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October 22, 2016 / 20 Tishri, 5777

Posts Tagged ‘forget’

A Cantor Rockoff Story I’ll Never Forget

Friday, July 22nd, 2016

I find it hard to believe, but the first yahrzeit of Kesher Israel (KI) Congregation’s beloved Cantor Seymour Rockoff is rapidly approaching (21 Tammuz – corresponding this year to July 27.)

I will always treasure the talks I had with Cantor Rockoff, many of which took place while walking home from Friday night services. During those short walks, I never knew where the discussion would lead. The cantor might share his unique perspectives on world events, or a little-known detail relating to Jewish prayer, or an original Torah thought. On rare occasions he would offer a window into his life by sharing some of his own experiences from his younger years.

What follows is a Cantor Rockoff story I’ll never forget.

The cantor and I had officiated at a Kesher Israel funeral that week. As with other funerals at KI’s cemetery, after the casket containing the deceased was lowered into the ground, family members and friends each offered a loving good-bye as they took turns shoveling earth into the open grave. Once the casket was fully covered with earth (and then some), we stopped to recite the final memorial prayers.

Upon completion of those prayers, I announced that the service was over. However, I invited any friends and family members who wished to continue placing earth into the grave to do so. When everyone was finished, I let the cemetery workers know we were done. They promptly cleared away the folding chairs and carpeting from the gravesite and used a truck to bring in a load of earth to fill the rest of the grave.

During our Friday night walk home from KI that night, Cantor Rockoff told me that decades earlier he had been a pulpit rabbi in Liberty, New York. While visiting a shiva home the day after a funeral at which he’d officiated, he was approached by the widow. The grieving woman told Cantor Rockoff that her just-deceased husband had vividly appeared to her in a dream, telling her he felt so cold.

Cantor Rockoff did his best to calm her, assuring the woman she had done everything possible for her beloved husband, and that it was natural to have dreams about someone she loved so much and was now gone. His comforting words seemed to put her mind at ease, and their conversation moved on.

When Cantor Rockoff returned to pay another shiva call the following day, he was again approached by the widow, who was just as distraught as she’d been the day before. She told him she had again clearly seen her husband in a dream – and again he had complained about how cold he was. Once again, Cantor Rockoff did his best to reassure the woman.

As he drove home from the shiva house, however, the cantor decided to stop at the cemetery for a quick look. He parked his car and walked over to the fresh grave of the man whose family was now observing shiva. Cantor Rockoff was stunned to see that the cemetery workers had left before finishing their job. A pile of earth still sat next to the grave in which only the casket had been covered at the time of the funeral. Cantor Rockoff immediately took off his jacket and tie and went to work with a shovel. The grave was soon properly filled.

The cantor told me he returned to the shiva home the next day, but never mentioned to the family what had occurred. He noted with a sense of fascination that during that visit (and during all subsequent interactions) the widow said nothing further about any uncomfortable dreams involving her late husband.

We walked a bit further. Cantor Rockoff paused, raised an eyebrow, looked at me with that mischievous look of his, and asked: “What do you think of that?”

I just shook my head in amazement, and we continued walking in silence. However, you can be sure I visited KI’s cemetery that Sunday morning to double check that the grave of the funeral at which we had recently officiated had been properly filled. It certainly had been, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I often thought about Cantor Rockoff’s story during my time at KI. On several occasions I stopped by KI’s cemetery the day after officiating at a funeral just to take a quick look. I’m happy to report that I never encountered any problems – our local cemetery professionals do their job extremely well.

May God remember how faithfully Cantor Seymour Rockoff served Kesher Israel Congregation. May He bless the cantor’s devoted wife, Dena, with much health, happiness, and nachas from their beloved family.

Rabbi Akiva Males

The Walter Bingham File – A Week I’d Rather Forget: Turkey, Terror, Tactics and Tyranny [audio]

Tuesday, July 19th, 2016

Now: The dust has settled on the agreement with Turkey, and an analysis of it in this programme shows that Israel drew the short straw.

And: Israel’s quiet diplomacy and trade arrangements brought results with our newfound friends – India, China and Central Africa.

Walter discusses: Why America’s Second Amendment is outdated and counter-productive.

You’ll hear: About the convulsions in UK politics.

Also: Is YouTube biased? Hear what’s going on there.

Plus: The late-breaking news of another barbaric terrorist attack in France. Walter discusses the underlying causes.

With: Much more.

The Walter Bingham File 17Jul – PODCAST

Israel News Talk Radio

The Warrior’s Tale

Wednesday, November 13th, 2013

Originally published at Sultan Knish.

The warrior’s tale is a simple enough thing. Strong as steel, but fragile as chance. It is the wind in his soul and the wall we build around ourselves to tell us who we are.

Before there were cities or nations, and railways and airports, computers and telephones– the tale was told around campfires. Acted out in pantomime, dressed up in animal furs and cave paintings. But the tale was the same. The people were confronted with a threat and they called upon the best and strongest of their men to go out and fight it. These were their warriors. What they did in the face of that threat is the tale.

The tale has many variations. Sometimes there are many warriors, sometimes only a handful. They march into the village of the enemy in triumph, or they make a last stand on a rocky outcropping, spending the last of their heart’s blood to buy time they will never know. There is the weak man who becomes strong, the strong man who becomes weak, the woman who mourns the man who will never return, and the man who goes off to battle with nothing to lose. These tales have been told countless times in the ages of men, and they will be told again for as long as men endure.

It is not only the warriors who need the tale, or those left behind. Future generations learn who they are from this tale. “We are the people who died for this land,” is the unseen moral of each tale. “We bled for it. Now it is yours to bleed and die for.”

The warrior’s tale tells each generation that they stand on the wall against a hostile world. And that the wall is made not of stones, but of their virtues. Their courage, their integrity and their craft. Theirs is the wall and they are the wall– and if they should fail, then it will fail. And the land and the people will be swept away.

What happens to a people who forget the warrior’s tale and stop telling it around their campfires? Worse , what of a people who are taught to despise the figure of the warrior and what he represents? They will not lose their courage, not all of it. But they will lose the direction of that courage. It will become a sudden unexplained virtue that rises to them out of the depths of danger. And their wall will fail.

It is the warrior’s tale that makes walls. That says this is the land that we have fought for, and we will go on fighting for it. It is sacrifice that makes mere possession sacrosanct. It is blood that turns right to duty. It is the seal that is above law, deeper still to heritage. Anyone can hold a thing, but it is sacrifice that elevates it beyond possessiveness. And it is that tale which elevates a people from possessors of a land, to the people of the land.

Universalism discards the warrior’s tale as abomination. A division in the family of man. Their tale is of an unselfish world where there are no more divisions or distinctions. Where everyone is the same in their own way. But this tale is a myth, a religious idea perverted into totalitarian politics. It is a promise that cannot be kept and a poison disguised with dollops of sugar. It lures the people into tearing down their wall and driving out their warriors. And what follows is what always does when there is no wall. The invaders come, the women scream, the children are taken captive and the men sit with folded hands and drugged smiles dreaming of a better world.

The warrior’s tale explains why we fight in terms of our own history. The Great Swamp Fight. The Shot Heard Round the World. The Battle of New Orleans. Gettysburg, San Juan Hill, Belleau Wood, Pearl Harbor, Heartbreak Ridge, the Tet Offensive, Kandahar, and Fallujah. Generations of sacrifices must be defended. And those who wage war on us must be made to pay.

Universalism demands that war must answer to universal aims and objectives. That there is a universal law higher than war. But this is a children’s story. The laws of men derive from their own interests. Those who can rule by force or coalition make their laws to serve their own ends. This is the way of the world.

Those who pretend to live by universalism will still fall to the law of steel. Rhetoric is no defense against fire and lead, and international codes have no defense against those who will break them. The talk may go on, but it is the warriors who will end it. It is still the warrior’s tale to tell, even if all others have forgotten it.

The warrior’s tale is no happy thing. It is bitter as bile and dark as death. But it is also a grand and glorious thing. For even in its full naked truth, it is the story of perseverance in the face of every agony and betrayal. It is the tale of how we live and why we die.

Even when all others forget their tale, the warriors remember. Even when they are called peacekeepers and turned into an army of clowns for the satisfaction of their political masters. The armies may decay, but warriors still remain in their cracks, on their edges– men who are not wanted, but are needed because they are the only ones who can do the grim work and do it well. They may only be a hundredth of an army, or a thousandth. A fraction of a fraction. But without them there is no army, only empty uniforms.

When the warrior’s tale is forgotten, then they become shadows. Dangerous men despised and feared. Thought of as killers, dismissed as monsters and stared at like beasts in a cage. But the society cannot deny them. It cannot deny that part of them. When the warrior diminishes, the energy is directed elsewhere. Sport becomes an obsession and matches end in bloody violence. Crime increases. Prisons fill up. So do police forces.

As the external war fades, the internal one begins. Barbarians come from without. Buildings burn, mobs rage and there is a savagery in the air.

No law can protect a society that has forgotten the warrior’s tale. It will turn outward, and adopt the warrior tales of outsiders. The samurai will replace the cowboy. The sports star will be an outsider. Its heroes will become foreigners. Men who understand the virtue of violence and will do what their own people have been forbidden. Who have the vital energy that a society without a warrior’s tale lacks.

When a people give up their own warrior’s tale for that of others, they lose the ability to resist them. For each people’s warrior’s tale says that we are people, and they are enemies. We are warriors and they are murderers. When a people have no other warrior’s tale but that of their enemies, they will come to believe that they are monsters. And that their enemies are brave warriors.

The day will come when they are asked who they are, and they will not know. They will point to their possessions and the names of their streets and cities. They will speak of higher ideals and cringe for not living up to them. They will be asked why they fight, and they will say that they do not want to fight. That all they want is peace at any price.

Even the most powerful of civilizations with the mightiest of cities becomes prey when it forgets the warrior’s tale. It takes more than weapons to defend a city, it demands the knowledge of the rightness of their use. It is no use dressing men in uniforms and arming them, if they are not taught the warrior’s tale. And it is nearly as little use, sending them off to watch and keep, if the men above them discard the warrior’s tale as violent and primitive gibberish.

An army of millions is worth little, without the warrior’s tale. Strategy is technique, firepower is capacity, both begin and end with the human mind. “Why do we fight,” is the question that the warrior’s tale answers far better than any politician could. “We fight because this is ours. It is our honor, our duty and our war. We have been fighting for hundreds and thousands of years. This is what makes us who we are.”

We are the people, says the warrior’s tale. But we are every people, says the universalist’s tale. All is one. There is no difference between us and them. And we will prove it by bringing them here. Then the walls fall and it falls to the warriors to make their last stand. To tell another warrior’s tale with their lives.

This is the quiet war between the philosopher merchants who want trade and empire, and the warriors who know that they will be called upon to secure the empire, and then die fighting the enemy at home. It is how the long tale that begins with campfires and ends with burning cities goes. The story that begins with cave paintings and ends with YouTube videos. Whose pen is iron, lead and steel. And whose ink is always blood.

We have been here before. Told and retold the old stories. The forest, the swamp, the hill and the valley. And behind them the lie, the maneuver and the betrayal. The war that becomes unreasoning and the people who forget why they fight. And one by one the warriors slip away. Some to the long sleep in the desert. Others to secluded green places. And still others into the forgetfulness of a people’s memory. The hole in the heart of a people who forget themselves and become nothing.

Daniel Greenfield

Printed from: http://www.jewishpress.com/blogs/sultan-knish/the-warriors-tale/2013/11/13/

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