The Last Crucifix in Debel
He sat in his cell, rubbing away his tears, asking himself:
What the hell was I thinking?
Why did I lift that sledgehammer and bring it down on the head of Jesus?
Why did I tell my comrade to photograph my stupidity?
Why didn’t anyone stop me?
He searched for answers, knowing his interrogators would be there within minutes.
What could he possibly say?
That religion is the cause of all wars, so I took it out on a helpless statue nailed to a cross?
That with every blow, I was striking back at the Inquisition… the pogroms… the Shoah?
That this war in Lebanon is driving me out of my mind? That I’m exhausted, frayed, and not thinking straight?
That I’m sorry—for the embarrassment, for the shame I’ve brought on the IDF and the State of Israel?
That I’ll pay for a new crucifix out of my own salary?
Or the truth:
That I wanted to look tough. To prove something to the others.
The key scraped in the lock.
He stood at attention as the door opened. An officer ordered him forward.
He followed.
And with each step, one thought settled heavily in his mind:
Even in war, actions have consequences.
And stupidity is no defense.
