the West Bank accelerate daily?
Remembering the Shoah ought to make us more sensitive to collective dehumanization. If we truly want to learn from history, we must stop turning remembrance into a shield for power politics. Remembrance must remain alive: to protect life, to defend international law, and to resist becoming desensitized to the suffering of others. Perhaps therein lies the deeper, symbolic connection between the commemoration of the Nakba and Conscientious Objectors’ Day. Both remind us that human conscience must take precedence over national loyalty and military logic. And both pose the uncomfortable question of whether we are prepared to defend humanity even when the political cost is high.
David Auerbach, born in South Africa in 1950, earned a doctorate in physics and worked at the Max Planck Institute for 20 years, with time at Caltech (USA), the University of South Australia, Eindhoven University of Technology, and the Medical University of Graz. He is a lecturer at the Weingarten University of Education, a teacher at Waldorf schools, and gives lectures on scientific, anthroposophical, and meditative topics.
Translation Joshua Kelberman
Image After the exodus (Nakba), the first school classes in Jericho were held outdoors. CC BY-SA 3.0 IGO.
