I run.
I run, though my legs fill with lead, promising me a thousand promises of pain in the morning.
I run for the six million, who didn’t have an army they could run to.
I run, though a stabbing pain throbs in my ribs after the first half-kilometer.
I run for Hannah Szenes, who parachuted into Nazi Europe, only to be caught and killed by the Nazis.
I run though I’m tired, though I’m hungry.
I run for Elisha Ben-David, a twelve-year-old boy killed defending Israel in the War of Independence.
I run, though the Israeli sun beats down on me mercilessly.
I run for Eli Cohen, the Israeli spy almost made Syrian Defense Minister, when caught and hanged on television.
I run, though the stretcher pole digs into my shoulder like a knife.
I run for the eleven Israeli athletes massacred in Munich, who will never run again.
I run, though the rain is pouring and the mud weighs me down.
I run for Yoni Netanyahu, who died leading the spectacular Raid on Entebbe, freeing over a hundred Jewish hostages.
I run, with the mark from my Tefillen proudly imprinted on my arm.
I run for Roey Klein, the loving father who jumped on a grenade in Lebanon to save his soldiers.
I run to make a vessel of G-dliness in the form of a body of an Israeli soldier.
I run.
