Hey all. I have a new blog. You can find it at:
http://lifeonthecurtain.blogspot.com/

Hope you like it!

Winter

The sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the dozens of emaciated bodies outside of my humble home, the bodies of those who could not live without the copper wires and electrical conduits that defined their lowly lives. The blessings of their past did not carry over to their present, however. They bodies that lay there were dead due to their dependence on technology. In a moment of anger, I lashed out. Our lives are not meant to be lived in mediocrity! Our lives are our own, not meant to be tied to others, our rulers, our followers. Our lives are not meant to be defined by superficial wants but instead what we want to spend our life doing.

Apparently those who lay dead at my feet hadn’t seemed to realize that. 

I remembered back one year and eleven months, the first midnight of the new year, the night that humanity had lost its technology. On the first day hundreds of people lost their lives from terror and rioting alone. As the weeks, and then the months, went by, the numbers did not reduce. Quite the contrary, in fact. They went up exponentially. 

I went back to my sanctuary, my very own zoo, filled with animals from all over the world. The only reminder I had from a past life. No matter. This new one is already so much more fulfilling.

Brittany, my pet capuchin, jumped onto my shoulder. I smiled at her. “Hello, my dear.”

She squeaked back. From my years of researching, I knew that I could understand her. “Hello, my one and only love. Hello, my Lord.”

I rubbed her fur and lightly stepped over the graves of my former colleagues, Dr. Demel, the astronomer, and Dr. Lovejoy, the botanist. Together we were a force to be reckoned with. We could have conquered the world if we chose to! brilliant new rulers for a brilliant new golden age. Too bad everybody had died first.

I reached my desk and pulled out my log and a pen. No need for computers! I prided myself on the fact that I could exist solely on my own ingenuity and brilliance. I would have made a fair and just ruler. I commenced observing my friends, the animals. The writing was like a drug to me, a calm ecstasy, a soaring relaxation, a routine that suited me to the extreme. 

I heard a crash outside, and I arose from my trance in a rage. Who would dare disturb me! Me! The savior of mankind! A new messiah for a new age!

A man came in shaking, his skinny arms holding a crudely shaped tree stump. This made me even more furious. This man would dared to kill a tree!

“Please, sir,” the man, well, more like a boy said. “Please give me some food.” His voice shook like the weakling that he was. People like he would be terminated in my new reign.

“No,” I said, plain and simple, and returned to my work.

“Then, sir, I am truly sorry, but you leave me no choice.” The boy raised his beastly club, but I quickly grabbed a knife and stabbed him in the ribs.

“Why…?” he mumbled before he fell.

I kneeled and inspected him. He was suffering from malnutrition and thin bones. His body temperature, declining fast, was still unbearably hot. I added a fever to the list of symptoms.

I got back up and looked at what once had been a human being. Had I truly killed him? This nameless boy was dead before he could truly live. To what end does our anonymity serve us? At what point does a man become a stranger, and thus an enemy?

I turned around. No matter. I had probably spared him a lot of pain and suffering. An alleviation, of sorts, i suppose.

I took the body outside to dispose of it. The rotting meat and juices of a human were good for the plants which supplied my food. The sun was setting fast over the horizon, a chill was in the air.

My stomach grumbled, and with horror I realized that I had not eaten for a long, long while. I ran to my garden, which was probably the only thing that kept me alive when everybody else was dead. I began to dig through the soil, desperation making me animal. There was no food! None! How could there be no…!”

I had thought that I was a god.

And then I died.

Dust to Dust

My fingers dance across my heritage. My grandmother’s trunk has been through so much. It’s journey across Iran, Lebanon, Israel, England, and America had been nothing short of a miracle. I return to the present as a slew of colors greet my eye. I carefully begin unpacking everything, exaggerating my gentleness so that nothing will break.

I reach for a vase and the cold smoothness makes me smile. There are very few cracks, a tribute to my grandmother’s carefulness. The next object, a dusty rug. I pull it out and rub it, sending dust flying through the air. I pause for a moment, as the tiny grains float through the slant of sunlight coming in through the high window. I remember one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings. Her cracked voice reverberates through my mind. “Remember, my shainie maidele [beautiful girl, in Yiddish], remember: we were all made of dust, and one day we shall return to it. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. All of our differences are simply imagined; we are all made of the same thing. This is the order of the world.”

The sun reaches its zenith; the heat and light burn against my bare back.I know that I will be pink before long. I begin to replace the objects. I reach the rug, and something strikes me. A tag reads “Flying Carpet Company.” I smile for a moment, as fairytales come rushing back. Caught up in the moment, I unlatch the windows and sit down.

And I fly!

****

The wind runs through my hair, as I leave the few clouds far, far behind and hold on for dear life. How did this happen? My mind races back to my childhood. My mother tells me that there are no such things as dragons and knights in shining armor and princesses. She dies four months later in a freak sky diving accident.

My grandmother reads me the story of Aladdin and his magic genie and flying carpet. It is past my bedtime. I go downstairs for a glass of water and stumble across my grandmother gazing at the picture of the handsome prince. Tears fill her eyes and mine, as the magic carpet begins to come down to land.

The first thing that strikes me is the immense heat. The second is the wailing, the infinite amount of pain. A man walks by, leading a camel. I quickly roll the rug up. “Where am I?” I ask in Arabic, a language that I learned from my now-dead Lebanese grandfather.

The man looks at me, puzzled. “You are in Darfur, lady. You might be wanting to go now…they are coming.…” The man picks up his pace and strides off, and my mind is left with questions. Who are they, and why should I fear them? I begin to walk in the direction of the wailing.

A woman clutches her dead baby. I kneel and say, “Who did this to you, ma’am?”

She gulps several times. “The…the soldiers. They killed my baby. They stole my life from me.” All is silent for a moment, like the ocean before a wave. The lady looks at her baby and erupts. “WHY?” she yells, beating her hands upon her face and tearing out her hair. “WHY?”

I continue on, afraid to face the all-consuming blackness that the woman is forced to prematurely face. I meet a man prostrate on the ground, vast weeps and screams finding their way out of his mouth only to be muted by the sand. I kneel down once again. “What is wrong?” I ask him.

The man faces me, his black eyes filled with pain.”They stole my cattle. They took my only son.” Knowing that no consolation on my part could make him feel any better, he heaves himself off the ground and walks away, his shoulders shaking.

There is a tent in the distance. A man in a soldier’s uniform walks put, zipping up his pants. A woman cries softly in the tent. I clench my teeth in pure hatred. This is them. This is the one who killed the woman’s baby. What harm did the child ever do? What gain was there in slaughtering an infant? This is the one who took the man’s cattle and took his son. But why? Why these senseless acts of irrational hatred?

“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice cultured and sophisticated. 

I take a moment before answering. “I am a human being, so much more than you shall ever be. What brought you to this madness?”

The man scoffs. “You are too young to understand the complex workings of the government.” The woman’s cries get louder. “SHUT UP!” he yells and throws his knife inside the tent. A deafening thud and a few weak whimpers follow before they cease completely. 

I look at the man one last time. “Complex indeed.”

I run away, for I have seen enough.

“Carpet, take me home.”

The sun still shines, mocking my pain. What type of insanity could bring about these acts of madness? After all, we are…we are all made out of the same thing. Ashes to ashes.

And dust…to dust.

Stupid Death

"stupid death."

Stupid death. A term for a death that didn't need to happen, that could have easily been avoided. In the case of Haiti, a death that could have easily been avoided if there was enough food, medicine, or care.

"Stupid death."

A death that could have been avoided.

An ode to a girl who died a stupid death:

A girl was stuck under rubble for forty-eight hours since the quake. When a group of rescuers found her, she was beyond thirsty and hungry. Her right leg was entirely pinned underneath her.

The team of rescuers took her to a hospital, only to learn that they were lacking supplies to take her of her. They reccomended her to another hospital some miles away.

She died on the way there.

Her last words were, "Mama, don't let me die."

Her uncle decided not to tell her mother yet, knowing that she would go insane from the grief.

Ode to Haiti

Three days ago an earthquake struck Haiti, the poorest nation in the western hemisphere. Many are approximating that nearly 100,000 died. 100,000 human beings.

If these numbers are correct, that is about 1.2% of the population. 1.2 percent seems like a small number, but with a country with a population of about 8,326,000, it is a huge amount. 

Please take a moment to think about that. It could have been your mother or father or sibling or aunts or uncles. It could have been your best friend. It could have been or best friend or your partner or children.

 It could have been you.

The thousands of people injured in Haiti are largely without doctors, medicine, food, water, shelter, and so many other basic necessities.

100,000 human beings.

Living

Levon pushed open the door that read Takeo Saito-Journalist. He walked slowly into the chair opposite the big, oak desk. He took his time, for he did not want to seem eager or excited to be delivering sad news. Takeo looked up, his thin glasses resting precariously on his nose. He pulled his hands away from the typewriter where his newest article rested.

“Hey! Levon! What’s up?” Levon’s solemn expression caused Takeo’s grin to slowly move downwards, finally dissipating into a frown. “What happened?”

Levon waited a moment before answering. “Hoshi…Hoshi died in a car crash.”

Takeo slowly lowered his head to his desk, as his world fell apart around him.

****

Hoshi had loved her car. It was a McGiven’s, that her wealthy parents had given to her for her sixteenth birthday. It had lasted through two graduations, an engagement, a marriage, and a miscarriage.

Takeo, on leave from his job and lacking anything to do, went to the library.

****

“Hello, Takeo. How are you?” The librarian, a plumpish woman in her late forties, looked up from her book, her eyes peering through that precariously thin line between the top of her glasses and her thick eyebrows. “Oh, that’s right. I heard about your wife. I’m so sorry…”

Takeo waved away the condolences with his hand and went to the death registers.

Margaret Smith…aged 25…driving a McGiven’s car…presumed driving while intoxicated …hit from behind…gas tank exploded.

Lindsay …aged sixteen…driving a McGiven’s on the way to her birthday party…made an illegal u-urn and crashed…gas tank exploded…still alive when the paramedics reached her…burned beyond recognition…died soon afterwards.

Hoshi Saito…driving home from her job at the local preschool. A drunk man ran into her car…gas tank exploded…a charred image was found of her slumped against the car door with her hand on the handle.

Takeo reread his wife’s obituary once more and then allowed all of the pieces to click into place as the evidence of his theory overwhelmed him.

****

“Hey, Levon. Do you know who the CEO of McGiven’s Cars is?”

“Yeah, it’s David Amalek. We ran an article a couple months ago about the richest people in the world. He’s number four.”

“Thank you, Levon.”

••••

“Hello, this is McGiven’s Cars.”

“Hello, I would like to schedule an appointment with Mr. Amelek. My name is Takeo Saito, and I’m a journalist with The Times.”

“I see, Mr. Saito. Unfortunately, Mr. Amelek is very busy at the moment. I can schedule an appointment…a month from now?”

“That’s a bit too late for what we have in mind. It will be a very short interview, ma’am. No more than ten minutes. We just want his opinion on something.”

“I see. Well, I can fit you in tomorrow at 3:30.”

“That will be perfect, ma’am. Thank you very much. Goodbye.”

****

The ornate wooden doors stood in front of Takeo. He gulped nervously and tried in vain to loosen his tie. He rubbed the picture of Hoshi in his pocket for good luck and knocked.

“Come in.”

“Hello, sir, I’m Takeo Saito from The Times. I came to ask your opinion on something.”

“Go ahead, Takeo. Ask away.”

Mr. Amelek was a short, Middle-Eastern looking man. He spoke with a faint Armenian accent that some might regard as endearing or grandfatherly. 

Takeo hated it with all of his heart.

“Mr. Amelek, definitive evidence has arisen that your cars’ gas tanks explode in collisions. Countless people have died, people who have had their whole lives ahead of them. I would like to ask if this was sheer stupidity on your part or if there was something more involved. Something like money?”

Mr. Amelek seemed shocked for a fraction of a second, and then his eyes narrowed in something more like fear and hatred. “We manufacture quality cars. Whoever told you this falsehood is clearly a liar.”

“Having said that, sir, how do you explain the countless people dead?”

“Well…well…”

“One more question. How much money did you save?” Takeo stormed out of the room, but instead of leaving, he listened:

“Jones? Hello, it’s Amelek here…we have a problem over here…a Mr. Takeo Saito…yes, he found out…Tonight, hopefully…$200! HIGHWAY ROBBERY!…$120…Good. Thank you, Jones.”

Takeo’s heart thudded like a drumbeat in his chest. He knew what he had to do.

••••

Conclusive evidence has arises that the CEO of McGiven’s Cars, Mr. David Amelek, has omitted a vital part in his cars that keeps the gas tank from exploding in the case of a collision.

The sky weeped as the preacher stood at the head of the coffin. “Takeo Saito was murdered last night in his own home.”

After doing some more research, I have learned that the missing part only costs $0.25. It is my firm belief that McGiven’s Cars knew that the addition of the part would save lives. It is my firm belief that they purposely chose not to include this vital part, in order to save a mere $0.25 per car.

“As many of you might have read this morning, Takeo Saito unearthed corruption and falsehood in McGiven’s Cars. McGiven’s Cars wasn’t happy about this development.”

Yesterday I spoke to Mr. Amelek about this information. After a pause, he denied it, and angrily threw me out of his office, which, I might add, was decorated with several Picassos and one Matisse. After I left, I stayed around a bit longer. I heard him talk on the phone with a man he referred to as Jones. Could he have been referring to Robert Jones, notorious serial killer? Mr. Jones agreed to have me killed for a mere $120. Is this the value of a human life? As I write this article, my every sense is hyper-alert, waiting for that tell tale crash of the window breaking or a door thudding open. My only fear now is that I won’t be able to finish and deliver this article on time.

“As his daring article said, Mr. Saito heard Mr. Amelek sign his own death warrant.”

After doing some more research, I learned that some 500 people died in a McGiven’s car, and more than 400 of them died from a gas tank explosion. My own wife, Hoshi Saito, was among them.

“Mr. Saito went home and wrote his article, published in The Times this morning. He gave it to his friend, Levon, to deliver to the newspaper. That was the last time anyone ever saw him alive. When he was found this morning his throat was slit with a rusty knife, bearing DNA from the infamous serial killer Robert Jones. 

Takeo had a smile on his face. Mr. Takeo Saito will be remembered as a brave and honorable individual who dared to question an event which will turn into one of the biggest corruptions of our decade. We will all miss him dearly.”

I have proven McGiven’s Car’s to be run by a money hungry man who has no morals or ethics. As a last word, I would like to question Mr. Amelek directly. How much money is a human life worth?

Author’s Note--

This short story is based on a true story regarding the Ford Pinto Case. In this case, the car company Ford chose to remove the vital $0.25 piece that would protect the gas tank from exploding in case of a collision.

Several people who had never heard about the actual occurrence thought that my story was unbelievable. After all, which company would withhold an incredibly cheap part that would save lives?

It is my belief that this story reflects upon one of the lowest points in human history. It is my belief that this story shows how low a human being can go. 

Is a human life worth $0.25?

The Beautiful Catalina Island...

A Lesson on Growing Up

A human being is born with a pure heart, a beautiful soul. A human being is born with kindness in their minds, with love in their hearts. And yet, over their years, they get so messed up with money and self-importance and their own expensive image of the world. Their soul gets smothered, the flame dies.

And as the child vanishes, the grown-up takes over and begins to organize their minds into files and systems.

A Perspective on Beauty

Beauty is...

Beauty...

Beauty is food to a hungry man.

The groping, clawing pain in his stomach. The nights spent awake, dry tears streaming down his dry cheeks. The thin, emaciated limbs. The huge, bulging eyes.

The compassion through suffering. The understanding glance that one starved man gives to another.

And then...deliverance. Relief. Liberation.

Food.

Comfort, happiness, deliverance.

Beauty is solace to the tortured woman.

No thought but pain. Vision, tinged with red. The hot, uncomfortable sweat, streaming down her burning cheeks into her aching mouth.

The shrieks of pure pain.

An insane doctor’s prognosis.

The screaming limbs. The deafening shrieks.

Pain, death, pain, death. Sick mantras to the sick mind.

And then... and then. Relief.

A deep breath. A swallow of water, rushing down her sore throat.

Solace, relief, comfort.

Beauty is memories to the amnesiac.

Perpetual fog. A veil draped over her hazy eyes. The agony, the ignorance, the pain. The suffocation.

The photographs, the books, the music. The effort to break through the wall, to have some whisper of the past.

The constant rise and fall of the waves. With every crash, more and more hope... gone to the wind, lost to the sea.

And then, finally, a memory. Some clue to the damning past.

Beauty is sight to the blind man.

The agonizing pain through ignorance, of not knowing what another man takes for granted.

The constant, maddening ghosts of sight fleeting through the edge of his vision, of his sanity.

The simple, beautiful joy through music or through the spoken word, but the need to see the player. The soothing comfort of a cool breeze on his skin, but the need to see the tree’s leaves dancing. The ecstasy that the sweet perfume of a spring garden can bring, but the perpetual, maddening hunger to see.

And then, finally, liberation.

A beautiful flower, a serene cloud, the deep crimson of human blood.

Sight, joy, sanity.

Beauty.

A Lesson in Light and Kindness

Once upon a time, possibly a long time ago, possibly a short time, things were different. Things were better. People were kinder, nicer, more moral. Each and every one of us shined with an inner light.

And then, suddenly, something happened. Who knows what it was. Perhaps... perhaps we discovered that money gives us more than good deeds. Perhaps we grew lazy. Perhaps we were all in a bad mood.

But suddenly, everything was different, and we no longer cared about what happened to the other people, our neighbors, our friends.

We lost the shimmer.

We lost the glow.

We lost the kindness.

People, something must change! Somebody must make that first act, that first leap into something better, into something more important than our television sets or our magazines or what happened to whom! We must learn to see past our noses!

We have to start caring about genocide.

We have to start caring about the exploitation of those who can barely put food on the table!

We have to do something!

People, people, please. It doesn't have to be something big, not to start out with. It's allowed to be something small. Smile at a child who may not know that there is kindness in the world. Help somebody up, off of that pavement, who doesn't know that there are people who aren't bullies. I know that financial times are hard. Give a dollar to charity, give some food to someone who's off worse than you.

Help one person, be kind to ONE PERSON! And the world will be a better place.

Soaring High

While I am stuck down here, attached to the polluted ground, my soul is flying high above, breaking the overcast to find the blessed sun. I am an eagle, symbol of truth and freedom, harbinger of safety and comfort.

My heart is filled with words, endless words. Words that swim through my blood and fill my veins and arteries and drift up to my brain and fill my thoughts. Words that swim up to my heart.

The word freedom is ingrained on my heart and mind, written on my forehead for all to see. Freedom is the right to speak out loud. Freedom is the right to write stories that fill the thoughts of millions. Freedom is the right to love whoever you choose. Freedom is the right to pray and hope. Freedom is the right to live.

I love the sound of voices raised in prayer, hoping for a better tomorrow.

I hate the bitter stench of blood and sweat and leather and tears, the reek of slavery and oppression. The reek that comes from the arrogance of one man thinking that he has a right to own another.

I love the dark and cool nighttime. The pure, forbidding black of the sky studded with gorgeous diamonds. I love the cool, clean scent of the night, of people resting. The sound of that quiet that only comes during sleep.

If my fists could speak, they would tell me to stop clenching them together for so long, for that kind of pain only comes from pure rage.

I remember my first epiphany, the first major realization that came flooding through my soul; human beings were all created equal.

And they are.

And they are.

Crowds

I hate crowds. When you are in a crowd you lose your individuality. If somebody sees you and somehow notices you, they think, "Oh, just another person. Just another person who doesn't matter." I hate people thinking that my life is not worth living. Call it vanity, but I need to matter! I need to do something with my life! I need to be somebody!!! I need to matter!!!

True

I am all alone.

Surrounded by people, I am all alone.

I am a human.

I am the only true human.

The robots disgust me.

They step on my feet. They don't apologize.

Disgust.

They scream and yell and whimper like children.

Disgust.

They drink and drink and drink till they burst and vomit all over my human skin.

Disgust.

I am not here.

Hate.

Surrounded by robots, I am the only human.

The only true human.

I am unique.

I am alone.

Invisible.

Alone.

Invisible.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

The Flame

The darkness is rising

The evil ascending

The hated creatures fighting,

Forever fighting.

Fighting the good.

The light,

The good,

Is fighting too.

The one flame in the dark,

Shining, forever shining.

My knight in shining armor,

My better half,

My soulmate

My one flame,

Fighting the overwhelming darkness.

I love him.

It is a school day.

We are sitting at a lunch table.

He fights off the overwhelming crowds.

There is Love in Me

There is love in me... The gentle kindness of two lovers kissing or the primal passion of a mother bear protecting her cubs. The gentle peace of a quiet brook with green leaves crowning the tops of trees or the loud and violent bloodlust of a wolf in the dead of night.

There is a silent love in me... The warmth of a gentle kiss under a full moon or the smell of the sun cascading in rays down my back. The silent trust that two lovers share or the awe inspiring silence of stars in the inky black of night as they watch over the rest of humanity in mute vigil. This silent love is in me because it was ingrained since the beginning of time, since the first chapter of Genesis, to try to understand and contemplate and love. 

There is an age old passion in me...  The love of an unseen God who lives over the hill, as old as the land itself. The obsessive need to live on my land and fight for it and protect it so that I can again feel the sun set on my back and on my shoulders, and see my fruits blossom one more time. This is in me because I need to protect and create what is mine and my kin’s.

There is a gentle peace and understanding in me... A quiet stream as it bubbles down the smooth rocks and stones of the brook to which it belongs. The sun shining through the green leaves of the towering trees to dance as light upon my face. A warm embrace with a loved one or a violin playing in the dark of night.  

There is a loud and savage bloodlust in me... A wolf in the dead of night howling at the huge moon, preparing to feed well. The constant rhythm of many feet thudding against the forest floor during a hunt. This is in me because this, too, is part of love and this, too, is a part of living. 

I’ve an abundance of love, under my ribs, where my heart lies, or in my head, where I think about all I am to do. On my lips, which speak the truth, or over the skin of my arms, which embrace.  I am made of love. This is what I have, and this is where I am going.

Survivor

This is sort of long, but I hope it will be interesting. the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising from a survivor's point of view.

I am in Warsaw, Poland in 1939. There is war brewing. Its angry voice moves swiftly through the wind and is fed into the minds and hearts of angry people all over the globe. Germany has invaded Poland, signaling the beginning of World War Two. One by one the Jews see their rights and privileges being taken away. The Nazi cancer begins to spread.

I move briskly through the streets of Jerusalem Boulevard, trying to make it to my friend’s house before curfew at seven o’ clock. I pause as I see a Polish soldier thrown out of one of the many taverns of the city, roaring loudly. He swears at me, for I look Jewish. I hurry on. As I rush I reflect on what has just happened. My family has lived through five major pogroms and countless minor ones. I have no attachment to the land. I stay only to educate the next generation of Jews in this land, that they might know contentment as well. I am a Zionist. I teach at a Zionist farm at day and go to Zionist meetings at night.

I arrive at my friend Tosia Alternam’s house out of breath. She smiles at me as I flop down on a couch. I take off my black coat, which has a recent edition of a six cornered black star with the German word Jude on it. I look around the room to see if anyone else has arrived yet. I smile at Mordechai Anteleiwitz, and he nods in acknowledgement. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Emmanuel Ringelblum comes in. As he nods to each of us, I notice something unusual in his usually calm expression. Is it anxiety, or is it fear? 

As he starts talking, we all stop what we were doing a moment ago and listen intently.

He covers what has happened in the invasion of Poland, what can be expected of the Nazis, and what has happened to Jews before. “In conclusion,” he says, “We might have a heritage right here. People thousands of years from now might speak our names. We might all die, but if we record these atrocities committed to us by the Nazis, our souls will live on. We must keep chronicles of these events”. We all agree.

The next week we move into the ghetto. My God, there are so many people there.  People have to sleep in the streets, as there is no room in the houses. The rations are below starvation level. It is not uncommon to see the corpse of an emaciated man or woman on the street corner. In these days we think that nothing can get worse. How wrong we are.

A year passes, and then two, and then another one. Life is a day to day struggle to survive. Wild children roam the streets, hungry for the smallest morsel of food. People are dying by the thousands every month. 

We hear of Babi Yar, “Grandmother’s Pits”. Men, women, and children alike are forced to dig their own graves, and then shot in the back of the head by the Nazis. In three days 33,000 people die. 

The Germans begin deporting people to Treblinka. Is death really so bad? The only alternative is starvation. Palestine is a dream, a destination which can only be arrived at through death. Through all of this we keep our journals. Many days I force my hand to write just one more sentence, just one more.

Mordechai Anteleiwitz rises as a leader. We know that a fight is coming with the Nazis, and we know that he will lead. He is a great builder of morale. He is the one that urges us to live one more day. We form underground headquarters in Mila 18. There is always music and dancing there.

On January 18, 1943, a great shot for freedom is fired. We run the Germans out of the Ghetto! We slaughter them in their footsteps! It marks a turning point in the history of the Jewish people. We fly the Star of David over the ghetto. It is truly living Zionism. 

Each day we run the Germans out of the Ghetto. Ammunition is getting low. We begin to hide our journals, in order to preserve them for future generations. We have a Passover seder. This night truly is different from all others. We remember Masada and Betar and Jerusalem! We remember Shimshon bar Kochba and Giora and Eliezer! We know that tonight we are truly free. 

We know that to worship God is to drive the Nazis out! On this night, we are really and truly free!

Through all of this we continue to drive the Germans out. More than three hundred have died of a Jewish bullet so far. We have held out for more than a month, where the whole of Poland only held out for fifteen days. We know true freedom. We defeat tanks, yet the Nazis can’t even get a foothold in the ghetto. 

The Germans capture Mila 18. I am away on a mission, and they capture it.  They pump poison gas in the openings. Tosia and I escape, but they take Emmanuel and Mordechai. As we go under the wall to the Aryan side, we know that we must preserve a legacy.

Now I am here in Palestine. I live in the Ghetto Fighters Kibbutz in Acre. I work hard trying to preserve Emmanuel Ringelblum’s dream of preserving the history of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. It is strange, isn’t it, how the height of man’s inhumanity to man also results in one of man’s greatest moments?

Shira ben-Dror