ragioni per essere sionisti
I would force the Orthodox to once again memorize the mitzvot between man and G-d. “You shall not take the Name of Hashem, your God, in vain” is an appropriate reminder to those who transform the God of the Jews into a politician of bypass roads in the West Bank, and “You shall not make for yourself a graven image or any picture” is an appropriate rebuke to the whole strange culture of amulets, blessings, and red strings that is now so widespread in our region.
Tratto da questo bellissimo articolo di Yair Lapid; che racconta, tra l'altro, come, dove e quando suo padre è diventato sionista.
My father hid behind a small public lavatory, painted green. His mother stood behind him, pushed him into the lavatory, and said to him, “Act like you’re going to the bathroom.” He did as he was told, and the column continued on without them.
Six hours later, the entire column was dead – except for my father and my grandmother. They stood in the street, free, without the yellow patch, because my father had removed it from his clothes. And they could go anywhere.
There were thousands of uninhabited miles in the American Midwest; the Australian Bush was emptier than the Budapest ghetto; London was free; Paris was about to be liberated; and Mussolini had already been hanged in Italy. But my 13-year-old father had nowhere to go. [...]
Many years later, I went to Budapest with my father. We walked down the street together, and then he stopped and began to cry. He pointed to a small public lavatory, painted green, and started talking. “This is the place where I was saved,” he explained. “This is the place where in essence you were born. This is the place where my Zionism was born. Because it was here that I realized that I need to have a place to go to.”
My father hid behind a small public lavatory, painted green. His mother stood behind him, pushed him into the lavatory, and said to him, “Act like you’re going to the bathroom.” He did as he was told, and the column continued on without them.
Six hours later, the entire column was dead – except for my father and my grandmother. They stood in the street, free, without the yellow patch, because my father had removed it from his clothes. And they could go anywhere.
There were thousands of uninhabited miles in the American Midwest; the Australian Bush was emptier than the Budapest ghetto; London was free; Paris was about to be liberated; and Mussolini had already been hanged in Italy. But my 13-year-old father had nowhere to go. [...]
Many years later, I went to Budapest with my father. We walked down the street together, and then he stopped and began to cry. He pointed to a small public lavatory, painted green, and started talking. “This is the place where I was saved,” he explained. “This is the place where in essence you were born. This is the place where my Zionism was born. Because it was here that I realized that I need to have a place to go to.”
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