Once upon a time, the
people that built things with their own two hands were admired. The pioneers. Their
sweat and the dirt beneath their fingernails was a badge of honor, a testament
to their courage.
The builders, people who
created something from nothing, were upheld as an example.
They who made the rocky hills green, who planted vineyards and made fruit trees grow where, once, there was only desolation – they were the ones to emulate.
They who made the rocky hills green, who planted vineyards and made fruit trees grow where, once, there was only desolation – they were the ones to emulate.
To set out alone, relying
on no one but oneself was the mark of a man, free in his own land.
They toiled under the sun,
individuals with a few family members. People with no family found friends who
became family. Together they carved out an existence reborn in the land of
their forefathers.
And the world watched in
wonder.
They dug wells and planted
seeds. They built homes and schools and synagogues. They created places of
beauty. They laid the foundation so that more people could come and join them,
start families and have children whose laughter rang in the wind as they ran on
the hilltops.
Children that were free and
strong, stubborn like their parents.
Children who knew they
could do anything, achieve anything if they were willing to work hard, like
their parents.
Can
you imagine the pride of looking at a hill and knowing that it is green because
you planted all the seeds? To bring forth wine from
a land once empty? To put your arm over your son's shoulders and tell him:
"Son, do you remember the day we finished building the house? You helped
me lay the titles for the roof. Our home, we did that, together."
They
are the pioneers.
Once
they were admired.
In America, the land of my
birth, pioneers of the land are barely remembered. Who remembers a time when
there were no roads, no cities or towns, no gardens, no businesses?
“You didn’t build that” and
“Build it for me” are much more common than, “Get out of my way and let me
build for myself.”
In Israel, the land of my
heritage, the pioneers are still building and creating new life where once there
was none. No longer upheld as ones to be admired, they remain as stubborn as
their parents. The ground resonates through their feet and the wild freedom of
their hearts cannot be imprisoned by disapproval of others.
Looked on with scorn, the
world now calls them the “settlers”. As if it is not due to their hard work
that I have a place in which I can settle down and call home. As if there is
any difference between the “settlers” of today and the pioneers of a generation
ago, our founders responsible for the rebirth of this land.
People whisper in horror:
“They are religious fanatics, ideologues.” As if it was not thousands of years
of keeping faith with our religion and our heritage that led the pioneers back
to the land that, even in exile, was always home.
As if the idea of being a
self-actualized nation, free in our own land, is a right reserved only for
those who are not Jewish.
Many say, “What is wrong
with them? Why do they put their children in danger?” The pioneers know that
being custodians of the land of our ancestors comes at a terrible price.
The murderous waves of
hatred of those who wish Jews gone from the land of our fathers break upon the
backs of the pioneers. All too often they pay in blood and tears for the right
to enjoy what they built with their own two hands. It takes a will of steel to
stand unmoving but they know that they stand in the gap. Should they step aside,
the waves will crash, washing away everything: Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Netanya and
Haifa.
What choice is there?
They are the pioneers.
Courageous and bold, stubborn and unbending, they remain unchanged in a world
that has changed dramatically.
They have earned everything
they have. They built what we have today.
And I, who have built
nothing, am grateful.
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