“The people who know nothing know everything”. By Nachum Kaplan.

Foreword by Daniel Clarke-Serret:

What is so special about the piece is how it is written. Far more than a mere polemic or an academic thesis, it is a bona fide work of literature … It speaks of argument in a world of slogans. It promotes truth in a world of ignorance. It elevates fact in a world of fiction. And it does so with a humour, humanity and exasperation that AI would never be capable of. It is Nachum Kaplan’s authentic voice, and the voice of all those that despair along with him.

Put simply, it’s a masterpiece deserving of a prize that the luvvies will never give him — and it’s a powerful testament to the continuing force of the writer to preserve our humanity.

Read the whole thing, but here’s the set up:

I knew the evening was in trouble when the hostess described the table as “a safe space for difficult conversations.”

Nothing good has ever followed such words.

A safe space for difficult conversations is usually a space in which everyone is free to express precisely the same opinion, provided they do so using slightly different therapeutic vocabulary. Disagreement is welcome in the way vegetarians are welcome at a barbecue: theoretically, warmly, and without any intention of accommodating them.

The dinner was being held in an immaculate apartment overlooking the city. The furniture was Scandinavian, the lighting was flattering, and the books had been arranged not alphabetically but morally. Edward Said sat beside Frantz Fanon. Judith Butler leaned against a large volume on decolonising architecture. There were several books about Israel, none by Israelis, historians, military analysts, Arabic speakers, Hebrew speakers, or anyone who had recently burdened themselves with the region’s chronology.

The apartment belonged to Oliver and Beatrice, who had invited 12 people for what they called “an evening of food, friendship and necessary conversation.”

I had been included, I later realised, as the necessary conversation; the one in need of “education.”

Beatrice greeted me at the door with the expression of a person welcoming a recently rehabilitated extremist.

“We’re so glad you came,” she said, touching my arm. “We were worried you might feel uncomfortable.”

“I’ve been to family weddings,” I replied. “I’ll survive.”

The other guests had already assembled around a huge island bench. They held champagne flutes and spoke in low, solemn tones about suffering in places they would never visit.

There was Julian, an international lawyer who specialised in commercial leases but had recently developed strong views on the laws of armed conflict. Nadia worked in branding and referred to herself as a storyteller. Marcus was a documentary producer whose documentaries had never been produced. Eleanor taught postcolonial literature and had perfected the academic art of converting adjectives into accusations. Simon was in finance and considered himself politically courageous because he had once criticised capitalism at Davos.

There was also Theo, a surgeon, who knew nothing about Israel but knew it with clinical confidence.

I was introduced around the room.

“This is our pro-Israel friend,” Beatrice announced.

I gently corrected her that I was not pro-Israel but an actual Israeli, which caused a murmur.

It was a curious introduction. Nobody else was introduced by the country they were expected to defend. There was no “This is our pro-France friend” or “Meet our controversial supporter of New Zealand.”

Apparently, Israel was no longer a country. It was a personality disorder, and not a borderline one.

“How brave of you to come,” Eleanor said.

“Why?”

“Well,” she replied, glancing around the room, “I suspect you may be in the minority.”

“Minorities are sacred,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be protected.”

The first course was served on plates that looked handmade because they had been expensively manufactured to resemble imperfection. It was some kind of compressed beetroot construction accompanied by a smear of something apologetic.

Oliver raised his glass.

“To honest conversation.”

Everyone echoed him.

I should have left then.

For the first 10 minutes, the conversation was restrained. We discussed schools, property prices, artificial intelligence and whether the city had lost its soul. Then Nadia placed her fork carefully beside her plate and sighed.

“I just don’t understand how anyone can still defend Israel.”

There it was.

Not raised, exactly. Released.

The room grew quiet. Heads turned towards me with the benign anticipation of people waiting for a laboratory animal to perform a familiar trick.

“What is it that you don’t understand?” I asked.

“All of it,” she said.

This was at least honest.

“The occupation. The apartheid. The genocide. The colonialism.”

Four accusations, delivered with the rhythmic confidence of a wine list.

“Those are different claims,” I said.

“Are they?”

“Yes. Words retain separate meanings even when discussing Israel.” …

And then it starts.

Here’s the ending and the aftermath:

I placed my napkin on the table.

“But before I go, let us clarify what happened here. You invited one pro-Israel guest into a room of people who share the same politics and called it dialogue. You introduced me by my position, then treated me as morally suspect for holding it. You recited accusations you could not define, cited history you did not know, invoked laws you could not explain and became offended whenever asked for evidence.”

Nobody spoke.

“You are not courageous dissenters. You are the local branch office of an international consensus assembled from newspaper headlines, dinner-party fashion and the intoxicating pleasure of condemning Jews for surviving incorrectly.”

“That is outrageous,” Beatrice said.

“No. Outrageous was Theo suggesting Jewish trauma produces aggression while sitting beneath a painting his family probably bought from a refugee.”

Theo looked towards the painting.

I had no idea where it came from, but by then accuracy had become less important to everyone, so I decided to participate.

Simon stood as well.

“You’re becoming hysterical.”

“Hysterical? I am the calmest person here. I am merely no longer cushioning the information for people who consider contradiction a hate crime.”

“You are proving every stereotype about pro-Israel people,” Nadia said.

“You mean Jews? Which stereotype? That we eventually lose patience after being lectured by people who discovered the Middle East six months ago?”

“You’re impossible.”

“No. I’m inconvenient. There is a difference.”

I picked up my jacket.

The room watched me with the shocked resentment of aristocrats who had just discovered the footman could read.

At the door, Oliver made one final attempt at magnanimity.

“I’m sorry you didn’t feel heard.”

“I was heard perfectly well. That is why everyone is upset.”

“We may simply have to agree to disagree.”

“No. You may have to agree to read.”

He folded his arms.

“Do you genuinely believe you’re the only person here who understands the issue?”

“No,” I said. “I believe I’m the only person here who has made the vulgar effort.”

Beatrice opened the door.

The conversation, she said, had become unsafe.

I thanked her for the meal.

Outside, the night air was cool and gloriously free of moral vocabulary. I walked home reflecting on the strange burden of being pro-Israel in polite society.

One is expected to arrive with evidence, history, nuance, empathy, military expertise, legal precision and a detailed alternative strategy for every available course of action.

The other side need only arrive with adjectives. Colonial. Genocidal. Apartheid. Brutal.

Each word is placed on the table like a royal flush. No definitions required. No chronology necessary. No awareness of competing claims. The accusation itself is treated as evidence, while any response is proof of callousness.

The ignorance would be less irritating if it were accompanied by humility. Yet ignorance among the educated rarely travels alone. It brings status, vocabulary and the confidence of belonging to a moral majority. Its possessors do not merely lack knowledge. They regard knowledge as faintly disreputable, particularly when it interferes with the emotional clarity of their conclusions.

By the following morning, I had received three messages.

Beatrice said she was “holding space” for me but needed time to process my aggression.

Nadia said she hoped I would one day reconnect with my compassion.

Julian sent an article from a newspaper columnist who had never visited Israel.