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After kidding our cousins of the Great White North for being maple syrup slurping, goody two shoes, hoseheads, we here at TMQ2 salute them for having the balls to put the Iranians in their place among other things. As they used to say on Hee-Haw, SAAALUUUTE!!!
Canada’s Moral Leadership
David M. Weinberg
President Shimon Peres was right to laud Canada as a “moral role model” for the nations of the world. Commenting on Ottawa’s Friday decision to cut diplomatic relations with Iran, Peres said, “Canada has proven once again that morals come before pragmatism, (and that) policy must reflect principles and values … I thank Canada for taking a stance based on the highest morals and hope that other nations will see Canada as a moral role model. The diplomatic isolation of Iran is an important step for the security and stability of the entire world.”
The Canadian decision was not surprising for those who have followed the brave new path in global affairs carved out by Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper and Foreign Minister John Baird. Under their leadership, Canada has become arguably the most pro-Israel country in the world. They have led a conceptual revolution in how Canadians think about the world, and that includes a deep understanding of and appreciation for Israel’s security dilemmas.
From being the first world leader to cut off funds to the Palestinian Authority in 2006 when it was taken over by Hamas, to speaking out against growing global anti-Semitism, Harper has embraced Israel as no Canadian leader did before him. He blamed Hezbollah for the war and civilian deaths in Lebanon during the summer war of 2006, and rejected widespread calls for an immediate ceasefire. He led the boycott of the Durban II conference. He blocked a G-8 statement that would have called for a return to Israel’s 1967 borders, despite pressure from U.S. President Barack Obama and the Europeans. (more…)
Posted in Book Review, Nazis, tagged Ahmadinejad, Barack Obama, Buchenwald, Buchenwald concentration camp, Concentration Camp, Elie Wiesel, Germany, Holocaust, Holocaust Denial, Jew, Nazis, Night, Nobel Peace Prize on June 12, 2008| 1 Comment »
At the gate of the camp, SS officers were waiting for us. They counted us. Then we were directed to the assembly place. Orders were given us through loudspeakers:
‘For fives!’ ‘Form groups of a hundred!’ ‘Five paces forward!’
I held onto my father’s hand — the old, familiar fear: not to lose him.
Right next to us the high chimney of the crematory oven rose up. It no longer made any impression on us. It scarcely attracted our attention.
An established inmate of Buchenwald told us that we should have a shower and then we could go into the blocks. The idea of having a hot bath fascinated me. My father was silent. He was breathing heavily beside me.
‘Father,’ I said. ‘Only another moment more. Soon we can lie down — in a bed. You can rest…’
He did not answer. I was so exhausted myself that his silence left me indifferent. My only wish was to take a bath as quickly as possible and lie down in a bed.
But it was not easy to reach the showers. Hundreds of prisoners were crowding there. The guards were unable to keep any order. They struck out right and left with no apparent result. Others, without the strength to push or even to stand up, had sat down in the snow. My father wanted to do the same. He groaned.
‘I can’t go on….This is the end….I’m going to die here…’
He dragged me toward a hillock of snow from which emerged human shapes and ragged pieces of blanket.
‘Leave me,’ he said to me. ‘I can’t go on… Have mercy on me…. I’ll wait here until we can get into the baths…You can come and find me.’
I could have wept with rage. Having lived through so much, suffered so much, could I leave my father to die now? Now, when we could have a good hot bath and lie down?
‘Father!’ I screamed. ‘Father! Get up from here! Immediately! You’re killing yourself…”
I seized him by the arm. He continued to groan.
‘Don’t shout, son… Take pity on your old father… Leave me to rest here… Just for a bit, I’m so tired…at the end of my strength…’
He had become like a child, weak, timid, vulnerable.
‘Father,’ I said. ‘You can’t stay here.’
I showed him the corpses all around him; they too had wanted to rest here.
‘I can see them, son. I can see them all right. Let them sleep. It’s so long since they closed their eyes… They are exhausted…exhausted…’
His voice was tender.
I yelled against the wind:
‘They’ll never wake again! Never! Don’t you understand?’
For a long time this argument went on. I felt that I was not arguing with him, but with death itself, with the death that he had already chosen.
The sirens began to wail. An alert. The lights went out throughout the camp. The guards drove us toward the blocks. In a flash, there was no one left on the assembly place. We were only too glad not to have had to stay outside longer in the icy wind. We let ourselves sink down onto the planks. The beds were in several tiers. The cauldrons of soup at the entrance attracted no one. To sleep, that was all that mattered.
It was daytime when I awoke. And then I remembered that I had a father. Since the alert, Ihad followed the crowd without troubling about him. I had known that he was at the end, on the brink of death, and yet I had abandoned him.
I went to look for him.
But at the same moment this thought came into my mind: ‘Don’t let me find him! If only I could get rid of this dead weight, so that I could use all my strength to struggle for my own survival, and only worry about myself.’ Immediately I felt ashamed of myslef, ashamed forever.
I walked for hours without finding him. Then I came to the block where they were giving out black ‘coffee.’ The men were lining up and fighting.
A plaintive, beseeching voice caught me in the spine:
‘Eliezer…my son…bring me…a drop of coffee…’
I ran to him.
‘Father! I’ve been looking for you for so long… Where were you? Did you sleep?… How do you feel?’
He was burning with fever. Like a wild beast, I cleared a way for myself to the coffee cauldron. And I managed to carry back a cupful. I had a sip. The rest was for him. I can’t forget the light of thankfulness in his eyes while he gulped it down–an animal gratitude. With those few gulps of hot water, I probably brought him more satisfaction than I had done during my whole childhood.
He was lying on a plank, livid, his lips pale and dried up, shaken by tremors. I could not stay by him for long. Orders had been given to clear the place for cleaning. Only the sick could stay.
We stayed outside for give hours. Soup was given out. As soon as we were allowed to go back to the blockes, I ran to my father.
‘Have you had anything to eat?’
‘They didn’t give us anything…they said that if we were ill we should die soon anyway and it would be a pity to waste the food. I can’t go on any more…’
I gave him what was left of my soup. But it was with a heavy heart. I felt that I was giving up to him against my will. No better than Rabbi Eliahou’s son had I withstood the test.
He few weaker day by day, his gaze veiled, his face the color of dead leaves. On the third day after our arrival at Buchenwald, everyone had to go to the showers. Even the sick, who had to go through last.
On the way back from the baths, we had to wait outside for a long time. They had not yet finished cleaning the bocks.
Seeing my father in the distance, I ran to meet him. He went by me like a ghost, passed me without stopping, without looking at me. I called to him. He did not come back. I ran after him:
‘Father, where are you running to?’
He looked at me for a moment, and his gaze was distant, visionary; it was the face of someone else. A moment only and on he ran again.
Struck down with dysentery, my father lay in his bunk, five other invalids with him. I sat by his side, watching him, not daring to believe that he could escape death again. Nevertheless, I did all I could to give him hope.
Suddenly, he raised himself on his bunk and put his feverish lips to my ear:
‘Eliezer…I must tell you where to find the gold and the money I buried…in the cellar… You know…”
He began to talk faster and faster, as though he were afraid he would not have time to tell me. I tried to explain to him that this was not the end, that we would go back to the house together, but he would not listen tome. He could no longer listen to me. He was exhausted. A trickle of saliva, mingled with blood, was running from between his lips. He had closed his eyes. His breath was coming in gasps.
For a ration of bread, I managed to change beds with a prisoner in my father’s bunk. In the afternoon the doctor came. I went and told him that my father was very ill.
‘Bring him here!’
I explained that he could not stand up. But the doctor refused to listen to anything. Somehow, I brought my father to him. He stared at him, then questioned him in a clipped voice:
‘What do you want?’
‘My father’s ill,’ I answered for him. ‘Dysentery…’
‘Dysentery? That’s not my business. I’m a surgeon. Go on! Make room for the others.’
Protests did no good.
‘I can’t go on, son… Take me back to my bunk…’
I took him back and helped him to lie down. He was shivering.
‘Try and sleep a bit, father. Try to go to sleep…’
His breathing was labored, thick. He kept his eyes shut. Yet I was convinced that he could see everything, that now he could see the truth in all things.
Another doctor came to the block. But my father would not get up. He know that it was useless.
Besides, this doctor had only come to finish off the sick. I could hear him shouting at them that they were lazy and just wanted to stay in bed. I felt like leaping at his throat, strangling him. But I no longer had the courage or the strength. I was riveted to my father’s deathbed. My hands hurt, I was clenching them so hard. Oh, to strangle the doctor and the others! To burn the whole world! My father’s murderers! But the cry stayed in my throat.
When I came back from the bread distribution, I found my father weeping like a child:
‘Son, they keep hitting me!’
I thought he was delirious.
‘Him, the Frenchman…and the Pole…they were hitting me.’
Another wound to the heart, another hate, another reason for living lost.
‘Eliezer…Eliezer…tell them not to hit me… I haven’t done anything…Why do they keep hitting me?’
I began to abuse his neighbors. They laughed at me. I promised them bread, soup. They laughted. Then they got angry; they could not stand my father any longer, they said, because he was now unable to drag himself outside to relieve himself.
The following day he complained that they had takenhis ration of bread.
‘While you were asleep?’
‘No. I wasn’t asleep. They jumped on top of me. They snatched my bread…and they hit me…again… I can’t stand any more, son…a drop of water…’
I knew that he must not drink. But he pleaded with me for so long that I gave in. Water was the worst poison he could have, but what else could I do for him? With water, without water, it would all be over soon anyway….
‘You, at least, have some mercy on me…’
Have mercy on him! I, his only son!
A week went by like this.
‘This is your father, isn’t it?’ asked the head of the block.
(gotta run, will try to finish later)
From The Jerusalem Post:
By Shmuley Boteach
Dublin, where I visited with my wife last week for a TV appearance, has just had its coldest and rainiest summer in 50 years. But you’d hardly know it given how the women dress at night. The lively city center, with its myriad pubs and clubs, is filled with guys standing with their pints of Guinness, and women walking around as if they were at the beach.
Why, when the men dress with jackets and long sleeves to shelter themselves from the cold do the women wear skirts and blouses that expose almost every inch of flesh? (more…)
Douglas Bass reports from a hearing in the Non-Flying Imams case in Minneapolis, at which the lawyers for US Airways maintained that they acted responsibly by removing the imams from that flight, and the CAIR-affiliated lawyers for the imams floated the usual smorgasbord of victimhood claims: Here.
About all I can do is just shake my head and wonder how many people looked at the place and decided that they didn’t think it was worth the money to buy it.
After a New York man retired, he wanted to use his retirement money wisely, so it would last, and decided to buy a home and a few acres in Portugal.
The modest farmhouse had been vacant for 15 years. The owner and wife had both died, and there were no heirs. The house was sold to pay taxes. There had been several lookers, but the large barn had steel doors, and they had been welded shut. Nobody wanted to go to the extra expense to see what was in the barn, and it wasn’t complimentary to the property anyway, so nobody made an offer on the place.
The NY guy bought it at just over half of the property’s value, moved in, and set about to open the barn. Curiosity was killing him. So, he and his wife bought a generator, a couple of grinders, and cut thru the welds…
What was in the barn?
Click here and start wishing you had bought the place!
HINT: just click on “Index” and see it all at once. Click on any picture to enlarge it.
Phoenix — Federal investigators hope to determine why two news helicopters covering a police chase on live television collided and crashed to the ground, killing all four people on board.
Both helicopters from local TV stations went down in a grassy park in central Phoenix and caught fire Friday afternoon. No one on the ground was hurt.
TV viewers did not witness the accident because cameras aboard both aircraft were pointed at the ground, but they saw video from one of the helicopters break up and begin to spin before the station abruptly switched to the studio.
Killed on board the KTVK helicopter were pilot Scott Bowerbank and photographer Jim Cox, the station reported. On board the KNXV aircraft were reporter-pilot Craig Smith and photographer Rick Krolak, that station said. }} more…