What can I do for you?

Dear soldier  sitting there on the heights of your land while waiting for an order. With black color on your face for hiding yourself in case of war. With your heart beating for the fear of hurting an innocent life. Dear soldier full of anxiety and tension. With your eyes closed and the thought directed to your mother’s smile and embrace full of apprehension and worry. With your heavy shoulders of a responsibility that no one has in the world, at your age. With your  rolled sleeves and the tfilin on your arm while directing your heart to G-d. Dear soldier I think of you while you sit there during the cold of the night. While the radio plays together with the noise of the rockets thrown by an enemy that shouts “ we love death as you Jews love life”. While your soul is trembling because you know you are there, to defend the future of your people. I think of you. And I would like, really like, to do something for you. For all the soldiers, for my and your nation, for the members of my family who have fifteen seconds since that sound breaks the sky, to run and save their lives. I would like to be part of this clash between opposite ways of intending man and the reason for which he is in this world. I cannot wear a military uniform. Nor I cannot take a weapon in my arms. But I know, I truly know, I can help you though I am far. Because we both belong to a nation which is able to fight not only through weapons and strenght. A nation which is able to break all natural rules, winning enemies which are more numerous and powerful than it. We have a secret ally. Who is able to turn upside down all the situation in a few instants. Who is able to decide if a rocket will explode in the hands of the enemy who is preparing it or it will fall in the middle of the sea instead that on a building full of families. In order to help you I know I need to call for that secret Ally once again. Doing something more between all the things He commanded us to do in this material world. More tzedakà, some more kosher, more prayers and shabat. More Torah study moments and concentration of our children education. Dear soldier, dear brother who lives in Israel, may our awakening be appreciated by our Eternal Ally, and may He protect us from the hands of everyone who wants to harm us. Amen.

Gheula Canarutto Nemni

may your soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life

We are here again. For the 14th time. Since that Nissan 3rd during which it was decided from Above, your life was at its end. How could I imagine the kiss I received from you was forever the last one? How could I know I would not feel your strong arms around me before leaving my home? How could I foresee that one day I would have found myself  thinking of you as a light ray, a soul staying under the Heavenly throne, a person who comes to visit his dears only during night and dreams? For every tear I am sheding for you today, I have a special memory to think inside me. As those hot days spent in the Jewish Cemetery of Venice, washing and cleaning tombal stones of Jews dead five hundred years ago. Because you were scared that, one day, nothing will last of those precious engraved words. Discovering the symbols of ancient Jewish Italian families, as the two hands for the kohanim, the lion for the famous Leon da Modena, the eagle for the nobles. Or those endless journeys to Stasbourg to buy  kosher food and meat when you decided it was worthy to travel one and a half hour more in order to go and see the beth hamidrash of Rashi, where he used to study and bring down to this earth heavenly words and explanations. And that Menorah Lego shape. Which you proudly showed me after having worked on it for nigths and days. It should have been the realizzation of your dreams. The Menorah was a miniature plant of the Italian Jewish Museum you were dreaming to build. But in Heaven there was a different plan. And it was decided you were desired there, directly under the Celestial Throne. During this day in which it seems to me I can still hear your voice and not  the kadish said in your memory, I wish you look from above and you smile. Because you are proud of your children. Whom, in every moment of their life, try to go on with your interrupted job spreading and showing the only thing will last after we are not here anymore, is our good deeds and beliefs. Your love for Judaism, for its roots, for its ancient messages perfectly fitting future generations, is always with us. As you are. My dad, my dear papi. May your soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life (as you taught me to say for those who were not with us anymore)

Gheula, Aviva, Ronnie, Gady and Naty

 

Killing values and children

It’s morning. It’s night. It’s time to start a new day. It’s time to end all of them. It’s life. It’s death. It’s values. It’s culture of killing. It’s fathers. It’s children. It’s Toulouse. It’s France. It’s 2012. And still people die because of their religion, because of being value oriented, because being Abraham children. Because following G-d and His laws. Beacuse believing in the right of everybody to live free in the world without being scared to go to a Jewish school. Values and children are dying in our world. Civil values and Jewish children. And if those who are scared to openly condemn these murederers calling, if those who don’t dare to give terrorists their true name and are afraid to put a stop to their crazy race against life, if they think that their being non-Jews, their not belonging to the eternally persecuted nation, will be an emergency exit for them. This time they are wrong. Because the fight of this anti values world starts from Jews. But will not stop there. All unfaithful people will be condemned. Unless the world understands that going against Jews is killing the civil values at the base of all democracies.

A new page in lifebook…

Today I changed the sheets of the beds. I looked for the most comfortable pillows. I opened the new bed covers I was keeping for a special occasion. I cleaned the floor, I finally moved from its unnatural place the picture of the children. In the old frame. It was standing in the corner of the room for more than three months. Waiting for a special guest to come. I removed all the papers from the desk, I cleaned the dust of two weeks on the printer. I moved the curtain, making it appear as a hotel piece. I sprayed roses parfum in the room. I switched off the light. I locked the door. And I breathed deeply. I am ready, spiritually and materially, to be a real mother in law. In my home. Suddenly I feel as I am my mother. The way she uses to welcome us in her home is always so unique, making you feel as somebody was really waiting for you. And as this somebody is really, really happy to see you. So, with G-d’s help, in a few hours I will open a new page in my life book. A page that speaks about grown up children and their new way of being part of the family, a page relating a story of history. And how it repeats itself. From generation to generation, from mother to daughter, from daughter to grandaughter. To son in law. Welcome to my life new old members of my family. I hope that though immersed in a new life, here, in your old room and with the new sheets, you will always feel home.

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Dear H, our hearts are there with you…

Dear H.,
I am sitting here and thinking of you. I was planning to do something else, to use my time for the endless things I have to do before my children come home from school. But, as happened already in most of the times I tried to do things during the last days, my thoughts went to you.
To your changed life. To your morning, when you open your eyes on a new day and just pray in your heart “Please G-d tell me all this was only a nightmare”. Waking up, washing your face, looking in the mirror at your image and remembering those relaxed days in which you still had the will of being busy with green and grey, red and pink, the colors with which you should make up that day. Going to wake up your kids for school, asking G-d to give you enough strenght to smile as nothing changed. Receiving a tired hug from your sweet girls and trying to swallow those precious moments. That maybe, before all this happened, were as normal routine. And not as you can see them now. Small miracles. Dear H, what you are passing through is not only for you. it’s for everybody of us. it’s a lesson. Of life. Of apreciation. And love. It’s an opportunity for us, your friends, to close our eyes in front of all the mess our children are doing, To be less nervous if a file gets lost in our computer. Or the fridge breaks. Or the new oven, bought only a few months ago, decides it does not want to work anymore. These things have no power on us, are not able to change our mood. There are in life things that are much more important. and worthy to worry. And be happy for. May H’ listen to all our prayers, all the whispers of our lips while we pronounce the name of your baby uncountable times a day. May your life get back immediately as it was before the bad news of that day. May your biggest worry be about the skirt you will wear on the coming day. May we dance in your baby’s wedding remembering and laughing on those worrying days. We love you H. We are there with you, with all our hearts, souls, minds and prayers.

A dream shared by Pharaoh and many others

My name is Anna. I am twelve years old. I have brown eyes and hair. My youth has just started. But my life is going to end. My name is Rebecca. I am five years old. I have blue eyes and blond hair. I will never have a 6 years birthday party. My name is Isaac.  I don’t know exactly how old I am. Maybe one. Maybe two. The only thing I am sure about is that I have been separated by mother. And that I will never see her again. My name is Ruben. I would have been born in two months. My soul will never arrive in this world. Somebody decided we don’t deserve life. We are guilty of an unbearable fault. Language spoken by our parents is too differnt than the one spoken by native people of our place. Our Way of dressing does not always follow fashion style. Our names, when called in class by our teachers, echo as stanger sounds between school walls. Our identity is too deep. You cannot avoid noticing it. Our proudness as nation is too powerful for being silent. Those who denied us our future had one and unique plan in their minds. A dream transmitted by Pharaoh until 1938. A dream consisting in the total disappearance of the people to whom we belong. A dream based on the denial of our present in order to avoid your future. A dream that, thanks to G-d was never realized. You, who are there today, reading relaxed in a synagogue or among the warm walls of your home, you can choose. If to cry, remember and feel pity and sorrow for us. Or bring us to life again. When a girl named Anne will turn twelve and will decide to respect all mizvoth of G-d. When a girl named Rebecca will light a candle on Friday night. When a boy named Isaac will pronounce ‘torah’ between is his first words. When a boy named Ruben will come to this world and will have his circumcision on the eighth day of his life. Then the dream of our enemies will not have a chance to get realized anymore.  And you will be able to give us back our stolen life.

Will she keep that broken chair?

Please madam, on the next time don’t bring the children, says the dressmaker after her chair was half broken, her sofa tasted jumping feet for the first time and her mirror survived to the worst attack it had ever had in its life. No, I promise, I will not bring them anymore. I say to her while looking for the coat of the little one. ‘Mum, coat, coat’ he tells me. I look at him. He’s wearing his coat since one hour. He never removed it. Maybe he knew already this place wouldn’t be the most children-friendly in the world. It’s not because I don’t like children, madam, she goes on telling me while opening the door as a person who lets out from her house the worst creatures in the world.It’s simply that it is impossible to do something with these…always moving creatures around. One screams, the other yells, the third one jumps everywhere. Yes, you are totally right, I tell her and I give the hand to my three little devils. It is indeed really hard to do something with them around, I go on repeating while giving every child his/her opportunity to call the elevator and catching the little one while trying to go down by the stairs maybe knowing how he will be squeezed inside the elevator with all his brothers and sisters.. You are not offended, aren’t you? she tells me while looking at me with rigid eyes. If they could just sit down and stay calm, she adds, it could have have been much easier…and I know what she means. Beacuse trying to understand if the dress you are sewing fits you or not while three children create energy from nothing in a room that is big as the smallest toilet of your house, is really a challenge. They cannot sit for so long, I tell her while closing the elevator doors. I imagine she is reliefed. Or maybe she is not. Becuase there, in her tiny apartment, she had never had a baby hand spreading chocolate on a white chair. Or baby lips kissing her goodnight after a long day. And now that is is 75, she has all the time in the world to set up the house again. After the storm. Or maybe she will just sit down on the sofa and think where to keep. The broken chair. That will remind until her last day on this earth the big loss that she had. She had a carreer, she was very good in her job. And for the cause of her profession she didn’t want to have children. She is right. And I am so sorry for her. No one is more noisy than children at this age. But this noise, I can see in her eyes, is the leg of the chair she is missing so much. Unfortunately for her, it is too late…