Essay 2: Speaking Up- For the Better
By Yotom Rabinowitz
Back in the day, as a boy living in Israel, I used to play for hours upon hours with a boy named
S. S. and I met whenever we could – before school, after school, during recess, Saturdays,
vacations. It was fun playing soccer, cards, ping pong and having sleepovers: he was my best
friend. There was only one kink: he was an Arab and I was an Israeli. I didn’t care: after all, S.
was my best friend. But society said otherwise . . .
Out of a class of thirty two second graders, three were Arabic: one Druze (S.), one Muslim, and
one Christian. During my three year tenure in that school, I had befriended all of them. All of
them were as nice, if not nicer, than the Israeli boys, so I often found my self playing with them:
a Jew, a Druze, a Muslim, and a Christian. Is there anything wrong with that? Apparently there
was – I just didn’t see it until that day three kids in our class beat up R., my Muslim friend: his
knees were bleeding, his shoulders were swollen, his face was stamped by finger prints, and
saliva was dribbling down his shirt. I saw the whole thing, and I didn’t do anything. I just stood
there at a ten yard distance, letting S. and my Christian friend N. help R. up. My friends looked
at me as if I had failed them. The three Israeli bullies were expecting me to join them on the
other side of the playground. Not knowing what to do, I joined them.
I was eight years old, and by that time the terrorist attacks were happening left and right; there
was a clear ethnic division in the school. Speaking up was the equivalent of betraying the people
you grew up with. The fights and bullying in my school only got worse, but despite this turn in
events, I continued to play with S. behind the backs of my Israeli classmates. We did not play
soccer in recess anymore, but I did go to his house after school. What was I supposed to do? I
was eight years old and chose to close my mouth to prevent further conflict.
I left Israel with a bitter taste in my mouth, never seeing R., N., or S. ever again. I was forced
into a situation I shouldn’t have been in to begin with and chose to do what everyone else did:
say and do nothing. In the United States, I became the kid with the funny accent, the “foreigner”
in school. As I struggled to figure who I was going to be in my new country, I recognized that
matching what is on the inside and what is on the surface is the most important thing: the only
person I can be is myself. Although I took some risks when I was younger, I was the kid who
covered his face with a fake mask: the kid who was afraid of speaking up against what he
thought was wrong. Today, I don’t hide the fact that I am Israeli and have an accent and act
differently; most importantly, I am not afraid to speak up, because such an act can only affect the
people surrounding me in a positive way. Who knows, maybe if someone spoke up that day at
school, things would have turned out differently – for the better.