editors:
howie brick
laura berman
contributing editor:
mary long

Sunday

magazine

inside:
page four-books
page five-on
conspirmng

Number 12 Page Three Novembe

r 24, 1974

FEATURES

m

Images

of

an

acti

'Ann
By STEPHEN SELBST
BESIDES BEING "the research
center of the midwest," Ann
Arbor was once, believe it or not, a
center of campus radicalism. The
campus was intimately involved in
the birth of Students for a Demo-
cratic Society, seen by many stu-
dents as a progressive, moving
force, by many others as a bit too
extreme, and by many of the more
established elements in society as
an outrage. Tom Hayden, one of
the national founders, studied here,
and the local chapter was one of
the largest, most influential in the
country.
It was long ago in' sensibility if
not in years - a time when stu-
dents had the power to make
changes in politics, in education,
and even in the attitudes and life-
styles of the nation as a whole.
There was, in those radical years,
an exhilirating sense of control
over the country's destiny. It seem-
ed as if great things were going to
happen at any moment, as if any-
th'ng could happen so long as
everyone was united and worked
and believed.
There were great political suc-
cesses like the massive anti-war
mobilibations in Washington, D.C.
and the Black Action Movement
(BAM) strike here on campus, and
SDS was at the forefront. To many,
its members, who were mostly white
middle-class, formed the core of an
intense generation in revolt. And
then things fell apart.
FINDING OLD SDS members still
in Ann Arbor isn't as easy as one
might think. Many have left, and
some prefer not to remember their
SDS connections. When a local
insurance agent was asked for an
interview, he refused, asking that
his name not be mentioned, for
fear it might hurt his business, and
wondering how he had been dis-
covered.
SDS changed quickly throughout
the years after its founding in 1962
in the direction of more direct op-
position to established institutions.
"A couple of months could be an
era in SDS," says Michael Castle-
man. "Things changed that fast."
Castleman himself was part of this.
His beliefs changed as he grew
more involved with SDS, and in
many ways his story is typical.
Castleman grew up in a middle-
class suburb of New York and got
involved with the civil rights move-
ment when the schools in his town
were integrated. He was first at-
tracted to the "moral witness, civil
disobedience" type of social protest
then prevalent.
WHEN HE CAME, here as a fresh-
man in 1968 he became in-
volved with the then-active d r a f t
resistance movement almost imme-
diately. Gradually his involvement
deepened. The following fall Cas-

Irbor's
tleman worked with SDS, helping
with anti-recruiter demonstrations,
putting out a paper called the "Up
Against the Wall Street Journal,"
and "going to school mostly on
weekends". The next summer he
went into Detroit as part of a col-
lective, and it was there that his
disillusionment began. The situa-
tion in the house was bad, he says,
because some people were putting
a lot of energy into it, working,
turning over their paychecks to the
house, and going into the parks to
talk politics to the kids, while oth-
ers did virtually nothing. "I went
into the house feeling very close
to a couple of people, and good
about the others," he says, "and
came out feeling close to none. It
was months until I talked to some
of those people again."
The house only lasted until Aug-
ust, and Castleman returned to
Ann Arbor in the fall. He then tried
one more time to organize a col-
lective, but by spring the last final
gasp of energy was gone. SDS was
dead in Ann Arbor.
Now he works for the Free Peo-
ple's Medical Clinic and considers
his work "a logical extension of my
SDS activities." He is not a mem-
ber of campus radical groups be-
cause his personal interests now lie
in working with the community
rather than with students. "T h e
oppression of day to day life, like
food prices and rent is the best way
to radicalize people," he declares.
And despite the fact that the
dream of revolution has faded, Cas-
tleman still remembers SDS with
more good memories than bad. He
stresses the moments of joy, opti-
mism, and solidarity. For Castle-
man, like many others, it was a
place to belong: "All the brightest,
most sensitive people I knew were
in SDS," he says, and mourns its
passing.
NOT SO FOR Peter DiLorenzi. He
sees SDS as a part of his
youth, a part now finished. To
him, SDS was a place where kids
worked out their problems: "SDS
was always a fairly soul-searching
organization. At every convention
there'd be an afternoon devoted to
the equality of man."
DiLorenzi and SDS parted com-
pany about the time of the emer-
gence of Weatherman. "I never
had anything in common with the
Weatherpeople, either in style, or
with their desperate (political)
analysis. Partly that's me: I could
not relate to the people." He was a
member of SDS during its more in-
tellectual period, starting around
1965, and he "liked the uncertain-
ty of it. There was a heavy aca-
demic tinge."
Now DiLorenzi manages the Lord
Fox restaurant where he says the
"busboys and the waitresses are a
healthy change" from his SDS days
when he, like Castleman, knew
"only the best, brightest, most lib-
eral faculty, the brightest students,
people from the Daily, and SGC
people. That's really limited."

His only connection to his past
now is working at Guild House, a
progressive ecumenical organiza-
tion that was a home for many
activist causes in the 60's. He talks
of going back to school; working
at the Lord Fox isn't permanent.
"A lot of my friends got into social
work, getting paid for being a radi-
cal, or what's worse, getting paid
for being a radical and not being
one. To me that's not honest," he
says. For him, politics will be on
the side.

SDS
1969 he attended meetings
ly, he says, until he left t
Now he works for the st
partment of Social Ser
Flint, pushing papers allc
"interviewing people and
get them into -college cou
stuff. It's frustrating. I'm
ly impressed by the job a
He hopes to return to
bor, look for a job here, or
go back to school. "Mayb
into journalism or law. I d
alism related work for SI
ing write pamphlets."
But mostly he just mis
city. He says he still has a
of friends here, and he
come down on weekends
can. He's attracted by ti
stores and films in the t
in fact is working on his o
mentary about the Ker
shootings.
A L VALUSEK was first
to SDS as a place tc
The son of an Air Forc

as
ist past
veterans
regular- man, SDS provided roots for peo-
own. ple like him who had moved around
a lot in childhood. Also, he says,
ate's De- "SDS was a political thing and
vices in there hadn't been anything like
day long, that in high school." At that point,
trying to in 1963, "The. Port Huron state-
irses and ment (SDS's founding manifesto)
not real- had come the year before and SDS
we do." was really fledgling."
Ann Ar- In one respect Valusek was un-
Spossibly usual: in his first semester he was
eid journ enrolled in ROTC. "I may be the
DS, help- only person to have been in ROTC
)S, elp and SDS at the same time," he
laughs, addingthat "ROTC lost
ses the out eventually though."
Lnumber
likes to He was one of 39 people arrested
when he at the sit-in at the Ann Arbor draft
he book- board on October 15, 1965, one of
own, and See SOME
wn docu-Epage 5
nt State
Stephen Selbst turned thirteen years
old on the night that Chicago police
attracted clubbed demonstrators during the 1968
n be nc

g u .
e career

Democratic convention.

An SDS meeting in Ann Arbor in 1969.

Arabs and Israells on campus:
The quiet poitics of a voidance

By HOWARD BRICK
THE SCENE in Beit Shean last
Tuesday was one of pure
hysteria. A group of Palestinian
guerrillas had killed four Israe-
lis and injured some twenty
more in an apartment house
raid. When Israeli troops killed
the attackers, their bodies were
thrown out the windows and
were trampled and burned by
mobs in the street. After watch-
ing television footage of the mob
action, one student in Ann Ar-
bor remarked, "There's enough
hatred there to last a few gener-
ations."
That grim assessment may be
accurate. The situation in the
Middle East seems to worsen by
the day, and the hope of avoid-
ing another war is dwindling.
Some predict its outbreak within
the next six months, and no-
body really believes that nego-
tiation between the two sides
will get any easier with the pas-
sage of time. The stalemate in
the Middle East is reflected in
the stalemate between the two
communities of Arab and Is-
raeli students now at the Uni-
versity. There are an estimated
100 Arabs and 50 Israelis on
campus, and interaction between
the two groups-even if cordial
-is generally superficial. Politi-
cal discussion, for the sake of
tranquility, is nearly taboo. And
a sampling of individual opin-
ions shows Arabs and Israelis to
be about as far apart as ever.
One Arab student, who asked
to remain anonymous, said that
academic work often requires
contact between the two groups.
"But if you want to maintain a
relationship with someone," he
commented, "you avoid discus-
sing the problem so you don't
get an ulcer evervtime you see
them." An Israeli student, also
requesting anonymity in order
not to damage denartment rela-
tions, agreed. "Relations on a
personal level are simply non-
existent, and there's no desire
on either side to encourage it,"
he said in a matter-of-fact
tone. "People are under enoueh

al unity on both sides, they
form their own cohesive com-
munities. There are those how-
ever, who seem peculiarly adept
at divorcing politics from per-
sonality. Avram Hochstein, a
big, warm, somewhat absent-
minded and excitable man, is
one of them. He has spent many
years studying political science
in the United States ("I have
been a student too long," he ad-
mits embarrassedly.) and tells
a story of traveling to Honolulu
and meeting an Arab there.
"I said, 'I'm from Israel' and
he said, with a smile-a very
sweet smile-'I'm from Pales-
tine,' and then I knew we would
never solve the problem but we

sit with them?"
Hijazi's cousin, Mahmoud is
a 41-year-old Palestinian now
enrolled in the University's
School of Social Work. He is not
as vehement as his younger
relative, and, dressed in all
brown colors that go along
with his quiet, reserved nature,
he describes his personal in-
volvement in the Middle East
conflict. His family fled their
home town of Safed during the
1948 war. It was after midnight
and Jordanian soldiers were
seen leaving the town dressed
in women's clothing.
"It was a hysteric situation,"
he says. "We were afraid they
(the Israeli soldiers) were com-

.t%:.?av . r:.":.....;.. ":r~i:."ra:r .n.1"a>.....x :.':c-'.. ..-.....:., ......
An Israeli woman on campus says she has enter-
tained Arab students in her home and has been
invited into their homes. "But you don't go out
drinking beer to argue politics," she said. "I have
had discussions and you argue and finally decide,
war is the only solution,' and then you say, okay,
let's get off the subject."
a a,:1 . ................. ......^.. ....r:v.". .. ... :.. a

cannot accept the idea of a sin-
gle secular state in the area.
"It's just impossible for a heal-
thy Israeli to live and grow up
and think that' Israel should
not exist as a Jewish state,"
one student remarked.
Hochstein, in a fashion very
much like that of the political
scientist, analyzes the situation
this way. "Don't talk to me
about the 'rights' of the Pales-
tinian. People have deep emo-
tional attachments. The Pales-
tinian has his attachment to
the land and I have my attach-
ment. The problem is not how
to establish justice on the
shaky basis of 'rights' but how
to find solutions for a contra-
diction in very deep human at-
tachments." Leaning back and
sipping a cup of coffee, he takes
off his glasses to rub his eyes.
"The solution is painful, very
painful, compromise," he stress-
es, "and the compromise should
take the form of some territorial
division that must be realistic
and create viable political enti-
ties."
MOST OF THE Israelis here
would agree with Hochstein
that a Palestinian state should
be established as long as Israel
is maintained. They argue that
they are willing to respect the
nationalism and self-determi-
nation of the Palestinians if the
Palestinians will in turn respect
theirs.
But the two sides remain at
loggerheads. While some Israelis
are even willing to negotiate
with Yasir Arafat and his Pal-
estine L i b e r a ti o n Organiza-
tion, many, if not most, are not.
And while almost all the Israe-
lis on campus endorse the con-
cept of a separate Palestinian
state, most of the Arabs here do
not endorse the continued exist-
ence of a Jewish state in the
area.
"Listen," Osamah Hijazi says,
wpiting to dictate a statement
into the renorter's notebook.
"The PLO promises not to drop
trhir arms until the day of vic-
tortr "

would be friends. He was a very
sweet man, very sweet."
But even where relations are
at their best, there are guide-
lines to be followed. An Israeli
woman says she has entertain-
ed Arab students in her home
and has been invited into their
homes. She has given and re-
ceived gifts. "But you don't go
out drinking beer to argue poli-
tics." If newcomers try to do
that, they soon learn the proper
way to handle themselves. "I
have had discussions and you
argue and finally decide, 'war is
the only solution,' and then you
say okay, let's get off the sub-
ject."
Of course, there are people on
both sides who set up barriers
to any form of communication.
Osamah Hijazi is a 21-year-old
Palestinian who grew up in Am-
man and just started studying
here this term. He wears dark
green glasses and sports a "Free

ing after us and would kill us.
The people just grabbed what
they could take and started
running. We were afraid they
were behind us. I was eleven
years old at the time; I was
little to walk such a distance.
If my memory's still good I
walked five hours, and I wasn't
sure I would make it."
FOR BOTH Mahmoud and
Osamah Hijazi, there is
little doubt . that the Israeli
state must be abolished and a
single democratic, secular state
be established in the area. The
concept of setting up a sepa-
rate Palestinian state alongside
an Israeli state is unacceptable
to them and, it seems, to most
Arabs on campus. "The Pales-
tinians don't want a part of
the land with a lot of condi-
tions," a Libyan student said.
"With two states there will be
more conflict than in the nast.




I