I Beg You: Halt the Tragedy By Esther Wachsman Jerusalem Post - September 22, 2000 Thirty years ago, I made aliya to my homeland. Aliya, in the full sense of the word rising physically, mentally, ideologically, theologically, emotionally and rationally. I could no longer recite the prayers for the Return to Zion, for the rebuilding of Jerusalem, when I knew that I was only a plane ticket away from fulfilling these prayers. I came to the Jewish homeland, where I got married, and was privileged to raise seven proud, strong, patriotic, believing sons who loved their country, their people. I, the girl from Brooklyn, the child of Holocaust survivors, became the mother of soldiers of Israel. How proud I was! All my dreams, yearnings and prayers were fulfilled. But I lost a son, who was brutally murdered for those beliefs - however, he was not killed, as were all my ancestors, in the ovens of Nazi Germany, but as a Jew in his homeland, wearing his country's uniform. What has happened to this country of my dreams? Did I make aliya from the most democratic of all countries in order to be part of a country of "all its citizens"? Did I trade in the Star Spangled Banner for some hymn meant to eradicate Judaism from the Jewish state? Were all my years of singing "Hatikva" a false hope? Were my yearnings for living and bringing up my children in our Jewish state traded in for life in a "New Middle East"? Is my religious identification with the land of my forefathers now threatened? How I loved living in my country, where Shabbat was publicly observed, where "Ma Tovu Ohalecha Yisrael" opened the morning's radio broadcasts, and "Hatikva" closed the TV broadcasts at night, where I was wished "Shabbal Shalom" every Friday, and "Shavua Tov" everv Saturday night, and "Chag Sameach" before each holiday. My children wore their kippot proudly, until the Rabin assassination, at which time they were cursed and humiliated, as if those schoolchildren had murdered the prime minister. DURING THE two weeks my son, Nachshon, was held hostage by Hamas terrorists, and then murdered, followed by the week of shiva, our family experienced total unity and solidarity, love, caring, and compassion for one precious Jewish soul. There was no right wing, or left wing, religious or secular, Sephardi or Ashkenazi at that time, in contrast to our now tortured and fragmented society. My city, Jerusalem, is in danger. Who could have predicted such an abomination? What did my son give his life for? Our prime minister, who I know and respected, has waged a war against religion, against the Sabbath, and is attempting, along with all our so-called "new historians," to belittle the noble struggle for our state, for whose sake so much blood was spilled. Our heroes are being besmirched, our values mocked, the very core of our being torn away. How are we to be different from other nations, without our glorious past and the heritage upon which this country was morally and rightfully built? When our ideologies have turned into individual gratifications, when out beliefs are being challenged; when the core of our existence in our only Jewish state is scorned and negated, what is left? A return to Brooklyn? A fight for survival? What has become of my dream? Will the next generation dream the dream of Zion on the shores of Babylon? I beg our leaders, our people, not to remain indifferent to their obligation to generations of Jews whose existence was in the West, yet whose hearts were in the East, as rabbi Yehuda Halevi so eloquently expressed it. I beg my cynical, misled brethen to rethink the tragedy that I fear is closing in on us. For without past, there can be no future. The responsibility of the God forbid, destruction of Zion from within us. It is not too late.