Reflections on Voting and Heritage

At the polling station, I'm never alone. Sometimes

my parents are there, sometimes my grandchildren who haven't

been born yet. Sometimes I feel all the generations before me are standing

behind me

saying, "Come on, keep going, we're with you."

But among all those voices,

there's one voice I always recognize. It's

the one I miss most. I miss him,

the man who knew what love of Israel was,

who taught me you can have it both ways,

who never got drawn into disputes. The man who helped every Jew, and once

every four years—

Maran Rabbi Ovadia.

We meet.

When a person votes, he has no one but

the Holy One, blessed be His name. The evil urge

goes wild, and I don't see God? I see

Him, and I take the ballot in awe of Heaven

and pray to the Holy of Holies that He will make us succeed.

Please, God, save us. Please, God, make us succeed. I take the ballot

with Shas written on it and put it in the ballot box.

Here,

someone is waiting for you inside.

I knew you'd vote for Shas in the end, huh?

Blessed be His name forever.