Worry Not My Child

My cheeks are now soaked; the dropping tears have now become a stream, as the ancient words suddenly fall into place: ?Rachel mevaka al baneha?? Those eternal words of soothing solace spring at me and, it seems, I hear your soft voice echoing in the hallowed chamber containing your resting place. Your voice, raised to heaven, crying out for your exiled children, while beseeching for those t

Isaac Kohn,

OpEds לבן ריק
לבן ריק
Arutz 7
Dearest Mother,

I ran here as fast I possibly could; I had to share with you the terrible news. I am out of breath gasping for air; the feeling of strangulation is quickly overtaking my entire body. The choking lump in my throat is getting tighter. Many times before, in happiness and sorrow, in health and not, I visited you, Mother, but now, the matter is more urgent than ever. All my past conversations with you took on an air of reality, because I know, Mother, that you listened and as such I know that you heard him, too. And as soon as I heard the terrible words spoken by Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, I rushed here to be at your side; the urgency of what he plans does not allow me to waste precious time.

Forlornly, I stand here in front of your tombstone, my fingers caressing the soft coverings and my eyes, clouded with tears, attempt desperately to focus on the words embroidered on the beautiful velvet. But the words are jumbled, not clear and out of sync. My cheeks are now soaked; the dropping tears have now become a stream, as the ancient words suddenly fall into place: ?Rachel mevaka al baneha?? Those eternal words of soothing solace spring at me and, it seems, I hear your soft voice echoing in the hallowed chamber containing your resting place. Your voice, raised to heaven, crying out for your exiled children, while beseeching for those that have returned, causes me to shake and shiver in the urgency of the current matter. Mother, he wants to give you away!

For thousands of years, your voice echoed in our collective consciousness; a mother's voice supplicating for her suffering children. As we suffered through the trials and tribulations, as the years of exile dragged on and on, the heavenly response to your untiring imploring on our behalf maintained our sometimes-weak flame of hope. Time and time again, as the deep abyss of despair threatened to drag us down into eternal oblivion, thinking of you, Mother, kept us afloat. We believed in G-d's soothing reply to your tears. Recalling His words to you eased our shattered hearts throughout the most difficult of times. "Men'i kolech mi'bechi?" - cry not Mother Rachel, for your children shall one day return to you. Your heart-rending supplications, Rachel, have been clearly heard: "Ve'shavu bonim l'gevulam..."

Remember, Mother, the last time I was here? My relative's child was not well and the doctors had given up. We stood here, Mother. We prayed and we cried and I know that you cried, too. And remember the barren couple standing quietly on the left, their heads resting on your velvet-covered stone, pleading for you to intercede on their behalf, too? So many children over the years have always turned to you, their mother. And your tears continued to flow as the multitudes of heavy hearts turned to you as their special arbitrator to G-d. And many of your intercessions were granted.

My dear, dear, Mother. Where shall I begin to relate the story of impending betrayal by your own child? It shames me to no end and I know, dearest Mother, that you too do not believe; for your children to abandon you willingly does not sound right. We, too, thought that our ears deceived us. After all, he promised and swore never to cede. He branded as traitors those who already did. He solemnly guaranteed, as he raised his hand in a vow, that these lands will forever be ours to keep, maintain and uphold. But he lied, mother. And still, we all hoped that the prime minister simply mis-spoke. But he didn't, and his betrayal became clear.

I am so tired, Mother, and my knees are so very weak. Like a hammer against my temples, the terrible thoughts of possibly leaving you again (this time by our own free will) doesn't give me rest. Who will listen to your crying in the deepness of the night? Who will press his lips upon your stone and pour out a bitter heart? Once his plans to relinquish control of your holy site becomes a reality, who will visit you at night? Who, dearest Mother, will hear you cry out, one more time, in your prayer to G-d? Who, Mother, will gather together the prayers of the childless, of the poor and sick, of those with broken hearts? Who will stand in heaven to present all those prayers whispered near you by day and by night? How can I envision, Mother, your eternal resting place, once again defiled? Can a child, his mother abandon? Oh, dear Mother, I can not hear myself telling you ?goodbye?. Mother, dear Mother, what can we do?

Mother? I feel a sudden breeze passing through this tomb and my ears detect your voice. It's soft, pleasant and smooth. I feel your presence near me and your soothing words are firm and clear as they penetrate through my soul and ring in my ears: ?Worry not, my dear child, his errant plans shall never be!?
--------------------------------------------------------
Isaac Kohn writes from Brooklyn, New York. He can be reached at Isaackohn@aol.com.




top