On April 16th, 2015, at about 12am I watched, from my second floor apartment in Bat Yam, as a black man was beaten unconscious. His yelling, screams and painful shouts startled me, and I ran to the open window. I watched in stunned horror as five or six psychotic white men kicked and punched a man until he lay still, sprawled on his stomach, his head twisted unnaturally sideways, and his arms and feet spread out like a crucifix. Nobody intervened – the sidewalk cafes were buzzing with people, the street was alive. But nobody came to his rescue. Even after the guys ran off, still nobody came to check if he was dead or alive. I grabbed my shoes and ran for the door. By the time the ancient elevator brought me to ground floor (the stairs were broken off in large chunks and not usable without risk of serious injury), a dozen or more police had arrived and stood idly around the body. Nobody touched him to check his condition. Not even to make sure he was still breathing. He lay still at their feet as the police chatted and waited for an ambulance. Several more cruisers arrived and jostled parking spots on the sidewalk. I looked around, took in the scene, then approached one of the officers and told him I had witnessed the crime from my apartment window. As I spoke, I pointed in the direction the men had fled. One of the assailants had dropped their helmet. I watched as another officer kicked it.  Agitated, the officer I approached looked me in the eye and said, “We don’t care. We’re not going after them. We. Don’t. Care. Go back to your apartment.” When the motorcycle ambulance arrived, the police cars pulled away and all the officers left.

When I recall this story to Israelis, I am often told, ‘He must’ve done something to deserve it.’