I Lit a Candle

I apologize. I was mistaken, Mr. Beilin. You do have a heart; a heart filled to bursting with sympathy for those who killed my little daughter. Compassion and empathy for the 'sufferings of the Palestinians.' Interesting, isn't it?

Isaac Kohn,

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Arutz 7


Dear Mr. Beilin,

A few minutes ago I returned from the cemetery in Jerusalem. Two years ago, my little daughter was brutally murdered by Hamas terrorists who sprayed our car with machine-gun fire as we were traveling from Ramot late at night. My husband was driving; hit twice, he slumped against the wheel as the car veered off into a ditch. Thank G-d, two or three other vehicles drove by a few seconds later and stopped to help us. I don't remember much else. I held my little girl, as her breathing became more and more labored.

?Imale!? said my four-year-old, her eyes looking deep into my eyes.

Mr. Beilin, I didn't have time to respond; holding my little girl tight, her eyes closed, forever, as her tiny little body went limp. My daughter, my baby, died in my arms. Next morning, my little angel was buried; her father was hospitalized and heavily sedated. He couldn't attend the funeral. My father, her grandfather, began to recite the Kaddish and promptly collapsed. Two weeks later, he was buried next to her.

We never asked why. You see, Mr. Beilin, we deeply believe in fate. G-d's will is not to be questioned. The treasure he gave us, our beautiful daughter, was only a temporary gift, to hold and behold, to appreciate and to care for. We cherished her birth; in death, while in tears, we thanked G-d for allowing us the pleasure of her short stay. "?yehi shem HaShem mevorach?" We thanked G-d that our little girl didn't suffer, that He took back his angel in a hurry.

But now, Mr. Beilin, having overcome some of the physical and emotional stress I experienced as result of my daughter's sudden and violent departure, I had time to think of past events. The reels in my memory were put into rewind; pictures, episodes, events and results crystallized in my receptacle of reality. And I became agitated, angry, upset. Most of all, I became sad. Very sad. The picture that emerged was not pretty at all. I saw the pieces of the puzzle fall into place; a 'game of conspiracy' with the enemies. A game designed to sell my country.

My daughter, as other Jewish children before her (and after), Mr. Beilin, became expandable, another number marked on the blackboard of sacrifices to a false peace. A peace, long prophesied as impossible. But then I remembered, too, that in the pell-mell rush towards egotistical self-gratification, you and your friends abrogated your connection to G-d and His land. And my little daughter, Mr. Beilin, became just another sacrifice to your golden calf.

I thought you have no heart, Mr. Beilin. As my daughter's tiny body was lowered into the ground, I thought? I hoped? .that you will be there, beside me, to mourn with us. I thought you'd be interested in seeing her picture; those lovely black curls are still so vivid. I thought you might visit during the shiva in order to comfort. I thought, perhaps, you will say that you are sorry. After all, in the words of your ideological father, Yitzhak Rabin, her death and the untimely death of all the others, are necessary ?sacrifices for peace.? Necessary, Mr. Beilin? Sacrifices? Peace?

I apologize. I was mistaken, Mr. Beilin. You do have a heart; a heart filled to bursting with sympathy for those who killed my little daughter. Compassion and empathy for the 'sufferings of the Palestinians.' Interesting, isn't it?

I sit here, in her room, by her desk and the tears are staining this letter. It's okay. I figured that, perhaps, you will recognize the stains for what they are. Perhaps, just maybe, you, too, will shed a tear or two. But, I don't believe you will. Your heart has already been given away in sympathy with the Palestinian children whose parents were killed while perpetrating another Jewish child's death. You have no time, I understand, to bother with Jewish orphans and widows. Let G-d, whom you have rejected, take care of what is His, while you attend to the dissecting of our lands, polarizing our people, defying our religion.

Mr. Beilin,

Today, I lit a candle in memory of the candle you helped snuff out. The flame flickered against the light wind blowing across the many tombstones. It flickered, but held steady. A little flame that refuses to be extinguished. It reminded me of my little girl's Jewish soul. A tiny flame that will forever burn and flicker and withstand your heartless conspiracy to blow it out. I lit a candle, Mr. Beilin, for every widow whose husband, thanks to you and your cohorts, will never return home; a candle for every mother whose child was torn away, forever, by the murderers you call friends. A tiny flame for every orphan, whose question, "Why?", no one can answer.

And I also lit a candle for a cold, calculating, antagonist and fiend.

I lit a candle, Mr. Beilin. I lit a candle for you. For, while all Jewish souls will forever flicker with warmth against the viciously blowing winds, I know that your soul, Mr. Beilin, will surely freeze.

A mother.





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