Ever since I remember myself I've been pumped full of our collective suffering. The Jewish people, the Israeli people - our romance with hatred, suffering and death goes a long way back. I don't have to explain antisemitism, since most people know what it is. Some practice it, a lot of them being from Arab origins, which are just as semite as Jews. Duh. I don't have to remind anyone of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, as most people have heard about it, and to this day have no idea what it means, beyond "terrorist bombers" and "occupied terroritories". And all of this has absolutely nothing - and everything - to do with 9/11.
Ever since I remember myself I've been pumped full of our collective suffering. Our memorial day for the Holocaust exposes a whole nation to unfathomable horrors, inducing nation-wide PTSD. Things that can't possibly be grasped by kids are taught in our schools again and again, year after year. Graphically so. Sure, the content is "adapted" to something kids could contain... but that's little more than lip service. Genocide can't be adapted, nor contained. Luckily, it can barely be grasped either. But still, we keep trying to force feed it to our children. For the sake of remembrance.
The memorial day for Israeli war veterans. Exactly one day before our Independence Day, forcing a switch from recollections of war to celebrations and fireworks. And yes, it's that way on purpose. It might not sound like much of a big deal if it weren't for the fact that we all go through military service. We all wear the uniform, do basic training and spend 3 years (2 if you're a girl, 4 if you're an officer) - 3 of our best years - in the army. Again, not much of a big deal... except, like I said, we pretty much all do it. This means that all those kids who die in wars, terrorist attacks and whatever... they're us. People we know. People we served with, went to school with. Kids we played with in kindergarten or out in the playground. We force ourselves to remember them on that one special day, and then switch over to fireworks. Some might say "to remember what they died for". Others would "to forget".
And so we remember. Every year. And it's always there, hovering like a black cloud - someone died so you'd live. Someone died because they were just like you. Could've been you. Could've been your friend. Neighbor. Wife. Parent. Child. Same odds, really. Hell, if your family is from Eastern Europe, it was probably your grandmother. And her entire family. Oh, she survived the death camps? great! I'm sure none of that reflected in how she raised your parents. Now run along and listen to that memorial siren, m'kay?
So yeah, there's 9/11. And the world hangs its head. Not me, though. I'm done with this force feeding of collective sorrow. It's not the dead we're remembering anyway. Not most of us. It's our own fear of dying. Of losing our warm, fuzzy, safe feeling. Well you know what? I lost it long ago. And hanging my head won't bring it back.
I'm done with these fucking memorial days. At least till next year.
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