by means of their economic independence, by reason of the fact that, so far as the productive, distributive and consumptive forces go, they are sufficient unto themselves.
distributive and consumptive forces go, they are sufficient unto themselves. So, on these foundations, Zionists have chosen to build. Quite logically they have invested their project with the halo of romance, they have placed the cornice of idealism on the fundament of realism. Without the “return to Palestine” idea, without the Kultur programme, the scheme would succeed with thinking beings. In its naked baldness, it would stand forth an economic principle incarnate, a worldly means to an end which all men would have to admire on the side of soundness, stability and method. The veneer of historic tradition causes Zionism to appeal to such as would otherwise be blind in the face of proffered advantages, while, on the other hand, it raises up for itself opponents who can only see their own hands within the limits of an arm’s length of their bodies.
Here is the meeting-place of Jews of all shades of opinion. Differences ought to be forgotten in the spirit in which differences cannot exist, where all are of the same mind. The Jew, who has diligently prayed leschana haba b'Yeruschalayim on all the Yom Kippurim he has lived, can sit at the side of the Jew who has never known aught of the Jewish Zeitgeist save its economic realities, while both turn their faces toward that great Light in the East which sends forth rays of peace, of courage, of mutual understanding and of good will. Introspection resulting in peace within the individual leads to a peaceful attitude toward the world at large. The Jewish problem solved for the Jew himself with the re-establishment of the Jewish state, the Jewish problem—rather the capitalist problem, so far as the nations of Christendom are concerned—will pass on to a natural death, leaving the weary wandering Jew of all the centuries at rest ultimately and eternally.
Past and Present.
Like the fragrance from a distant Flower garden, softly stealing To some wretched prison inmate, To his cheerless soul appealing,
Or like sounds of joyous music,Hope inspiring, death defying,That come wafted through the windowOf the room where one is dying—
Comes thy memory, fresh and blooming,Through long years of separation;Comes thy face a mocking contrastTo this dreary desolation.
Was it I thy youth and beauty,Glowing, felt upon his breast once?And a youth, a joy of livingEqual to thine own, possessed once?
Ever deeper grows the gulf that Past from present is dividing, While the quicksand of existence From beneath my feet is sliding.
Ever darker looms the future,And the grip of fate draws tighter;Humbled down, my soul is asking:Was life ever, ever brighter?