Out of My Mind

"Your articles always project anger and frustration. Each line oozes with pain, fury and rage as you lash out with sarcasm. You have the literal poison pen. Why can't you write something with a happier note?"

Contact Editor
Isaac Kohn,

Arutz 7
"Your articles always project anger and frustration. Each line oozes with pain, fury and rage as you lash out with sarcasm. You have the literal poison pen. Why can't you write something with a happier note?"

The above is more or less the question this writer was asked by a newspaper editor to whom he submitted some of his articles. It is a totally legitimate and fair question, which required deep contemplation and reevaluation of this writer's mindset. It took all of three seconds to articulate a proper response. It did not defend the writer, but rather examined all of the happy occasions that were missed.

Were these happy occasions taken advantage of, the writer's articles would have sounded more like the Hava Nagilah than like Megilat Eicha. This article, therefore, will examine the happiness and joy this doomsday writer has willfully missed.

In the last thirty years or so, events in the State of Israel have metamorphosed into one long row of joyful episodes worthy of accolades and praise. Each event in itself is worthy of an honorable mention; combined, all of the happiness inherent and derived from these events are of historical significance on the magnitude of the elation they produced. The writer apologizes profusely for not partaking in the ongoing celebration. In order to spare the reader a lengthy enumeration of these joyous occasions, the writer has reduced the focus to the last number of years.

The Camp David and Wye Plantation agreements are hereby noted as prominent chapters in Israel's most recent lurch to embrace happiness. It is here that major joyful fissures began to appear in the downcast and morose unhappiness surrounding our inalienable right to these G-d-given lands. The surrender of ancient Jewish lands to enemy control does require one to raise a toast and dance a happy jig. Can there be anything more delightful than surrendering one's right to one's own backyard? But why elaborate? The party has just begun.

The Clinton White House. The party thrown to celebrate the 'engagement' of Israel and the PLO is forever enshrined in the lofty heavens where true joy resides. How could this writer ever have missed the opportunity to write glowingly of the peace-rainbow that appeared on the horizon? Was the writer blind to the wonderful aura of well-being that permeated the occasion? Was he deaf to the sweet music of love and harmony that wafted from the White House lawn as Yitzchak Rabin and Yasser Arafat shook hands? How could he miss Mr. Rabin's radiant face as he lovingly greeted his bride-to-be? How could the writer spoil the ecstatic moment by authoring articles bemoaning the oncoming terror? How could he profane such solemn occasions with articles of fire and brimstone? Spoiler!

The Oslo Accords will forever be enshrined in the collective, Jewish mind as the wedding celebration uniting Israel and the Palestinian Authority in eternal bliss. A long list of precious gifts and invaluable presents changed hands. Truckloads of weaponry were gifted to the PA, so that the bride's family could properly celebrate the union made in hell (there goes the writer again...). Cities and towns as dowry, areas of control and jurisdiction, which the Israeli groom willingly handed over to his glowing bride, did call for another celebratory occasion. Jewish lands being presented to Arab murderers on a silver platter in exchange for... what?

While the leftists celebrated, this writer had the audacity to join those doomsayers who predicted the ugly separation and divorce they now see coming. How dare he, the writer, walk away from the party? Where is the thrill one needs? Why the misplaced anger and fury? Why, indeed?

The happiest occasion of all, the culmination of that blessed union, was about to break out as the world watched in gleeful anticipation. The groom, Prime Minister Ehud Barak, merrily signed away every piece of property within sight, giving his adorable bride control over every Jewish holy site. In his desire to please, Barak presented his lovely bride with an opportunity to declare her own state on the lands G-d gave the Jews. Indeed, the most joyful hanging party one could ever attend was but a few moments away. Another reason to celebrate, shout, yell, sing and get drunk. The sheer ecstasy of the occasion was beyond description!

And this silly, morbid, gloomy writer proceeded to write of the incomprehensibility of the occasion, to vent his frustration and anger. Childish immaturity, to say the least. Incompetence, more like it. Where is the joy, the happiness? Doesn't the blind writer see that eternal peace between bride and groom, Jew and Arab, is but one signature away? Shame on this writer for attempting to spoil the extraordinary day.

But the bride walked away. She refused to sign the nuptial agreement that stipulated that she vow eternal loyalty to her groom. Instead, four years of (joyful) terror and mayhem were unleashed; the bride, it seems, wasn't satisfied with the paltry presents the groom offered. So, she proceeded on a bloody, albeit pleasurable, path of bloodletting and murder. Happy occasions worthy of celebration? You bet.

Fifteen-hundred Jews lie beneath the ground, their blood saturating the earth. Thousands of orphans cry out for the parent they'll never see again, while thousands upon thousands are maimed forever. And those Arab 'celebrants' whose unbridled joy caused them to kill and murder are joyfully released from prison so that the celebration will not be hindered. The joyous celebration rages on and this stupid writer is totally oblivious. How long can he wear the blinders before he realizes that he is only fooling himself? How long will he interpret the sweet strings of the violin as the cries of babies and widows?

Can't the writer recognize the happiness on that boy's face as he stands at his parents' open graves and recites the mournful kaddish? Yes, those are tears. But tears of joy, not sadness and anguish! The writer is truly tactless and unfeeling. Why exert the energy and waste the ink in all those words of rage and anger, when so much joy spreads its warmth throughout the land? Ridiculous.

And even now, the happiness continues to spread. Buckling under in defeat, the former hero cheerily succumbs to murder and terror. Ariel Sharon, prime minister of Israel, the "father of the settlements", turns tail in fear. The former hero turns his back on his own flesh and blood, and gleefully orders the removal, expulsion and eradication of 25 flourishing Jewish communities on the lands G-d gave His children. Twenty-five settlements are to be uprooted and handed over to that same bride who refused the original paltry gifts. DP camps are joyfully being set up to house the happy settlers who may resist their forced joyous deportation. Special army and police units are being trained on how to conduct (in a celebratory manner, of course) the on-coming war against their fellow Jews. As in the days of Achashverosh in Shushan, the celebration in Israel continues uninterrupted. Joy to the world... joy to you and me.

They say that happiness is a state of mind. I must be out of mine.





top