AVRUM'S BLOG is hosted and authored by me, Avrum Rosensweig, the founder and president of Ve'ahavta: The Canadian Jewish Humanitarian & Relief Committee. I am also a writer, artist and a father.
AVRUM'S BLOG is here to create a community where people can express wondrous ideas, thoughts, stories and comments. I can do the same.
At AVRUM'S BLOG people can challenge one another, debate and schmooze about humanitarian issues, peace, war, Israel, the Jewish people, slices of life and perceptions.
Please contribute thoughtfully. We are in charge of our world. Let's give it purpose through beautiful, decent, intelligent, raw and intuitive talk and interaction.
B'shalom, Avrum (avrum@veahavta.org) 
Sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. – Song of Solomon
If Israel was a woman what would she be like? She would be glaringly principled with stunning imperfections overall seeking to do what was just. She would have that feminine attentiveness: listening closely to others, friends and those not so friendly, and mannishly and patiently determine her next step as she went. If Israel was a woman, she would exhibit immense strength and vigor so much so people from the other side of the room would whisper to one another, ‘how does she do it, hold up to the pressure and all?’
They would gossip about her. The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post and The Globe & Mail would write streams of articles about this Middle Eastern figure and the vast amount of mistakes she makes and the predictable mercy she shows. Like Audrey Hepburn did, she would attract desirous and envious glances and stares.
Drama would surround her.
If Israel was a woman her simplicity would be exquisite. Mostly, however, she would be someone other than simple. You would have to be patient with her and stretch to understand her measures and actions. Madame Israel wouldn’t be single, yet she would act like it.
She would go through many husbands. Her love for her children would be unbreakable and she would hurl herself on them when the rockets came, fearlessly protecting her young and older, passionately holding onto them even when they were unseen? in battle, unable to call home.
O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents. ? Song of Songs
Her father would be Moroccan and her mother Polish. Her aunts, uncles and cousins would be from all the other 193 countries of the world. She is a striking girl with asymmetric features created from all the faces of all humankind. And she is an insecure woman, independent and majestically raw.
There is something emotionally complex about Ms. Israel, so much so she would unabashedly cry at the funeral of a fallen soldier yet have an odd ability to return to life moments after a terrorist attack had occurred on the streets below.
She would be an international and historical anomaly, stopping in the middle of a raging fight to offer her adversary a break to repair their wounds; and she would stand on her roof hurling flyers to those who hate her letting them know she was about to muster up her strength and courage to protect those she loves.
And when this precious woman’s enemies die she you would hear no songs coming from her mouth in celebration of their demise but instead you would watch as she pragmatically carried on, taking a moment to pray. If God was far away she would wonder. Over time she would consider her deeds which might have led to her foes downfall. Guilt and a raised conscience would oblige her to do so.
Israel, as a woman, will forever be empathetic and sympathetic yet always criticized as cruel, insensitive and even Nazi-like. She is the target of hate by the venomous type and deeply admired by the truth inspired intuitive type.
The world yells at her when she is up, and cries when she falls.
And you would watch her as deep aura of soulfulness surrounded her, as she contemplated the past, this moment and what lay ahead. You would wonder what was so appealing about her, so inventive. You would ask quietly what she harbors that compels so many others to want to live in her neighborhood and why millions want to burn her house to the ground.
“Where does your strength come from,” you would ask her, “and is the fight worth it?” She turns to you, smiles oh so joyfully and ever so sadly and retorts, “Am I not a Jew? Am I not alive? Such a question.”
Your head shakes in wonderment, and then you desperately try to make her fall in love with you because you are already deeply in love with her. You always choose such thorny women.
How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! How much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! Song of Songs
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