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In memoriam – Hajo Meyer, a warrior, not a survivor

August 24, 2014

Hajo with the red coat, backpack, hallow of frizzily white hair and youthful, energetic walk is gone. Died in his sleep, “peaceful” death, as they say. But perhaps Hajo didn’t die in peace of mind. He left our world in one of the darkest hours to our people, seekers of justice and peace in Israel/Palestine. He left a world full of horror, crimes committed in our name, like the atrocities committed during the massacre in the Gaza village of Khuzaa where nothing but the sickening smell of death is left. 

A few times I invited him to talk to my students. He used to tell them that the worst that happened to him during the great war was not Auschwitz but being denied as a Jew the right to education before the war. He used to drive audiences in the Netherlands and beyond into mad hysteria comparing Israel to Nazi Germany in the 1930s after the Nuremberg laws. The emotions he elicited, his fierce persuasion as an activist, his outbursts of rage against any slight hint of complacency with Israel were always intense and coming from the purest of places — his goodness of heart, his absolute belief in humanity, and unwavering dedication to the right of Palestinians to exist in human dignity. 

Hajo, like many progressive Jews, was fascinated by some and repulsed by most Israelis, or anyone supporting Israel. He adored Israeli human right defenders but could never really understand them, where they come from and what they represent to their society. He was a European Jew, who was obsessed with Israel and knew it from the writing of Gidon Levi and Amira Has and B’tselem reports. I once tried to sketch for him the social justice issues riveting Israeli society, particularly the Mizrahi struggle, and he looked at me as if I’m talking about the bizarre internal affairs of a colony on the moon. I never minded that, and never stopped admiring him for incarnating body and soul, day in and day out, year after year the otherwise empty “never again” slogan, which was for him a way of life. 

I remember the beautiful day when we celebrated his 80s birthday in the early spring in a picture perfect location surrounded by lush, blooming nature of the Dutch countryside. He was radiant and strong, surrounded by his amazing wife, beautiful family of music lovers and friends. He played the violin and I was struck by the subtlety and gentleness of his music making, so remarkably different than his normal bustling and bubbling Bethovenian personality. If Hajo kept quiet, it was always the quiet before the storm, before the next urgent plight on the agenda is set with fists raised up in the air, then hitting hard on the meeting table. He was never a petty man, always larger than life and generous. He didn’t care for boring nitty-gritty as a board member. He was gripped by visions and the vigor of his intellectual prowess was impossible to contain. His presence as the spiritual leader in our midst leaves a terrible void, now in the worst of times. He lived a long life as a warrior for justice. This war is still raging. 

Hilla Dayan