UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan ordered the organization’s flag to be lowered to half mast in his honor. The former U.S. president and peanut farmer Jimmy Carter heaped praise and accolades. Chirac that tower of French-fried cowardice accorded him honor and respect fit for kings. World leaders fell over themselves as each tried to out-praise the murderer who finally went to the devil.
The pope attributed gallantry and courage to a man for whom the label scourge of the earth was a much more appropriate title. Even President Bush upon hearing the original premature report of the monster’s demise said God bless his soul – this about someone for whom even hell may keep its doors shut.
I don’t know your names. I don’t know where you were born where you grew up or where you reside. In fact I don’t really care. So why do I write? Because the pain you caused sears deeper than the shrapnel that ripped through my little brother’s body as he and I were sitting peacefully on the bus in Jerusalem. Or was it Tel Aviv? Ariel? Be’er Sheva? I don’t really remember.
The explosion that wrecked our lives on that fateful day destroyed much of my memory of that bloody episode. But there are some recollections of when it happened and much of the aftermath sits on my mind like a blood-soaked sponge. My blind right eye and shattered right hand are eternal reminders of that hate-filled day. I will always know the carnage caused by that man.
How could you?
I opened my eyes. Where was I? Something thick and gooey was covering my face. A throbbing sensation hammered through my head my hands my entire body. My face felt like it was on fire my hand (or rather what was left of it as I discovered much later) was pounding with excruciating pain. I felt a soft hand caressing my head: a ZAKA angel lifted me up gently.
When I awoke my mother was standing near my hospital bed smiling at me. Why were tears rolling down her cheeks? Where is Aryeh? I whispered. My four-year-old brother I recalled was sitting on my lap (we had given his seat to an elderly woman with a cane). My mother remained silent. Immediately I knew.
How could you?
I survived. God gave my doctors all of the knowledge they needed in order to extract the rest of the shrapnel from my body (eleven pieces) and I was released after six weeks. Released to a new reality. A one-eyed one-handed life. A life without the little brother I loved so dearly. Released to a life of restless days and nights filled with nightmares. Many nights still I wake up in a cold soaking sweat screaming screeching and inconsolable.
How could you?
Yesterday the man whose desire to eradicate the Jews was second only to Hitler?s finally departed the world leaving behind a legacy of murder and a never-ending trail of spilled Jewish blood. He went to his grave too late for my brother too late for thousands of others. His blood-drenched hands will no longer hold the dagger of hate his murderous grin has been forever wiped off the face of the earth.
How could you?
I don’t know your names. I don’t know where you were born where you grew up or where you reside. In fact I don’t really care. But with my one good eye I saw your pictures. Dressed in Shabbos finery crowned with your shtreimels clad in your long silky bekishes you stood in morose silence and contemplation uttering a prayer to God on his behalf.
You stood there with the Arab shawl and the Palestinian emblem draped across your necks. And you prayed. You prayed for the well-being of that malach hamaves in human form. You beseeched the Almighty on his behalf; you uttered words of tefilah for his complete and quick recovery.
How could you?
I stared at your pictures for a very long time. Silently. My one good eye roamed back and forth across the pictures my mind refusing to believe. My own flesh and blood my brothers are extending both physical and spiritual solidarity to the devil whose orders extinguished my little brother’s life and destroyed forever the life my family knew.
How could you?
I don’t remember any of you at my bedside. You didn’t take the time to come did you? I don’t recall seeing your pictures in front of the kotel praying for the speedy recovery of all those maimed by your compatriot for whom you pray so fervently. I don’t recall hearing that you prayed the Kel Moleh Rachamim for those he murdered. Not one of you I am told bothered to attend my family’s shiva.
How could you?
There are no words to describe what I feel. It’s not anger. It’s not fury. There are no words to describe the humiliation the disgust and above all the unbearable pain. Those pictures will never disappear from my mind. They will never fade into the recesses of the subconscious. They stand in stark contrast to the very spinal cord of our religion: Love your brother as you love yourself.
I can’t write anymore. There is nothing left to say. I must end here now. You see my blind eye the one torn out on your compatriot’s orders is suddenly beginning to tear.
Kol demei achicha tzoakim elay.
How could you?
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