Do I believe in peace?

I recently received an email from an acquaintance who told me: "I've been talking with a lot of people who are ready for eternal peace." It was nice to hear it, because around here, it's a bit harder to find those people.

The first person who comes to mind is the man who murdered Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin eleven years ago today. He wasn't thinking about peace, eternal or not.

I think next of Hamas, who has upped its ransom demands to 1,200 Palestinian prisoners in Israeli hands in exchange for the Israeli soldier they kidnapped over 3 months ago.

I think now of the Moroccan man who is $12,000 richer after winning a Holocaust cartoon contest sponsored by the government of Iran.

These people they don't believe in peace. They don't even hope for it.

Now I think of myself. I hope for a perfect, eternal peace, but do I believe in it or at least the possibility of it?

No. I don't.

I am an optimist. I believe in the goodness of humanity. I am in personal ways working towards the goal of coexistence. I think we can arrive to a situation better than the one we are in right now. But I don't believe in a complete peace.

Why? Because of the people above.

Why? Because I've been here a little too long to continue closing my eyes to the reality in front of my face.

Why? Because for every prayer of peace that rises towards the sky, a bullet flies into an innocent human being.

So, why am I here-that is, if I think the situation is hopeless? The answer to that question lies in the meaning of today--the 11th anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin.

This story does not start eleven years ago, but rather three. I was in Arad, Israel and was taking part in a group discussion, "Where were you when you heard about Rabin's assassination?" Like asking an American where he was when he heard of Kennedy's assassination, everyone had a story--everyone but me. I couldn't remember. I was thirteen years old, and yet, I didn't know. I imagine to myself now that I first heard of it in Sunday school, as it happened Saturday night Israel time, and that would have been the first opportunity for me to hear of it. But I don't know, because at that point, Israel--a place that is so important to me today--was not even on my radar screen. That night, though, three years ago, something inside of me clicked, and I knew--knew--that this would be the last time that something happened in Israel of such great import that I didn't know about. That was the day that I decided to make aliyah, to make Israel my home.

Knowing myself, knowing my dedication to positive interactions of human beings in the world, knowing the steps Rabin took to achieve peace in Israel--it seems fateful that this should be the day my decision was made.

And so, I sat this morning on my balcony, looking out into the cloudy morning, wondering where we are headed? I looked down to the nursery school playground next to my apartment building and listened to the children shrieking and laughing and . . . living. They had no idea what day it was, and thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be great if they never had to learn of the hate that causes something like this day? Wouldn't it be wonderful if by the time they grow up this chapter of violent history is over?" Yes, it would. But something tells me it won't be.

And it's not ok. But . . . there is still beauty in the world. There is still happiness and love. There is still, well, a little spark of hope that makes me think, "It won't be perfect, but it will get better . . . someday."