Traitor. Wh*re. Go back to Gaza. Hamas. These are just some of the insults hurled at me and other journalists who came to cover the protest at the entrance to the IDF detention center at Sde Teiman. This doesn’t include the spitting, additional colorful curses, and shoving that took place.
A group of Israelis gathered in front of the military base in southern Israel to protest an investigation of IDF soldiers suspected of severe sexual assault of a Hamas terrorist. The protesters broke into the military base under the pretense of supporting the soldiers allegedly involved in the ugliest of offenses. And just as they supported those suspected of committing this heinous act, as despicable as their victim may be, this ugliness painted them as well.
And it’s the same ugliness we saw at the Flag March in Jerusalem, the same one we saw at protests in Tel Aviv, simmers inside a person and bursts out violently. Although the protest moved to the south, the hate remained the same.
The woman who spat on me was wrapped in an Israeli flag. She came to protest against the IDF Military Prosecution, against Attorney General Gali Baharav-Miara and against anyone she perceives as an enemy. But those enemies act in the name of the flag she was wrapped in.
At first, they attacked the Channel 12 news team and their reporter. Ori Isaac, calling him Hamas. The man who served five months in reserve duty, fought, and defended them was, in their eyes, the enemy. Then they cursed Army Radio reporter Rami Shani, who rescued dozens from the Nova Music Festival on October 7. After they broke through the fences, they turned their venom on me.
By chance, I’m Ynet and Yedioth Ahronoth's reporter. By chance, I raised my mobile phone to take a photo at the wrong moment. And once you’re marked as an enemy at such a protest, it’s contagious. Because hate is contagious.
It spreads among everyone like a murky wave, and within minutes, my phone was knocked out of my hand. Once, then again. And when I fumbled for my phone, trying to continue documenting the event, a protester’s hand grabbed it. She tried to snatch my phone. I had to struggle to prevent her from stealing it.
Then the woman who spat on me arrived wrapped in the Israeli flag. Everyone cursed, reducing me to nothing, trying to erase me, treating me like a pest, out to take something from them — something that was never theirs.
And wrapped in the flag, she dared to spit on me. To aim and hit. She had never met me, and I had never met her. A policeman took me aside, my eyes already filling with tears. It was a terrible feeling to waste this energy, these tears, on them.
I didn’t want to leave the place; I didn’t want them to win. I wanted to do my job. I stayed there, despite the policeman’s suggestion to retreat. Who were they to make me back off? That was a mistake. That same woman wrapped in the flag took the trouble to come back and spit on me again.
You could see she was proud of herself. She found the traitor and did the only thing she knew how to do. Because when there’s such hate toward something, toward someone, there aren’t many smart ways to remove it. And along with her were those who continued to curse and shove.
On October 7, I didn’t realize I needed to be afraid. Not at the massacre in Ofakim, with the sounds of gunfire still echoing. Not on the way to Kibbutz Kfar Aza. I didn’t cry. It’s embarrassing to think these people made me cry. And it wasn’t because of the curses. It was the feeling of humiliation and hate.
Ilana CurielPhoto: Yair SagiThe feeling that I was afraid of Israelis, of people who are supposed to be my neighbors, of people who are part of my nation. You’re supposed to be the ones I expect to stand by my side. We’re supposed to be together in all this, right?
And you’re the ones cursing and spitting on me and my colleagues, wishing me the worst things you could. I’m sorry for you. And it hurts me that we’re part of the same people. It hurts me that you can hate me so much.