Music, Croissants and Lemon-Meringue

?I, too, like all of you gathered here, came with a set purpose in mind, a mission. You came to honor the honoree,? her voice loud and clear, ?Money is no object, it seems; no expense was spared in order to venerate his many outstanding accomplishments in the pursuit of peace for his people in Israel. You traveled many, many miles, haven't you, in order to be present at this momentous day.?

Isaac Kohn,

OpEds לבן ריק
לבן ריק
Arutz 7
[On the occasion of Shimon Peres? gala taxpayer-supported eightieth birthday party, Sunday September 21. - ed.]

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fe-ll-llow, which no one can deny?" In unison, the celebrants, some visibly tipsy, raised their glasses skywards and toasted the smiling birthday boy. Savoring the pleasure of the moment, he nodded and waved. ?Le'chaim, Le'chaim! To life!?

The tremendous celebration is in full swing; members of the spiffy spit and polish orchestra, strummed and drummed and the magnificently manicured fingers tapped the piano keyboard. The exquisite music floated through the ballroom. The rafters seemed to lift themselves ever higher as the crescendo picked up steam. The guests, universally well known, the famous and the infamous, milled around, gorging themselves on fine cuisine; the team of internationally acclaimed chefs have truly out done themselves in preparing a marvelous bash.

The huge Mann Auditorium in Tel Aviv, was exquisitely adorned; it seemed that entire botanical gardens were picked in order to beautify this special day. Dozens of splendidly decorated cakes (a huge, gold "80"decorated the top of one) set high on tall pedestals, cookies, croissants, lemon-meringue, caviar, sushi. Nougats, crisp breads and chocolate hearts; expensive French Chateau wines served in crystal and silver goblets, flowed like water.

The revered, octogenarian Shimon Peres was being feted at his eightieth birthday, a milestone of the grandest proportions. The elegantly dressed honoree smiled profusely as he stood by the circular bar, shaking hands, joking with the guests, smiling broadly and practically inhaling the good wishes. Hundreds of celebrants danced to the music; the revelry was in full swing. May this night never end; the love and admiration was so palatable, so delicious.

"STOP!"

Suddenly, abruptly, the music stopped, the musicians fell silent, the dancers stopped their gyrations, the laughing, joking, loud conversation - all ceased, as if by some magic wand. All eyes focused on the agitated, shawl-shrouded woman who jumped up onto the stage. Grabbing the microphone, her eyes quickly swept across the ballroom, for a second or so resting on an individual or two and quickly moving on. A sudden thick anticipation, a nervous expectancy hovered throughout the room. Shimon Peres smiled nervously, his eyes wild with shock. Former President Clinton patted his hand in a reassuring gesture. The hired security guards were poised to rush the podium. Shimon Peres, not willing to risk an embarrassing raucous, gestured that they leave her be.

Looking around at the baffled stares, she said:

?Ladies and gentlemen, don't get all worked up. You came here to celebrate, to enjoy the evening. Give me a few minutes and I will leave you to continue in this wondrous festivity. I am here also by invitation. No, not with the personal invitation each of you received. My invitation, or rather, my summons, to appear here was delivered in spirit; the tortured, pained spirits of those murdered during the accursed Oslo War - a war choreographed by Shimon Peres, produced and directed by his terrorist client. In the name of those souls, I stand here in front of you.

?I, too, like all of you gathered here, came with a set purpose in mind, a mission. You came to honor the honoree,? her voice loud and clear, ?Money is no object, it seems; no expense was spared in order to venerate his many outstanding accomplishments in the pursuit of peace for his people in Israel. You traveled many, many miles, haven't you, in order to be present at this momentous day.?

Her eyes were now ablaze with fiery anger; her words sharp, articulate and flowing, The crowd, mesmerized, stood aghast in total absorption.

?But I came here, tonight, not to honor, but to dishonor, not to grace, but rather to disgrace a misconception, a disgrace of immense magnitude, a contempt, second to none. Namely, to bestow reverence on that man,? pointing at Shimon Peres, all eyes turned towards him as he squirmed uncomfortably, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, ?.is to spit on the graves of the more than one thousand lives murdered under the auspices of his bosom friend and confidant. I speak in the name of the young daughter who shall never marry, of the five-year-old son who hasn't yet lived and of the husband who will not be returning home. I am here in the name of all those who will never again celebrate another birthday, thanks to the Oslo War engineered by our esteemed birthday boy, Shimon Peres. The souls of so many parents and brothers and sisters, children and wives; their death sentence received a stamp of approval by an egotistical, self-praising traitor. I resent the despicable macabre dance you are performing on the graves of so many; to celebrate his birthday is to give legitimacy to his crime. Praise here is misplaced; honor, trampled and dirty.?

The guests fidgeted uncomfortably. Former Soviet Premier Gorbachev looked across at Nelson Mandela and slowly moved away from the podium, feigning a need for another drink. Former Secretary of State Kissinger kept looking at his shoelaces. Collin Powell and Condoleeza Rice stared at each other.

?Happy birthday, Mr. Peres. I do wish you a very happy, long and healthy life. I want your life to be filled with guilt, your nights with visions of murdered Jews and images of a smiling Arafat chuckling at your naivete. May the voices of the killed, wounded and maimed follow your every waking hour. Let the rivers of tears we cry for our lost loved ones become thunderous waves in your nightly dreams. The Oslo War you foisted on us shall become you're your legacy.?

The ceiling audio speakers suddenly crackled. The clock struck the hour and the newscaster proceeded to report the latest news bulletins. Silence, everyone listened intently.

?Kol Yisrael ,miYerushalayim... Ve'harei hachadashot... Here are the latest headlines: Relentlessly, the Oslo War continues. Just a few minutes ago, a homicide bomber exploded aboard bus #2 on its way from the Kotel... 23 reported dead, amongst them, 11 children.... Bus #15 exploded... 17 reported dead, forty-four wounded?. A homicide-bomber detonated himself in a crowded bus-stop in Katzrin... eight soldiers were murdered.... Two soldiers who lost their way near Jenin were abducted, tortured and lynched?. A few minutes ago there was another pigua on the Tunnels Road? two reported dead.... A shooting on the new Begin Road in Jerusalem.... Four Kassam rockets landed in Sderot.... Killing, murder, bloodshed, bombing, stabbing....?

?Another lemon-meringue, Mr. Peres??





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