A new Weavers' song: why I protest Israeli policies.

• Author: Gilbert, Ronnie

IN 1949, I LOVED THE SHINING IDEAL OF the new State of Israel, a brand new democracy, a spark of hope in the developing darkness of the Cold War. My folksinging partners and I, the Weavers, sang the joy of the fledgling country in Hebrew: Tzena, Tzena, habanot urena. Come out, come out, girls, join the dancing, greet the soldiers.

Tzena, Tzena, Tzena. The exuberant little Israeli dance tune was a highlight of our repertoire in 1949. When we were hired for a short stint at the Village Vanguard, a popular club in downtown Manhattan, patrons more used to sophisticated jazz and comedy picked up on the rhythm and exhilaration and kept us there week after week.

Sometime during our six-month stint at the Vanguard, the Weavers signed a contract with a major record company and recorded the Israeli song, fitted out with a set of appropriate English lyrics: Tzena, Tzena, Can't you hear the music playing in the city square? The recording was an explosion of fun onto a moribund popular music scene. From jukebox to jukebox, people stamped their feet and clapped their hands. It made stars of us.

Tzena, Tzena, join the celebration, there'll be people there from every nation. Wasn't that everyone's vision of peace, after the terrible war?

The public loved it. But this was 1950, and such sentiments were to have no place against the whipped-up hysteria of the Cold War. With our songs of fellowship and international solidarity, the lefty, top-of-the-charts Weavers were fair game for the House Un-American Activities Committee and its minions. In two years, via radio and TV blacklists, the McCarthyites wiped Tzena, Tzena and everything else by the Weavers from mainstream consciousness.

Yet somehow, with the help of persistent friends and fans, the Weavers managed to survive on a modest scale, and in the summer of 1959, we were booked for a concert tour in Israel.

Ha Orgim, the Weavers were called in Israel, the literal Hebrew translation of our name. You would never have known we were pariahs in our own country. It seemed that outside the U.S. nobody gave a darn about America's blacklist.

We toured "from Dan to Beersheva," Lee Hays, our bass, familiar with scripture, loved to say, in a caravan of three or four autos, carrying a crew and our own lights and sound systems. Everywhere, we were welcomed with great excitement, the American recording stars who had introduced young Israel to the United States. Concert halls in Jerusalem and Haifa filled to overflowing. At an outdoor Tel Aviv auditorium, mobs of young people who couldn't afford tickets climbed over walls to get in, causing a near riot. Armfuls of flowers and love greeted us at the kibbutz amphitheaters. We were told at one that our concert would be heard by soldiers in a Syrian military encampment just over the hill.

"Marvelous," I said. "A civilized approach to peace--sharing music."

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