Rabin's Legacy and the Orphans

In the first year of being a widow, I once told my brother that my late husband would have wished that I followed a certain path. My brother retorted that since my husband was unpredictable and pragmatic, it was very likely that he would have thought differently, and anyway, he added, it was a fallacy to claim that I knew his wishes.

It was a disturbing answer, since part of me wanted to cling on to him a while longer, I attributed to my husband all kinds of wishes and desires. Those were no longer relevant, and as my brother was quick to point out, I didn’t take into account the fact that people constantly adjust their opinions according to changing circumstances.

I know that it is not only me, I often hear about adult children who, after losing a close family member, especially a parent, find the energy to go back to school, choose a new career, even get married, because they feel that it is a way to fulfill the wishes, or the legacy, of their loved one.

In my case, evoking my husband’s legacy gave me strength and filled me with a sense of purpose, as I navigated my way in the world without him.

For the last twenty years, people have been constantly bringing up the legacy of our slain leader Yitzhak Rabin. Only yesterday, again, Haaretz published an essay by the author Gadi Taub, in support of Yitzhak Herzog’s ideas about the Palestinian partner and the possibility of two states for the two nations. In order to strengthen his point, Taub summons that legacy: “This is also Rabin’s legacy the readiness to tell the voter the truth, even if it is a difficult one, and to present a realistic direction and not empty hopes”

Although this Yitzhak is the leader of the Labor Party as well, there is no reason to add weight to a political argument by evoking the other Yitzhak's legacy.

When we talk about one's legacy we actually refer to our own perceptions, as we continue to attribute to the deceased all kind of wishes and ideas. It could serve as a motivating force or some kind of  inspiration, and it helps us fill the void left by the departure of a loved one. But  legacy should not become a form of manipulation, misusing the name of the dead person, in order to promote a personal agenda.

For many Israelis it has been hard to overcome the traumatic loss, and to live in a world that no longer has Rabin in it  (to paraphrase Dahlia Ravikovitch's words in the poem "In memory of  Antoine de Saint Exupery": The world is not what it was/ weeds and wind,/ wind and sand./This surely is the look of the world/ that no longer has Saint Exupery).

But twenty later, we on the left cannot remain the helpless orphans any longer. We should not try to find justifications for our present and future actions in Rabin’s legacy. Like all real leaders, he was pragmatic and was not afraid to change his mind according to changing circumstances.

It is high time that we grow up and  let Yitzhak Rabin finally rest in peace. 

P.S. The link to my translation of the poem In Memory Of Antoine de Saint Exupery:

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/laughing-in-the-clouds-dahlia-ravikovitch/

The essay appeared in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/rabins-legacy-and-the-orphans/

“Tis A Fearful Thing To Love What Death Can Touch”

September 11, 2013

My husband’s last words to me were “drive carefully.” It was night at the hospital and my daughter and I were just leaving to go home for a couple of hours.  At that time he could no longer speak so he wrote those words in a little note book. He didn’t write that he loved me or asked me to take good care of our daughters. But when I looked at his words I understood that this was what he meant.

Living in the suburb for many years in the US and later on in Israel, driving was a central part of our life. Still Tzvi, my husband felt that when I got distracted or upset,  I didn’t pay enough attention to my driving. By making them his last words, Tzvi added  significance to his warning making sure that indeed I was being extra careful  at the time of grief.   

Tzvi’s instruction had a clear and literal meaning, he just wanted us to get home safely.  But I feel that these seemingly simple words have a broader, even symbolic meaning. 

In the past whenever our family went on vacation Tzvi and I always took turns driving, now I was the only driver, literally and metaphorically. I was left in charge and it became my sole responsibility to take care of my family in and out of the car.  

By instructing me to drive carefully Tzvi implied that he expected me to move forward, yet  at the same time he was warning me to pay attention. Six years later these words seem straightforward, but at the time it was quite impossible to focus on the world around me. It took time to be able to make sense of what was there, and then to commit to what lay ahead.

The inspiration to this  post was an episode of This American Life about last words which I listened to today 9.11 as I was skating in the park.

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/114/last-words

In the prologue Ira Glass states that last words often sum up who the person is. In the case of Tzvi  they illuminated one important aspect of his personality –that of a family man: the husband, father and educator. When he was diagnosed  he told me that he wished to conduct himself as a role model to our daughters.  He chose as a motto a paraphrase on Rabin’s declaration of intent: “we will fight terror as though there was no peace, and will make peace as though there was no terror.” In our case it was “we will fight cancer as though there was no death, but we will make peace with death by being prepared.”

We lost our battle, but it always cheers me up to think that even when death was imminent Tzvi did not miss the opportunity to take care of us one last time.

PS.  Although I heard the epitaph which  I chose for the title today on This American Life, it is part of a poem by the great  Jewish poet Judah Halevi, 1075 – 1141

“Tis a Fearful Thing

‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –

to be,
And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

And a holy thing,

a holy thing
to love.

For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.” 

 Judah Halevi