Ask My Baby to Forgive You

Listen, Mr. Sharon, to the haunting voices across the land, today, once again, loudly proclaiming His name. Yisgadal veyiskadash... a glory you forgot, resisted, alienated, rejected. Embarking on a course of futility, defying both prophecies and a pledge, you placed our future in the hands of our enemies. They laugh and celebrate that absurdity as our children don't come back. Nor do our mo

Isaac Kohn,

OpEds לבן ריק
לבן ריק
Arutz 7
[Note: The following is intended as creative commentary only. The author was not a direct victim of the August 19, 2003, Jerusalem bus bombing.]

Dear Prime Minister Sharon,

We had just left the Kotel, Mr. Prime Minister; my infant child lay sleeping peacefully in my arms. And suddenly, Mr. Prime Minister, my child is no more. The vermin you are continuing to bargain with, struck in the dark. The screaming and crying, the blood, shattered limbs and burning flesh? Hell can not be worse, or so I thought. But what can be worse, Mr. Sharon, than losing a child?

Lower the flag, Mr. Sharon; lower the flag of self respect and honor, for there is none. Only shreds remain to continue to flutter in the wind; fragments streaming limply, residues of a lost purpose. Lower the dirty rags waving in the breeze. The scraps flapping haphazardly and slapping against the flag-pole are soiled from so much misuse and abuse. No dignity is left; a sad memento to illusion and perceived grandeur. Lower the flag, Mr. Sharon, lower it and weep.

Put on your dunce cap, take another long swig from the bottle of stupidity you've been guzzling and dance naked in the streets to the multitudes of clapping hands and stomping feet. Harden your egotistical self-image and plod on, on a path of destruction. Feel no guilt. Revert, at every opportunity, to times elapsed and remind your detractors of your past eminence in the field of battle. Do not allow little nuances, such as this homicide-bombing, to derail your purpose and mission. The road to peace must be paved with numerous sacrificial lambs - Jewish lambs, that is. Stop counting the numbers; they are insignificant as the ultimate goal must be achieved, come what may. There are still kilometers of empty land. Can't you foresee the thousands of freshly dug graves covering every inch of our little land? A child's remains will supplant each shrub uprooted to make room for another unnecessary offering on the altar of your self indulgent imbecility.

Lower the flag, Mr. Sharon, and listen carefully to the trumpets playing taps; sorrowful strains played as the fresh caskets are lowered into the ground. Listen, Mr. Sharon, to the haunting voices across the land, today, once again, loudly proclaiming His name. Yisgadal veyiskadash... a glory you forgot, resisted, alienated, rejected. Embarking on a course of futility, defying both prophecies and a pledge, you placed our future in the hands of our enemies. They laugh and celebrate that absurdity as our children don't come back. Nor do our mothers and fathers, as promised, return to their homes. You turned your back on your own people, sold our lives for an empty and useless promise. And our children, Mr. Prime Minister, are continuing to pay the price of your folly.

My baby is dead, Mr. Prime Minister. The imprint of your listless, weak, unresponsive hand lurks in the background of this unbearable tragedy and you might as well have detonated the bomb. In an instant, my precious, little child, not yet weaned, was slaughtered on your altar of false perception and illusions. I can not be present at his funeral, Mr. Prime Minister, as I have to attend my other wounded children (I am not even mentioning my own wounds), so I ask you for a favor. As the representative of the people in Israel, would you take my place? Before the tiny, shawl-wrapped body is lowered into the grave, please hold him for a minute or two. Silently whisper a few words in his ears. Tell him that I, his mother, love him very much. Tell him that I'll forever miss him.

And weep, Mr. Sharon, weep. Weep for him, weep for me, weep for all of us. Mourn for all those victims you have freely surrendered to the enemy. Shed some tears for all those that have been murdered on your woeful watch; cry and lament as you raise the white flag of surrender.

Ask my child to ask Him to forgive your insidious scorn and repudiation.

And before they lower him into the eternal darkness, I urge you, Mr. Prime Minister, to ask my baby to forgive you.

Ask him to forgive you, because I never will.

A mother.





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