Because what is happening here around you is not some kind of necessary counterespionage, limited and precise. What is happening here is that an entire population of our reservists—bank clerks, insurance agents, electronics engineers, technicians, retailers, students—carries out the task of imprisoning another entire population, theirs—tile layers, plasterers, lab workers, journalists, clergy, students. This is something without parallel in any part of the world today that is thought to be decent. And you are a partner to it. You comply.
And now, as the screams grow weaker, as they change to a kind of sobbing, wailing, you know that from this moment on nothing will ever again be as it was. Because a person who has heard the screams of another person being tortured is already a different person. Whether he does anything about it or not, a person who has heard the screams of another person being tortured incurs an obligation.
You look around and cannot believe it. Indeed most people feel a shock when they arrive here, when they see people closed up in pens. Most are shaken when they first hear the screaming. Yet only one out of sixty of us refuse to do guard duty in the interrogation section. Only four or five look troubled. Most of the rest get accustomed to it very quickly. After a day or two here it already seems quite natural to see people enclosed behind barbed wire. The interrogation section is part of the routine. As if this were the way of the world.
And these people, your friends, ordinary Israelis, who sit in the canteen in front of the TV with you to watch a repeat screening of Gandhi, or thirty-something, or LA Law—these good people who are solid citizens of a consumer-oriented, technological democracy—undergo here, without the slightest difficulty, the silent metamorphosis that is required of them.