The tough Israeli. Like the Sabra fruit, prickly, rough and masculine on the outside, tender and sweet on the inside. That actually was not a far-fetched description at one time. That time seems like ancient history today. For whatever reason, the individual Israeli may still be sabra-like, but as a result of wrong-headed leadership, the Israeli body politic is a sabra fruit splayed open and folded back, the soft fruit on display for our enemies to nibble or slash at will. This is what seven decades of begging the world to allow us to exist in peace—to simply like us—has brought us. We cannot sit at the table, but there, in the corner, on that small stool with a broken leg we are allowed to grovel and eat whatever scraps the diners see fit to throw at our feet. There is a barely subdued jollity amongst the diners and even amongst the waiters, who are charged—unofficially of course—with making sure that our wounds never heal. A kick here and a slap there, or sometimes simply spit in the face. That is the price we must pay. The Jew must bleed. Always.
The endless and permanent and nefarious nature of this state of affairs is concealed by the use of well-trodden euphemisms such as “The Two State Solution,” or “The Indigenous Rights of the Palestinian People,” the former the object of enthusiastic proselytizing by the State Department of the world’s great power, and the latter a devilish invention of the rancid KGB. With our self-imposed victimhood we cannot see what all the world sees: by leaving this mass of resentful, hateful and murderous humanity adjacent to Israel, the only things accomplished are to ensure that the Jew continues to bleed, and that the simmering mass remains in its wretched state. There will never be peace, that worst of twisted euphemisms. The world demands its pound of Jewish flesh as it demands that we say “thank you” while it is being carted away.
Now the great drama begins. The groundlings in the pit before the stage, God’s Chosen People, playing the pitiable role granted them by their betters in the galleries, shout: “Bring them Home! Bring them Home!” A Iago-like ear appears between the folds of the curtain, cupped by a twisted terrorist hand as if to say: “I can’t hear you!” The humiliation of the Jewish people is not complete until they cry and beg and drown themselves in tears of sorrow and finally whimper: “Please.”
And what a humiliation it is. The curtain to a side entrance is pulled back. We groundlings at the foot of the stage now hear the engine revving. We know what will emerge and our hearts drop as one into the mud beneath our feet. The insulting hulk emerges slowly, torturously, with huge red crosses planted on a scorning, virgin-white background. Oh the humanity! Oh the humanity! Oh the shame! That same infamous non-profit that did not visit any of the hostages during their captivity, that did not supply reports of the captives well-being, that did not ensure that they received proper medical attention, that did nothing for the captives or for their families—that shitty little “neutral” non-profit whose name shall not cross these lips—now conveyed our sweet, beloved, living martyrs to us. One last spit in the face, an abuse worthy of the evil captors they obviously serve.
A curse upon them, and a curse upon their handlers. A curse upon those in the galleries enjoying our suffering while blaming us for it. A curse upon those behind the curtain or behind the mask, or underground, who are the architects of this present round of torture. A curse upon any who stand with the torturers. There will be a reckoning. The God of Israel is awakening from His Holy Abode. There will be a reckoning, and it will be mighty and fierce.
This was written by Naama Dror, mother of Yair Dror, who was killed in the war:
My stomach is churning.
And many other families feel the same way.
Seeing pictures of supposed victory, tanks leaving Gaza after almost a year and a half, pictures of your friends smiling, leaving Gaza. I’m sure, upstairs, you’re against it. Our leadership, who aren’t worthy of being called that, didn’t let you finish the job at all. They didn’t let you overthrow Hamas and make sure a new Hamas wouldn’t take its place, so that we wouldn’t, G-d forbid, go through the whole thing all over again.
People all around me are talking, constantly; and inside – I’m screaming!!
My Yair will never come back from there.
He went in with his best buddies, into the inferno, to put an end to years of madness. So that the residents of the border communities could live in peace, to try to bring back the hostages, to put an end to this monster once and for all. That’s what their commanders told them before they went in.
It shouldn’t have taken over a year, it could have been a two-week operation. We have a big, strong army, we have the armaments.
This shouldn't have been a more than a year task, it could have been a two-week task. We have a large, strong army, we have the means to carry this out.
But there is a criminal who should be behind bars who makes the decisions here, and that’s why the Hamas regime is today, already, re-arming and strengthening itself and planning the next October 7th. I see friends from the border communities who have lost so much and who are busy rebuilding their settlements, rebuilding their physical homes along with trying to rebuild their lives, and I know that in a year and a half, I will stand all choked up again, on the enlistment day of my second son, and my friends will send me messages, similar to the ones they sent on your enlistment day, Yair, messages like “Wow! It’s so exciting that he’s enlisting!” And I’ll bow my head, and through choked tears, repeat again the same sentence I said on your draft day, “What’s exciting about it? A war’s going to break out here soon.” That’s what I said on August 15, ’23, in the draft office, two months before it actually happened. And I wonder to myself how a nation that is so smart and groundbreaking in so many ways can be so stupid for decades. Why do we accept that this is our fate? The word “deal” makes me sick to my stomach.
For me and for over 800 other families – families that lost a father, a brother, a husband or a grandfather or an amazing young man in the prime of life who will never sing or laugh again, families of victims of the hostilities, whose loved ones were killed on the soil of this country just because they were Jews, exactly like it used to be, before we had a country.
The word deal does not mean victory.
And that is very hard to say out loud to those parents who have been waiting so long for their loved ones, and to all those whom we left behind.
Is the life of a boy of 19 less precious than the life of a boy who’s one year old?
Have you all just gotten used to one more “cleared for publication”?? Are you the ones going out into the streets to celebrate and rejoice over this cursed deal in which we’re releasing those who murdered, raped, and kidnapped us?
Before you go out to the streets to celebrate our so-called victory, think of me, and of all the broken families like my own family, who have sacrificed, against our will, what was dearest to us, knowing that nothing here has changed.
“A Land that devours its inhabitants” [Numbers 13:32]
I have grown up here and lived here all my life, and I hate this state that has contempt for the lives of its citizens. This state for whom the life is a terrorist is worth more than the life of a soldier.
The terrible thought that all this was for nothing is not letting go. It hurts as if we’d just received the news again and there isn’t and will never be consolation ever.
Don’t you dare go out to the streets today, this isn’t the end of the Six Day War, there’s no winning happening here.
There is a fucked-up country that got into its head that a defeat is actually a victory.
Victory will be when our enemies won’t dare raise their heads, when they’ll know it’s not worth it to lay a hand on us; victory for us will be when we can stand in the Shabura neighborhood in Rafah, where you were murdered, knowing that there are no terrorists underground and none of our citizens either.
I’m ashamed of this country.
And I'm screaming on the inside.
I have nothing left, just to think about you Yairush, and to ask of you, if you have connections up there, to stop this madness because we can’t stand it anymore.
We simply can’t stand it!
As Jabotinsky says, the antisemite demands the Jew to turn out his pockets, not because he believes the Jew stole anything, but because he wants to humiliate him.