Op-Ed: The short, happy life of Dafna Meir

She was the ideal Israeli, a daughter of Judea from the line of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.

Published: Monday, January 18, 2016 

Blast them all.

That was my first thought upon hearing the news that, dear G-d, another Israeli has been stabbed to death by another Muslim terrorist.

How much more of this can we take before we answer back and remove them, remove them all, all of them, from the Land of Israel?

A terrible, unforgiving instinct takes over after one of these events and, if you’re like me, you weep, and then cry vengeance.

Lord, remove this pestilence from the entire face of the earth.

Later we cool off. We return to our senses. We recognize that they are not all like that and we even feel a sense of guilt for our impulses.

He came from Oslo. He came from Europe. He came from the European Union. He came from BDS.
But after an event like this, so random, so brutal, anyone who does not express unforgiving outrage, rage without pity, if only for a moment, is himself sub-human, a man without a heart just like the Palestinian Arab savages who choose for themselves the most vulnerable, the most defenseless to do their ungodly handiwork.

Absolute indignation, we owe ourselves this much, if only this much to remedy our grief and despair.

At times like these our anger is the only comfort we have left. Fury is our only answer to our broken hearts.

Dafna Meir was 38 when they came for her. She was the ideal Israeli, a daughter of Judea from the line of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. She was a loving wife to her husband Natan, a loving and doting Jewish mother to her six children. She was a woman of valor, choosing to live in Otniel, the Biblical heartland of the Jewish State; the Bible Belt scorned by the world.

Screw them all!

She was a nurturer. Two of her children were adopted. She was a healer. At the Soroka Hospital in Be’er Sheva, she served as a nurse.

She had so much more to give.

From every account and from her photo alone we see her as the embodiment of the Israeli woman, joyful, spunky, courageous, creative, tough, soft, freedom-loving, neighborly, faithful to the Land and her People. Is this why they chose her? Yes it is. This is their “armed struggle.”

For their “armed struggle” they choose women. They choose children. They choose men, women and children in their prime.

Dafna Meir was in her prime. Grandchilden are sure to come. She will never see them. A Palestinian Muslim Arab terrorist took care of that.

Damn them all!

Where did he come from, this terrorist? The search is on. But we know. He came from Arafat. He came from Mahmoud Abbas.

Damn them all!

He came from Oslo. He came from Europe. He came from the European Union. He came from BDS.

Blast them all!

He came from the BBC. He came from CNN. He came from The New York Times. He came from Haaretz.

Damn them all!

He came from every land swap. He came from every prisoner exchange. He came from every sign that Israel can be TAKEN.

He came from every Church that supports the boycott movement and he came from every Synagogue that welcomes them as migrants and that accepts the myth of moral equivalence. They all had a hand in the dagger to the chest that took the life of Dafna Meir in her prime.

Damn them all.

Later it will be time to repent for our hard feelings. Ordinarily we are not like this. We do not think like this.

We are good people. Among us are Torah-observant Jews, whether we practice it religiously or not, joined by upright Christians devoted with us to the Biblical imperative to love our neighbors as ourselves. This is not like us to condemn the good along with the wicked.

Yes, later it will be time to relent and repent. But not just yet.

New York-based bestselling American novelist Jack Engelhard writes a regular column for Arutz Sheva. He is the author of the international classic “Indecent Proposal” now followed by the prophetic thriller “The Bathsheba Deadline.” Engelhard is the recipient of the Ben Hecht Award for Literary Excellence. Website: www.jackengelhard.com