GUEST COLUMN: "Israeli Mourner Loses More Than Great Leader"

It's not everyday that Egypt's President Mubarak and Jordan's King Hussein gather with thousands of tearful Israelis in Jerusalem. Monday's burial of a fallen hero offered the world a brief glimpse of Yitzhak Rabin's dream for peace in the Middle East, and a glorious display of the progress that has been made. There were heartfelt eulogies by heads of state that tried to capture the essence of Rabin, but these are ultimately mere stabs at thin air -- his work is unfinished. In the aftermath of the shock and sorrow comes a gust of uncertainty, bringing with it questions without answers and unspoken anxiety. I, as an Israeli-born Jew, feel the intensity of the moment, but I struggle to relate to either Israelis or Americans -- my identity remains ambiguous. Having been born in Israel, but raised by two Israeli parents mostly in New York, has left me feeling as if I am neither fully an Israeli nor fully a part of American Jewry. During the past few years of my quest to better define who I am, I have adopted the peace movement as the mortar that holds me together. Consequently, Rabin has symbolized this synthesis of my Jewish American side with my Israeli roots, and as I struggle to reconcile his death, I realize that a part of me is gone forever. The two worlds, once united by a fragile hope for peace, have now been wrested apart -- leaving me pained and confused. This pain comes from a familial and emotional attachment to a country characterized by its precarious existence, but defined by its relentless determination and historical-religious connection. Both sets my of grandparents moved to Israel in the years that followed World War II, making aliyah from Poland and Iraq. Their children were all raised in Israel, my father having served as a doctor on the front lines in the Yom Kippur War (1973). My uncles both served in the army, fighting in the Six Day War (1967) and the Yom Kippur War. I was born in Tel Aviv, lived there until the age of four, and have visited my friends and family there almost every other year since I left for America. Rabin's contributions to the state of Israel cannot be confined to a mere list. Rather, they have shaped both the physical and political character of the country, and have ranged from the most astounding military feats to the previously unthinkable peace accords. He served as a deputy commander in the 1948 War of Independence, and as the chief-of-staff in the Six Day War of 1967. In this war, Rabin commanded one of the most impressive military victories of our time, defeating the Arab world while being severely outnumbered. The nature of Rabin as a politician is one that is unfamiliar to Americans. Rather than being concerned with approval ratings and polls, Rabin spoke his mind, often telling people the opposite of what they wanted to hear. To this day, my mother speaks of Rabin's 1976 diatribe against the many Israelis who had been emigrating to the U.S. His image was a combination a deep monotone voice and severe facial expressions with an Israeli machismo characterized by his frequent cigarette smoking and his predilection for whiskey. Yet today, Israelis, Jews and people all over the world remember Rabin for his vision of peace. There have been other great military heroes in Israel's short, but tempestuous, history, but Rabin stands apart as a man who used his invaluable exposure to the horrors of war and terrorism to go forward. He stood firm, amidst a barrage of criticism and doubt, for the noblest of mankind's goals -- peace. He was, and will forever be, the symbol of Israel's peace movement. It is Rabin's symbolic existence and the emotional attachment of the people of Israel to him that emphasizes a stark difference between Israeli and American cultures. It is extremely difficult for me to explain to many of my friends why this peace movement means so much to so many Israelis, and why it encompasses so much of our lives. In the aftermath of the assassination, televisions were flooded with images of grown men and women weeping uncontrollably for the fallen statesman. It was as if, heaven forbid, they had all lost their own family members. One would be hard pressed to suggest any remote parallel in America today. Americans do not have such ties to their political leaders, as they have become increasingly cynical of politicians motives and skeptical of their abilities. While, Rabin obviously had his share of doubters and detractors, he unquestionably stood for a movement, something no one in America has done for a long time. Perhaps the closest recent parallel was Martin Luther King, Jr. His unfortunate assassination had a gut wrenching effect on the American public, as his death marked the beginning of the end of the civil rights movement. What was left in its aftermath was separatism and schisms, that are still being repaired. I fear that Rabin's death may have a similar effect on the movement for peace. Rabin was the only man who could sell the idea of "land for peace" to the Israeli public. He was regarded as a man of the people, as he evoked a sense of purpose and trust due to his combination of military prowess and political acumen. His war record places Rabin in a class above virtually all others, as in 1967, he commanded the forces that conquered East Jerusalem, the West Bank, the Golan Heights, and the Sinai Peninsula. These accomplishments gave Rabin an aura of credibility as Israelis, and Jews around the world, were given reason to trust that Rabin knew what he was doing. Even though my expectations are deflated, I have not given up on Rabin's dream. If anything, I feel an added burden to fight for peace and make the world a more humane place. As I try to make sense of the past couple of days' events, President Clinton's words keep ringing in my head, "Shalom Chaver, Good-bye friend." Indeed Rabin will be missed, Shalom Geebor -- Good-bye hero -- and may G-d take your soul to a better place.

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