The Space Between the Paintings • When Reality Changes Underfoot ○ Gal HaCohen

Like many, a few days ago, posts from "Broken Pingaz" appeared in my feed.
After almost two years of war and many more years of unrest, we have become accustomed to seeing harsh images on a daily basis, but this post touched me in a different way. Not only because of the bold visual language and moral framing, but because of the question of where and from whom it came.

Broken Pingaz are not just street artists. Their style has shaped the urban fabric of Haifa for the past twenty years. They have worked with local authorities, regional councils and cultural institutions such as the Lottery. On an international level, they have directed music videos for U2, performed in major cities and become part of a cultural force born in Haifa.

I've worked with them too, producing and documenting murals. They're part of my community. They're my friends. And that's part of why this post touched me differently.

Where does it meet me?

Before I share my thoughts, it's important for me to say where this meets me, not only professionally, but also personally.

I served in the military. About a year after my service, while studying political science, I became involved in civic engagement and international peacebuilding efforts. Later, I worked more locally at Beit HaGefen, an institution dedicated to fostering a shared society in Haifa. It is a place where the Jewish-Israeli and Palestinian narratives are recognized, respected, and presented side by side.

For years I have participated in and facilitated programs designed to build bridges. The field of shared society was already under pressure during the first Trump administration, and today, the pressure is even greater: politically, socially, and economically. Like many others, I have had a hard time deciding what to say, and what not to say. Partly because I am not sure it helps and partly because the cost of expressing opinions can be high. Especially when you run your own business.

Silence and complexity

Broken Pingaz’s post included the sentence “Silence is consent and complicity.” It touched me deeply.

I don't have a manifesto to share. I don't feel comfortable with slogans that simplify a complex reality. I have a lot of criticism of the leadership of my country and the conduct of some of its citizens.

I am not proud to see the suffering in Gaza. I hope it ends soon, and that a meaningful solution is found for the people affected by this war.

I have not abandoned my connection to Zionism, however. Even if that word has been rebranded, redefined, and corrupted. And perhaps, as my two great-great-grandfathers did in Basel at the First Zionist Congress in 1897, we need to rethink it.

I don't want another war. I don't want another suffering, not in Gaza, not in Israel. I want a future where citizens on both sides no longer bear the burden of geopolitical failure. I want to be able to hold both pains, without ranking them.

This moment, this war, examines the foundations of everything I have stood for in my work for coexistence. The images we create, the words we choose, the silences we maintain, and the sides we take: they all matter.

Haifa where I believed

In the years before COVID-19, I found myself becoming a kind of historian of Haifa's cultural life. I built and led tours of the city. I researched artists, Jewish and Palestinian, who were reshaping Haifa's downtown.

Then something powerful happened: a Palestinian renaissance, as the New York Times described it in 2016 in their article “In the Israeli City of Haifa, Liberal Arab Culture Flourishes.” New venues, music scenes, and art spaces made the city center a cool place for everyone. And it didn’t challenge my beliefs; on the contrary, it suited them.

I believed that a free Palestine would be good for Israel as well. It would lift a heavy burden and allow both peoples to live in dignity and peace. That same year, I published an opinion piece in a major Israeli newspaper, in which I supported a demilitarized Palestinian state, inspired by Costa Rica.

This renaissance felt liberal, progressive. A model for living together. A reason to believe in the work we were doing. But even then there were cracks. There was more work to do, more progress to make.

Some of the places that hosted this revival also suffered from serious problems, including cases of sexual violence. I remember the heated debates that arose when I suggested stopping at one of these places as part of the training of facilitators at Beit Gefen. The contradictions were already beginning to emerge.
And yet, I believed in the project. I believed in the importance of shared space, in building trust, in maintaining complexity.

Today, it's harder.

Today, many of the same artists and places that inspired me take strong and hostile stances toward Israel, whether from Haifa or from exile.
Some portray the city as the Palestinian capital. Just last month, a popular artist with a huge following announced that she was performing “in Haifa, Palestine” when she performed in downtown Haifa, Israel.

I don't think we can continue to balance these contradictions the way we did a decade ago. So, it didn't feel like something directed at me. It was about culture, language, and heritage; about their Palestinianness, not about my Jewish and Zionist identity.

But today it feels different, because my Judaism and Zionism are now seen as part of the identity of the aggressor, which in the eyes of others is involved in the struggle to “liberate Palestine.”

Like many, my political views have changed in recent years. I’ve become less “woke.” Maybe more so. Maybe more confused.

We talk like we're generals, like we know what needs to happen. But we don't have the intelligence briefings, the operational context, or the responsibility they carry. I don't know if losing this war, abandoning our hostages in Gaza, and waiting for the next attack, from the next group with the means and the motivation, is the way we want it to end.

The truth is, we probably won't get a picture of victory: we've already lost too much and in too many ways. Still, I have hope that the end is near.

In conclusion, we are all being tested: artists, activists, soldiers, citizens, friends.
And I am no exception.

I still believe in listening. In building bridges. But I've become suspicious of a protest whose main purpose is to reassure ourselves. To say, "I spoke, I was on the right side, I did my part," even when nothing changes.

There's this story that people love, about the man who protested against the Vietnam War every day. When asked why, he said, "I don't do it to change them. I do it so they don't change me."

But sometimes I wonder if we say these things more to protect how we will see ourselves in the future than to actually change anything.

So maybe this writing is not a demonstration. Maybe it's not resistance. Maybe it's simply presence. The reading of the tension. A refusal to look away, even when there are no clear answers. Maybe this is where it starts.

The third space

As I finish writing this text, I begin to think not only about what I said, but also about what I didn't say. One idea that resonates in my mind is the need to create a third space, a space that allows for complexity without simplifying it. A space where contradictions do not cancel each other out, but rather coexist.
And that brings me back to the grapevine.

Inside this building is a wing called “The Third Space,” an entire floor dedicated to dialogue, identity, and the unresolved chaos of living together in a multicultural society.

It was built to accommodate opposing narratives. To allow them to exist side by side, even when they conflict.

The central painting in that space, covering the walls of the courtyard, and visible from every window, was painted by Brocken Pingaz. And from every window, you see a different angle.

Maybe this is what I was trying to touch on all along:
It's hard to stay put when the meaning of everything: the symbols, the positions, the sides, is changing underfoot. What once felt like common ground no longer feels that way, and sometimes, even if you stay in the same place, it feels like you've crossed a line.

I disagree with their latest post. I do not support calls to refuse to serve. And I do not believe that the politicization of any cultural space advances us. But it is precisely this tension, between where I stood and what I see now, that made me write. Maybe it is just one point of view, but it also wants to be heard.