layla tov eropa / by IKB

As I showered I realized: I’m leaving America. As I lay in bed, anew the same realization. And as I strolled down the street, making my way to the park nearby, I lost myself in contemplation.

There is a primeval feeling to the redwood trees that stand guard along one side of the park facing the sprawling see of green, an ancient army of Greeks waiting for the onslaught of barbarians. We all must have heroes; these are mine. To their rear lies a wooden fence that would halt any retreat, if ever it came to that; but surely they would reënact Thermopylae.

I lay upon the grass, on the slope — it shelters the park along with the trees that travel its spine — and began to read.

History is replete with the same tale: men fighting over power. Perhaps I begin to tire of the endless stories but there is one aspect that captivates me: the particular character of the individual heroes — they are always fascinating.

Lessons can be learnt from history but they are mostly limited. One must always be moderate, for after all, the vicissitudes of men are always changing. What rises surely must come down and vice versa. The axiom that those that do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it is not only odious but tiresome.

A nation that feeds off history — never taking the time to analyze it but simply obsessed with facts — is doomed, not to repeat history, i.e, mistakes, but to not live life at all. It is less apt to take risks. One need only look at the EU, a failed project whose birth arose from a fear of repeating the past.

Then again, war is not desirable, at least for most; the industrial military complex is another story.

History is simply a suggestion, a tap on the shoulder, a beck for consideration. We must be cognizant and aware. Men of action produce, then again they also destroy. Then there are those that follow and meekly obey, the sheep amongst which the wolves move.

I don’t know what the UK is like. Fish and chips, and perhaps curry. But I do have a reservation and I am going, finally. I don’t know if I’ll love it, but I do love my reason for going there.

Meanwhile I wait stickling; life is beautiful and Lebanon is bombed. How long can it go on? Lebanon, the cedar tree shall continue to stand, fortunately amongst the Roman ruins.

My stomach turns: children are not terrorists. Why are they bombed? Hatred is such a funny feeling.