Legal showdown looms as Cape Union Mart takes PSC to court over 'genocide funder' claims
Cape Union Mart has been called out by the PSC numerous times as 'supporting genocide', referring to the current ongoing genocide taking place in Gaza.
International retailer Cape Union Mart has approached the Western Cape High Court to seek an interdict restraining the local organisation, Palestine Solidarity Campaign (PSC), from labelling them as supporting genocide.
The retailer has been called out by the PSC numerous times as "supporting genocide", referring to the current ongoing genocide taking place in Gaza as the Israelis continue to martyr the Palestinian people.
In court papers, which IOL has seen, Cape Union Mart is cited as the first applicant, and the second applicant is owner and executive chairman Philip Krawits.
The respondents are five activists from the PSC, and the sixth respondent is unidentified protesters, and the seventh respondent is the PSC.
In its application, Cape Union Mart asked the court to interdict/restrain PSC from harassing and intimidating customers and staff.
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Israelis are trapped in a narrative that diminishes their empathy
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After heated debates and consultations with close friends and family, I decided to take the job and allow myself to remain in it for no more than one year. What followed was an immersion into a world of contradictions: people who could be unfailingly polite one minute and, the next, perfectly comfortable with justifying the most brutal violence against a neighboring people. On the surface, the workplace was professional and respectful. I was treated, day after day, with a courtesy that one might expect between colleagues. Yet, beneath that veneer was a collective blindness so complete it bordered on willful ignorance. Nearly every Israeli I worked with was solidly behind the so-called war in Gaza - a war that has wrought devastation on countless Palestinian families. But in our personal interactions, there was no trace of hostility directed at me. It was, perhaps, a cold civility, a compartmentalisation. I met their children and spouses via video calls and saw their daily routines unfold, the everyday life of people who, it seemed, could not conceive of the suffering so close by. At one point, a co-worker mentioned how he routinely looked forward to Christmas meals prepared by Christian Palestinians. The remark hung in the air like bitter irony because, at that very moment, Israeli forces were systematically demolishing Christian holy sites, their artillery reducing both sacred spaces and civilian lives to rubble. According to the Zionist vision for Greater Israel, one day there would be no non-Jews left in the land they call holy, their presence erased alongside anyone who doesn't ascribe to the Jewish faith. This very awkward conversation was a grim reminder that what may seem like cultural nods often mask a violent reality. In another moment, I overheard a recorded conversation between an Israeli-American co-worker and an American client. 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Their lack of awareness that I could decipher the gist of these conversations only added to the disquiet, exposing the undercurrent of suspicion tinted by their worldview. One cultural detail stood out starkly: Israeli humour. Sharp, irreverent, often self-deprecating, it serves as a coping mechanism, a way to digest centuries of Jewish suffering and historical trauma. This humour is a shield, yes, but it also carries within it a troubling darkness. When turned toward Palestinians, it twists into a form of dehumanisation. What may appear as lighthearted banter becomes a language of dismissal, a way to justify or obscure brutality. The genocide unfolding in Gaza was routinely framed to me not as a moral abyss, but as a necessary war, a defensive act sanctioned by history and circumstance. The concept of a 'just war' was a collective refrain. This raises questions few Israelis openly ask. How can a people who suffered during one of history's greatest atrocities be so blind to the suffering they inflict on others? How can the pain inflicted on Jews be wielded as a rationale to deny the humanity of Palestinians? The answer, I came to understand, lies at the intersection of history, psychology and propaganda. The sense of victimhood is overwhelming and deeply ingrained in Israeli society. Every age group I encountered, from young women in their early twenties to seasoned older citizens, shared the belief that their history of persecution, the extermination of six million Jews, grants them moral and political license. In their collective psyche, this trauma justifies almost any means necessary to defend themselves. The world, in their eyes, does not comprehend this narrative, which is why Israeli actions, no matter how devastating, are tolerated or endorsed. Yet, this victimhood blinds them to the equally long and painful history of dispossession, displacement and occupation of the Palestinians that has lasted for generations. Between January and September 2023, hundreds of Palestinian children were killed in the West Bank alone. The year leading up to October 7 of that year marked one of the deadliest periods for children in that area, with shootings, military raids and settler violence exacting a grim toll. This is not collateral damage; it is a steady drumbeat of violence that Israeli society often views through a lens of justification or necessary security measures. And the irony runs deeper still. Many Israelis today label the United Nations, whose 1947 partition plan granted them statehood, as an antisemitic institution. Once a facilitator of their national birth, the UN is now vilified in Israeli political discourse. Any criticism of Israel is spun as antisemitism, a tactic that shields policies of occupation and ethnic cleansing from serious scrutiny. This twisting of history and language creates a fortress of denial that's hard to breach from within. The cultural dynamics within Israeli society also reveal hints of strain and neurosis. Conversations in offices and meetings were often marked by a staccato exchange of raised voices, constant interruptions and people talking over one another. There was little space for quiet reflection or agreement when it came to the smallest of work-related matters. This cacophony felt emblematic of a society in tension, split within itself. It reflected an internal fracturing just as much as the external fractures with their neighbours and much of the rest of the world, for that matter. 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This overwhelming majority is a signal that the politics of ethnic cleansing no longer exist only on the margins; they have entered the mainstream. What sustains this consensus is not just politics, but a deep wariness backed by decades of demonising Palestinians. The religious dimension adds yet another layer to this complex picture. Although Israel is defined as a Jewish state and draws justification from biblical claims, most of its citizens are secular or atheist. They do not engage with the scriptures as a spiritual guide, but use the Bible as a political artifact. This instrumentalisation of faith to justify policies that contradict its ethical foundations is a stark paradox. One wonders how a people so removed from religious observance come to wield ancient texts as weapons in a modern political conflict. But despite the grim realities, there is a glimmer of hope inside Israel: a small but brave minority consistently speaks out against the genocide in Gaza. Protesters take to the streets with images of Palestinian victims, often facing abuse and hostility from neighbours. Writers like the courageous Gideon Levy and others dare to voice truths that many shy away from. These Israelis separate Judaism from Zionism, exposing the dangerous conflation that blinds so many. Their courage offers a vital counter-narrative and reminds us that Israel is not a monolith. After my 12 months with the company, I left with a sense of profound sadness, tempered by cautious hope. I had witnessed up close how a society shaped by its own history of suffering could, in many ways, become blind to the suffering it inflicts on others. Israelis are not villains born in a vacuum; they are human beings, complex and capable of kindness, yet trapped in a narrative that numbs their empathy and justifies acts that should shock any conscience. The entitlement and fear that fuel this blindness are not just political tools, but have seeped into the fabric of everyday life, feeding a collective mood of anxiety and suspicion that corrodes trust within and without.
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4 hours ago
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eNCA
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