100419 Yom HaAtzmaut 2010

Life Returns to Shdema
As Yom HaZicharon ended in the evening, the celebration of Yom HaAtzmaut began as the night sky filled with blasts of fireworks. For a couple hundred loyal Israeli patriots, Independence Day started as they returned that same night to Shdema for fun, music and food with the soldiers who are steadily on duty to check out the surroundings.
Once the music started and the food was spread out on the table, no one hesitated to jump in and fill a chunk of pita bread with falafel balls and salad followed by cakes and coffee.
The sing-along was led by our gang’s personal accordion wizard, Eli Gilboa, and the singing group, Shirat HaLeviim
Even though we have something to rejoice about, the return of the IDF to Shdema after our two-year struggle to maintain a Jewish presence in the midst of chaos, for some of us, a part of our hearts will remain on the premises. As I walked around it was as though even the vacant buildings were relieved that Jews had returned. For without the life that Jews bring to the Land, it lays desolate and forsaken.

100419 Yom HaZicharon 2010

The Weeping Statue
The lone woman paced back and forth, addressing a small crowd which had gathered at Kikar Tzion. At first glance, she seemed somewhat mad! Over and over she yelled: “There is no memorial for my children who were murdered on Jaffa Road! There is no memorial for our children who were ruthlessly murdered on Ben Yehuda Madracha (walkway)! Our government can spend billions for a train to run through the city of Jerusalem, but they can’t spend money for a memorial for my children, a place where I and other mourners can stand to pay tribute to our children on Yom HaZicharon!” She repeated the same thing over and over as she fought back the tears welling up from inside.
Those of us who empathized with her wanted to go to her, hold her, and comfort her, yet none dare break through the invisible barrier she had put up around herself to protect her emotions. It was as though, if someone invaded her space or stepped across her red line of protection, she would have a meltdown and break into tiny pieces.
Besides, it seemed like the ground around her was all too sacred and I was thinking: “Is this woman a God-send? A messenger from heaven? The voice of Mother Rachel? Is the spirit of Mother Rachel manifesting within her neshamah? Mother Rachel weeping for her children who were no longer? Is this generation listening to the cry of their Fathers & Mothers who are becoming fewer and fewer? Yet in every generation there remain witnesses to tell of personal accounts of the cost to liberate the nation of Israel now celebrating only 62 years of returning home?”
Even the men in the crowd were fighting back the tears and I wondered if they felt what I felt as she cried out from her innermost pain. All the while, behind her stood a stone statue of an Israeli fighting soldier and suddenly I noticed the statue’s eyes turn red. He blinked trying to restrain himself from bursting out crying, yet the tears flowed down his face. One idiot Israeli man broke through the crowd trying to knock the statue off its pedestal, but others quickly restrained the man, furious at his attempts. All the while, the young man doing the miming held steady like an iron statue. Unmovable! Indestructible! A perfect example of the Israeli Defense Forces which stands immovable under the banner of the God of Israel! May we never forget WHO is the Commander in Chief as we look out upon the horizons and see the army of the Lord which is our eternal guardian and protector!

YOM HASHOAH: To Hold Your Hand

"The sirens are wailing, and so am I. Not great art but straight from the heart. And please don’t laugh at my translation." Robert

To Elinoor; Father and Mother, Annie and Walter Arnold; and all the other millions. April 2010
***
Fighting for air
Under the freely flowing gas
Falling to your knees with your last gasp
But I was not there to hold your hand

Poets sing of cold graves
And of somber burial grounds
But not there are you to be found
Nor am I there to hold your hand

They say the dead can hear the daisies grow
But you are the daisy, the forget-me-not
On you ashes they grow
Yet I hold not your hand

Has the wind that blows the ashes been sung?
Flowers growing there are plucked
My hand remains empty
For I have not your hand to hold.