Moranne
Fifteen years ago today, Moranne Amit was murdered.
I worked as a software engineer at Applicad from 1997 to 2000. Strange arrangement. Days belonged to the IDF. Nights to Applicad. Same job writing code, different desks. Sometimes I slept under one.
Moranne was the administrative assistant to the CEO. Brief conversations by the coffee machine. Quick mind. Sharp as hell.
One night, must have been '98, there was a critical bug blocking a release. Dror, Ilan, and me were the ones who had to fix it. Dror was a senior engineer, Ilan the VP R&D. They've since become like family. That night we were just three guys staring at screens, trying to make the impossible happen.
Moranne was the last person to leave the office besides us. It was already late.
About 30 minutes later, she walks back in. Doesn't say a word. Just puts down a bag of snacks and a couple packs of cigarettes on the desk. Turns around and leaves.
That's the kind of person she was. Small gestures. No fanfare.
A few years later, we had different kinds of conversations. Late nights, ICQ, just as friends, about love and relationships. Open, honest. She had this way of thinking about things. Sharp. Questioning. Never satisfied with simple answers.
Later she became the community manager of Ynet's 'singles' community. Makes sense. She understood people. Their messiness. Their contradictions.
Five years after her death, a colleague-turned-friend wrote in remembrance: "She saw her community management work as a mission".
About two months after her death, I started dating a girl who managed another Ynet community under that same 'relationships' category. Moranne ran 'singles'. She ran 'sex'. She had known Moranne online. Small world. Chilling coincidence.
In April 2001, Moranne wrote the opening post for her community. She called it "ילדי המהפכה", Children of the Revolution:
ילדי המהפכה אני קוראת לנו, אלו שהבחירות שלנו כמעט אינסופיות ורשאים ליהנות, או לא, מפירות העשורים שקדמו להם. נולדנו לישראל שעוד הייתה "ישנה", ואנחנו מתבגרים אל תוך הכפר הגלובלי.
כילדים עוד הספקנו תלבושת אחידה של מפעל אתא ומכנסיים מתרחבים, שאריות של רוק פרוגרסיבי ופאנק, דייט ראשון בפרוזן יוגורט השכונתי וסלואו לצלילי וואהם. אחר כך באו מהפכת התקשורת, הגראנג' והראפ, לבנון, הפרסומות, פרוייקט הגנום האנושי, קלווין קליין, מכוני הכושר, תרבות הפי.סי., המהפך, גירל פאוואר, אוסלו, הטברנות והטראנס, אולוויס אולטרה, פלורנטין, מצעד הגאווה, דור ה-X ודור ה-Y, האיידס והאינטרנט.
רבים מאתנו מחפשים שותפים לטיול הגדול, אחרים קונים פאלמים, מתלבטים אם להישאר לישון, חוזרים לחיק היהדות, גרים עם ההורים או מחפשים דירה בשכירות, חושבים על חתונה ברבנות, או אולי בקפריסין, או לא בכלל, חותמים חוזה אופציות, חותמים אבטלה, חותמים על המשכנתא. אנחנו נפגשים בריייבים, או במועדונים לריקודים לטיניים, או בריקודי עם, משחקים אותה קשים להשגה, מתפקרים, משאירים הודעות רומנטיות בנייד ומבטלים בליינד דייט באייסיקיו.
מה מעסיק אותנו? מה אנחנו מחפשים בקשר? האם אנחנו בכלל מחפשים קשר? מאמינים ברומנטיקה? בסקס? בכסף? באהבה? במסורת? או לא מאמינים בכלום? על מי אנחנו חולמים? כאן המקום לספר, לקטר, להתייעץ, לסנגר, להתבדח ולהתווכח על היחסים שלנו, בין עשרים לשלושים, פלוס מינוס. יש פה מקום לכל סוגי האנשים ולכל סוגי היחסים, ובלבד שנכבד זה את זה.
מורן, ילידת 76, סטודנטית לב"א רב תחומי, רווקה, אוהבת סושי, תמיד מאבדת מפתחות.
Translation:
Children of the Revolution, that's what I call us. Those whose choices are almost infinite, entitled to enjoy, or not, the fruits of the decades that came before us. We were born into an Israel that was still "old", and we're coming of age into the global village.
As children we still caught the ATA school uniforms and bell-bottoms, the remnants of progressive rock and punk, first dates at the neighborhood frozen yogurt shop and slow dances to Wham!. Then came the communications revolution, grunge and rap, Lebanon, TV commercials, the Human Genome Project, Calvin Klein, fitness centers, P.C. culture, the political upheaval, Girl Power, Oslo, the Tavernas and the Trance, Always Ultra, Florentine, the Pride Parade, Generation X and Generation Y, AIDS and the Internet.
Many of us are looking for partners for the great journey, others are buying PalmPilots, debating whether to sleep over, returning to the fold of Judaism, living with their parents or searching for a rental apartment, thinking about a wedding at the Rabbinate, or maybe in Cyprus, or not at all, signing stock options contracts, signing up for unemployment benefits, signing the mortgage deed. We meet at raves, or at Latin dance clubs, or at folk dancing, playing hard to get, hooking up, leaving romantic messages on mobile phones and canceling blind dates on ICQ.
What occupies us? What are we looking for in a relationship? Are we even looking for a relationship? Do we believe in romance? In sex? In money? In love? In tradition? Or do we believe in nothing at all? Who do we dream about? This is the place to tell, to vent, to consult, to advocate, to joke and to argue about our relationships, between twenty and thirty, plus or minus. There's room here for all kinds of people and all kinds of relationships, as long as we respect each other.
Moranne, born '76, interdisciplinary BA student, single, loves sushi, always losing keys.
On February 8, 2002, she was walking with a friend in the Peace Forest in Jerusalem. The Peace Forest.
Moranne was a peace activist. A feminist. She spent her limited free time, between work and law school, at demonstrations and rallies for peace. She was murdered in the Peace Forest.
Another colleague, who managed the 'settlers' community, mourned her too. They'd worked together for a year. Political opposites. Same team.
A group of Palestinian teenagers from East Jerusalem, most of them 13 to 16 years old, had formed a terror cell they called "The Black Panther". Their school was their base. They trained there. Prepared Molotov cocktails. Stored knives, gloves, ski masks, tear gas. The oldest, 19, worked as the school janitor.
Moranne wasn't their first target. For months they had been trying to murder Jews. They firebombed a café. Tried to blow up an apartment building with gas canisters. Stabbed a jogger on the Armon HaNatziv promenade. He survived.
That day they ambushed Moranne and her friend. They ran in opposite directions. Her friend escaped and called for help. Moranne stumbled.
The teenagers caught her. Stabbed her repeatedly. Left her there.
Help didn't arrive in time.
She was 25. Her killers were children. They all confessed.
Two received life sentences plus 20 years. The others got 3 to 20 years. Some are already free.
Her gravestone says "היי שלום", farewell, go in peace. An infinity symbol where the day should be.
I think about that bag of snacks. The late-night conversations about love. A 25-year-old who thought deeply about what it means to connect with another person.
After her death I went over our ICQ chat history. Over and over.
One exchange from 1999. We were joking around, mock-threatening each other. She called herself a "non-practicing atheist". Then wrote: "I fear nothing but the cruelties of man. Did you happen to read Black Dogs?"
It's an Ian McEwan novel. About how evil lives in us all. "When the conditions are right, a terrible cruelty erupts, and everyone is surprised by the depth of hatred within himself".
A year after her death, a friend wrote a poem.
"I'm sorry I killed you" said the soldier to the girl.
"It was for freedom."
"That's OK" said the girl.
"I'm in heaven now."
"I'm sorry" said the soldier.
"Heaven is our next target."
I translated it and dedicated it to Moranne:
"מצטער שהרגתי אותך," אמר החייל לילדה.
"זה היה בשביל החופש."
"זה בסדר," אמרה הילדה.
"אני בגן-עדן עכשיו."
"אני מצטער," אמר החייל.
"גן-עדן זו המטרה הבאה שלנו."
Update (February 2022):
Twenty years after the murder, one of the perpetrators was released from prison. He was 13 years and 11 months old when he stabbed Moranne to death.
Palestinian officials welcomed him as a hero. The former Mufti of Jerusalem paid him a visit. The Palestinian Authority presented him with a certificate of honor. Interviews. Celebrations.
In another attack, his role was simpler: the whistler. One whistle meant Arab, don't touch. Two whistles meant Jew, attack. Once, no whistle. His friends pepper-sprayed a passerby to check. The man begged for mercy in Arabic. They let him go and waited for a Jew.
This is who they celebrate.