Yitzhak, this is the last speech. There will be no more. For over thirty-five years you were my teacher. You were my guide, you were my leader, you were like a second father to me.
Five minutes before the despicable man shot you, you sang the "Song for Peace‘ from the song sheet you were given so that you could ’stutter the words," as you always used to say.
Yitzhak, you know you had a thousand good qualities, you had a thousand advantages, you were great — but singing was never your strong point. You were a little off-key during that song.
Then, as always, you neatly folded the paper into four equal parts — as always — and put it in your jacket pocket. At the hospital, after the doctors and nurses had cried, they handed me the sheet of paper they had found in your jacket pocket. Yes, it was neatly folded into four equal parts, as always. I want to read now some of the words from that paper, but I find it difficult. Your blood, Yitzhak, your blood covers the printed words. Your blood on the song sheet of "Song for Peace." This is the blood that ran out of your body in the final moments of your life, and on to the paper, between the lines and between the words. From this red sheet of paper, from the blood screaming to us, I now wish to read the words — words that seem to have been written only yesterday, after you sang there, and after they shot at you,
and they shot at peace.
This is the paper:
"Let the sun rise
And give the morning light
The purest of prayers
Will not bring us back
He whose candle was blown out
And was buried in the sand
A bitter cry won’t wake him up
won’t bring him back here
No one will bring us back
From deep down the dark pit
Here, no joy of victory
And no songs of praise
Can help.
So sing only a song for peace
Do not whisper a prayer
Better sing a song for peace,
With a great shout."
Iran News
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