On a delightful summer day at my in-laws’ residence in Los Angeles, the heat of the sun envelops everything around me. I wish I could revel in the moment, but my mind is consumed by distress. Elizabeth Tsurkov, a dear friend who goes by Liza, is currently being held captive by an Iraqi militia, and I am filled with terror.
Both news reports and the Israeli government assure us that Liza is still alive. The mere fact that the word “still” is used implies a sense of uncertainty and peril. Liza, a Russian-Israeli Ph.D. candidate at Princeton University, ventured into Iraq this winter to conduct research on human rights and sectarianism in the Middle East. Her last known whereabouts were at a café in Baghdad in late March. Not long after, according to the Israeli government, she was kidnapped and is now under the control of Kataib Hezbollah, a Shiite paramilitary group with ties to Iran.
Liza chose to utilize her Russian passport for her journey to Iraq, fully aware that entering the country as a dual citizen of both Russia and Israel could endanger her safety. Nevertheless, she firmly believed that true understanding of a situation cannot be achieved from a distance. This belief guided her research and human rights endeavors, which had previously led her to war-stricken Syria and post-ISIS Iraq. Liza approached her work as a researcher, not an activist, but she firmly believed that people should have the freedom to determine their own lives, unburdened by fear and persecution. If she witnessed something amiss, she fought to rectify the situation. If something lacked morality, she openly criticized it, regardless of the consequences.
This inclination to take personal risks in the pursuit of truth stems from Liza’s family history, which shares similarities with my own. Liza’s parents, much like my father, Natan Sharansky, an Israeli politician, were dissidents who fought for human rights in the Soviet Union during the 1970s and 1980s. Their honorable struggle against oppression resulted in lengthy prison sentences in the Gulag.
I first met Liza in 1991 when my family journeyed from Jerusalem to Kibbutz Nir David in northern Israel. “This family has just arrived from Russia,” my mother informed my sister and me. “Their father shared a jail cell with me,” my father added.
At first glance, Liza and her sister Emma appeared dissimilar to us. Hebrew wasn’t their first language, they didn’t practice religion, they didn’t reside in Jerusalem, and they didn’t share our recreational preferences. However, on a deeper level, no one else could comprehend us more profoundly. How many children had parents imprisoned by the Soviet Union for protesting its human rights violations? Like us, Liza and Emma were raised with tales of prisons and the legacy of fighting against repression for what was morally right. While our father was a Zionist, Liza’s parents, Arkady and Ira Tsurkov, were Marxists. Despite their ideological differences, they all advocated for a more democratic society, bringing global attention to the Soviet Union’s blatant abuse of its citizens.
Most importantly, they were all aware of the sacrifices they made and the risks involved. Years of imprisonment did not diminish their resolve or dampen their spirits.
Our families frequently came together in the subsequent years, and as Liza and I grew up, we played, conversed, and sometimes disagreed. “I was born first, on Nov. 6, so I’m older than you,” I fervently declared one day when we were both ten years old. “Therefore, I should be the one to set the rules for our games.”
“I was born on Nov. 11, which isn’t much later,” she reasoned. “Besides, why should age be a determining factor in telling others what to do?”
Even at that age, Liza’s calm logic made me feel youthful and immature. She lived her entire life with an ingrained sense of fairness. As her personal politics gradually veered leftward, her beliefs diverged from mainstream Israeli sensibilities and, candidly, from mine as well. We often disagreed on various issues, such as the political parties we supported or the most effective approach to achieving peace in the Middle East. However, even during moments of conflict, whether in childhood or adulthood, I always knew her opinions were honest, devoid of pretense, self-interest, or pride.
From a relatively young age, Liza believed that caring about Israeli citizens necessitated caring about the rights of Palestinians in Israel. Later on, she shifted her focus to our Arab neighbors during the Arab Spring, passionately championing their fight for freedom. However, she refrained from viewing them solely in relation to Israel. She firmly believed in immersing herself in their societies, seeking to comprehend their experiences and perspectives from within. She became fluent in Arabic and visited many countries that most Israelis would never venture into. Liza made her way to Syria to investigate political factions and wrote about their experiences during the civil war for international audiences. She fostered connections with dissidents and freedom fighters while advocating for women’s rights and increased international aid.
Liza’s journey to Iraq was motivated by similar intentions. Her goal was to examine the lives of Iraqis, particularly women, in the aftermath of ISIS and under the shadow of sectarianism. It’s crucial to dispel the misconception propagated by online critics who imply that she was a spy for the Israeli government. Liza sought to understand the challenges faced by regular individuals, as opposed to the skewed perspectives often depicted by military groups and political factions. In a region where coverage frequently revolves around male-centric narratives, Liza yearned to hear directly from the people, striving to gain insights into their lived realities.
Princeton University and the New Lines Institute for Strategy and Policy in Washington supported Liza in her endeavor, wholeheartedly embracing her vision. Just like her Soviet dissident parents in the 1980s, she embarked on her Iraqi venture in service of the fundamental values underlying the liberal worldview: truth, human rights, knowledge, and freedom.
When Liza’s parents risked everything to fight for freedom in the Soviet Union, they were merely 18 years old. As my father recounted, many friends and family members considered them insane. “People told them that they were risking too much, that their whole lives were ahead of them,” he shared. “They said they could never win this battle, so why sacrifice their lives?” Nonetheless, Arkady, Ira, and others firmly believed that they were part of something grander and more significant than themselves. They held the conviction that they were fighting for what was right and trusted that the West, which cherished freedom, truth, and justice, would support them.
Their faith turned out to be well-founded. The American government staunchly advocated for Ira, Arkady, my father, and countless others. U.S. lawmakers furthered their cause by introducing and enacting the Jackson-Vanik Amendment, which linked freedom of emigration to trade agreements. The U.S. government directly assisted Soviet dissidents and political prisoners by raising their cases in every meeting and negotiation with the Soviet regime.
Arkady, Ira, and my father were not American citizens nor affiliated with the American government in any capacity. However, Washington aided them because they fought for principles that the United States held dear.
Liza may not be the same type of freedom fighter as our parents were, but she has made a similar gamble. With the support of her university and several human rights organizations, she ventured into risky territory to acquire knowledge and information, driven by her conviction that it was the right thing to do. Will the liberal world rally behind her, just as it did for her parents, and champion her release?
As I gaze at Liza’s face in the news footage today, as well as our childhood photographs, I fervently hope that the answer is a resounding yes.
Rachel Sharansky Danziger is an esteemed writer and educator based in Jerusalem.
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