This time, the protest caught even those off-guard who, for a while now, have felt paralyzed and uneasy about the disproportionate retaliation by the Israeli government against the people of Gaza.
The event, organized by the Israeli Embassy at the Thessaloniki International Book Fair, was effectively cancelled after about 150 demonstrators entered the space chanting slogans in support of Palestine. The incident raises once again a difficult question: in the name of which rights does one prevent a public discussion from taking place? (As it happens, the invited speakers never made it to the stage due to the blockade formed by the protesters.)
Most likely, neither the demonstrators—nor the publishers who supported the protest, some of whom are quite influential in the field of historical and essay-based publishing—were aware of the event’s topic (“Shifting Landscapes of Jewish Literature”) or the background of the guest speaker, Israeli literary critic Oded Wolkstein.
But that might not have mattered anyway. When a collective claims to stand for freedom of expression, such context should be irrelevant. So let’s pose the uncomfortable question again—among the so-called “accomplices”: what kind of precedent do we set if we begin cancelling events simply because they involve the words “Jewish” or “Israeli”?
Here, we give the floor to Oded Wolkstein, who responded to our questions following the incident.
Why was the event ultimately cancelled? Would you have liked to go through with it?
I wasn’t involved in the decision to cancel the event, but from what I understand, there was no practical way for it to proceed.
I absolutely recognize the right to protest—more than that, I don’t subscribe to the liberal idea that literature should be separated from the world. As Yehuda Amichai once said, literature is “soiled by the problems of the world.” I don’t believe discussions about literature should be confined to some sterilized, hermetically sealed lab.
If you had been given the chance, what would you have said to the protesters?
The protesters—whether in Thessaloniki or elsewhere—confuse Israeli culture with the current Israeli government. That’s a sad mistake, because it erases the legacy of Jewish literature, which has often served as a voice of resistance, dissent, and alternative viewpoints.
Had the protesters been open to dialogue, I would have gladly told them that I am not a representative of Netanyahu’s government. I believe the current stage of this war serves a messianic fantasy, completely divorced from reality, and that hostilities must end immediately—with all hostages returning to their homes at once.
Literature, by its nature, rejects black-and-white narratives. It is fundamentally opposed to simplistic portrayals of reality.
How does an Israeli literary critic respond to their government’s policies after October 7?
I believe I can continue to mourn the victims of the horrific massacre of October 7—a massacre for which no “context” can serve as justification—while also firmly and unequivocally condemning the policies of the current Israeli government. That includes acknowledging the immense suffering and loss inflicted upon innocent civilians in Gaza.
Unfortunately, I fear the protesters aren’t interested in complexity or ambiguity, as you put it. And therefore, they’re not interested in literature—or in any meaningful discussion of it. I’m afraid it’s exactly those kinds of voices that the protesters sought to silence.
Literature becomes the “stain” on the flag raised by those who equate an entire culture with the actions of a particular regime. Last Saturday, the protesters claimed a kind of victory: they scrubbed that stain away and once again raised the monochrome banner of erasure and cancellation.
One of the criticisms raised after the event’s cancellation was that the Jewish Literature Foundation you’re affiliated with receives government funding.
The fact that it receives partial state funding doesn’t make it any different from any university or institution—including those from which the protesting students benefit via generous government scholarships.
If they had been willing to listen, I would’ve told them about S. Yizhar, who during the 1948 war wrote Khirbet Khizeh—a novella (published in Greek by Ekdosis Melani) that directly criticizes the expulsion of Arabs from their villages. I’m proud that our institute helped translate that bold work into multiple languages.
If the event had gone ahead, what would you have discussed regarding Israeli literature?
I would have spoken about “Maktoob,” a Jewish-Arab collective of translators that introduces Palestinian literature to Jewish readers, working to develop a shared Jewish-Arabic dialect. It’s a cultural and aesthetic foundation, if you will, for the possibility of a transnational life—a literary space that fiercely protects a vision that transcends language and current politics.
I also would have mentioned an essay by Israeli writer Dror Mishani. In the days following the October 7 massacre, he called for a moment of pause—for mourning and reflection—instead of rushing into retaliatory rage that crosses borders.
Finally, my co-speaker, Chrysoula Papadopoulou, was going to discuss the monumental translation of Arabesques by Anton Shammas—a Palestinian author who wrote in beautiful Hebrew. Through that singular act, Shammas severed the exclusive link between the Hebrew language and Israeli nationalism, inviting readers to rethink their relationship to language and to place.
