February 4th 2004, an American lad made his father proud. The boy, all of 12, recited the mourner’s kaddish, Jewish prayer for the dead, “Yisgadal v Yiskadash Y’hai Rabah…” “May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified…”

High atop “Mountain of the Resting, Har Hamenuhot, Israel’s cemetery, Section D, the boy wept surrounded by family, six brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles from North America, mother, friends, strangers, his 75 year old grandmother. His 18 month old baby brother sandwiched between two grief stricken women was rocked back and forth as their sobs echoed the heavens and hillside. The mother clutched her tape recorder, a constant companion since the phone call came the afternoon of January 29th, advising her, with no explanation, to take husband’s dental records to Abu Kabir, the body identification Center. That day since, her reality became a “fast-forward, playback” of recorded grief expressed for her husband’s brutal death. Once upon another lifetime, she used the same tape recorder when he spoke to audiences about raising children in a difficult world.
Now, 6 feet below his 7 orphaned children at-risk lay their hero, mentor, their dad.

The murdered man’s mother laid a stone, as is Jewish tradition, on grey cement poured to form the foundation for the marker that would officially sunset her son’s life. Talk was already underway as to which words to chisel onto his tombstone, the sum total of this dad martyred in a battle of politics. An ideal he earned in Hebrew day school growing up back home in Canada was to emigrate to Israel. So, one day he did, wife in tow, two daughters, his two year old son knowing but never quite accepting that one day his son Yitzchak may have to become an adult overnight. A year ago, the morning of January 29th, the dad’s life ended tragically on a commuter ride doing what dads do- traveling to work to provide for his children and wife.

Months before his murder, Yitzchak’s father missed the Moment Caf? bombing.
He missed the No. 2 bus detonation near the Wailing Wall and missed being murdered on another morning commuter bus. But this Thursday AM, destiny knocked. 8:38, Yitzchak’s dad watched as the 24 year old Palestinian in the seat before him stood up, laughed, then detonated the bomb vest worn beneath the bulk of his coat. The Roadmap For Peace, former President Carter, not President Clinton, was the architect of, claimed another 11 lives for the current Palestinian Intafadah holding Israel hostage. Stats
state the incident of attempted terrorist attacks in Israel spike when US envoys are there discussing the Roadmap as they were that day.

Well, the rest, as they say, is headlines. Evening of the 29th, news of the murder of Yitzchak’s father- author, radio show host, eminent psychologist Yechezkel Chezi Goldberg, brutally savaged on Egged Bus 19 outside Israeli Prime Minister Sharon’s residence in Jerusalem- circled the globe many times over followed by “If They Don’t Cry Who Will,” an editorial he wrote. Since? The bombed shell of Egged Bus 19, he traveled on that ill fated morning, was taken to the Hague and across America, a visual to people unsure what death by terrorism looks like.

The 2005 Presidential proclamation says lessons fathers teach will remain with their children a lifetime, enabling them to “meet life’s challenges and be good citizens.” On his birthday, two months before his murder, Chezi gave each of his seven children his gift for their lifetime, individualized letters expressing his love and aspirations for whom they will become, “the character and values,” the President says, “they will carry with them into adulthood.” Yom Kippur, 2004, Yitzchak became bar mitzvah, a man, according to Jewish tradition. The 13 year old boy stood before the quorum, honoring his murdered father with the ourner’s prayer, “Y'hey sh'mey rabbah m'vorach l'olam u'l'almey almahyah…” “May His great Name be blessed forever and ever…”

Surrogates have stepped into Chezi’s big shoes. The boys’ teacher Rabbi Shmya, a father of 8, comes nightly to recite the Shma, Hear O Israel, with the boys. Sabbath, Jeb descends their town’s steep hill only to walk back up with the boys to synagogue which sits on Jeb’s back doorstep. The baby has stopped crying for Abbah, for his dad. My brother.

When our family mourned in Israel with Chezi’s community, people I had not seen since I was a little girl in Toronto, came with Chezi stories, from as far away as Gaza to offer support. I noticed they slung guns on their hips. I remember they used to carry dolls. The Presidential Proclamation says, “Responsible fatherhood is essential to a compassionate society in which all children are surrounded by love and taught the importance of respect, honesty, and integrity.” Of the dignitaries who came to offer condolences, one did not. Word was, Prime Minister Sharon, the man upon whose doorstep my brother was blown apart won’t set meeting with terrorism’s mourners.

But Sharon does hold meetings. I read accounts of his visit to Crawford Texas. I photographed him with Tony Blair on the doorstep of No. 10. I photographed him inside DC’s Convention Center addressing AIPAC and heard tell about hisclosed door meetings before he left the building. Must be something about orphans of the most recent Intafadah.

Wire services reported Shimon Peres saying, time being of the essence, architects of the current Roadmap are seeking creative solutions to this matter of the evacuation. My brother’s murder gives me the right to offer thoughts.

Weigh the example of NY’s Shinnecock Indians demanding back rent for land they’ve laid tribal claim to in NY. Consider giving the Palestinians a casino at the gate-way from Israel into Gaza. Land there is not exactly multi-million dollar real estate Martha Stewart and celebrity neighbors built mansions on, but as a negotiating tool, casinos, something Sharon’s staff patronizes in Egypt, how can anyone argue with a win-win solution providing bona-fide Palestinian refugees financial independence instead of dependence on the World Bank. The bargaining chip back rent the Indians demanded for the last 150 years if they they don’t get their casino permits? Chump change. $1.7 billion dollars, as of 2004….

Or maybe consider a thought I gleaned amidst the afterglow of a
multi-cultural gathering of parents joined with sons and daughters at their Father’s Day graduation from UCLA. Political and religious
differences were set aside in favor of helium bouquets thronging the air, squeals of delight, flashes from cameras archiving a milestone in family’s lives. One young man wore Israel’s flag on his back. Muslim women wore elegant hajibs. A multitude of crosses, crescents and Stars of Davids decorated napes and necks. I thought out loud to an observant Sikh, “Maybe what the Mid East needs isn’t a Roadmap to Peace but a college style graduation fest where people of all faiths jubilantly celebrate on he
basketball court named for the man whose 12 steps of success inspired thousands of starry eyed students, John Wooden.” Maybe Wooden’s ideals should replace the failed Road Map signposted in blood including my brother’s.

I worry about my sister-in-law with 7 children committed to living in the Land my brother was murdered for. “Leave Israel?” she said, “Never,” honoring Chezi’s wish. I fear Fall 2005, the projected date for the attack intended to push Israel into the sea. I read leading terrorist groups are mobilizing across the way from Gush Katif in Rafah and other places. Odd isn’t it, after Israeli Defense Forces were condemned for razing terrorists homes with Caterpillars in which insurgents’ ammunitions and arms smuggling tunnels were found, Palestinians may be using modified bulldozers from Caterpillar’s Gaza reps to tear down Jewish homes if the disengagement goes through

I stood somewhere along the city’s main road, my last visit to Beitar.
The street stretches from the hilltop towards the neighboring Arab
community below. I asked my brother’s friend, Abie, about the withdrawal, about the wall Sharon has been building declared to be Israel’s future border. I pled with Abie to tell me the kids be ok. I’ve described many times over how he looked skyward, palms turned toward heaven. “You have to believe, Carrie,” he answered. “Hasgachah Prati, divine providence,” “what will be will be.”

Day in, day out, in the Nation’s Capitol, I am aware of technological advancements. And military threats. I am adept at calculating how far crows fly…. But without “the orange” as a buffer; without my brother to watch over his children if the rumored strike manifests, I shudder. Can a 13 year old believe he can really fulfill the role the White House proclaims for fathers? He already felt he had to step into his dad’s shoes and “provide.”

Was it only a week earlier, maybe two, that I photographed NY’s Israel Day parade up 5th Avenue. From 54th street all the way up to 73rd, I captured creativity in defiance of Parade promoters warning not to flaunt “the orange.” Life valued in Judaism above almost all else, protesters against the disengagement splashed the forbidden hue on sashes, shirts, hats, everywhere. Morty Klein carried an orange flower in his hand. Only one.
The Talmud says taking a single life is like destroying an entire world.

On my way from the parade, noting New York parking lots charge $40 plus a day, set me thinking. Maybe, Wolfenson, Peres and Condi might mull over Joni Mitchell’s inspiration. “Pave paradise and put up a parking lot.”

BIO: Carrie Devorah is an investigative photojournalist based in
Washington DC. Her themes are faith, philanthropy, homeland security and terrorism. And watching over the legacy her brother left behind, seven kids in a settlement slated, in time, according to Sharon’s plan, for “disengagement.” www.goldbergmemorial.org