The dagger

 

There were killings, slaughter and genocide. Holocaust. From its fire a dagger was born. The Desert Dagger. Forged in the sandy, fiery furnace of killings, torture and annihilation. Enemies rasping at its edges from all sides to annihilate it. But that merely sharpens the edges. The Desert Dagger has a pointed tip, the pinnacle of all the sharp, serrated edges around it—survival. It has the soul of steel. It has one soul, one goal, one dream, one people— survival. It knows how to reshape its pain into hope and then turn hope into cutting-edge technology—sharp, precise, surgical, unsparing.

 The Desert Dagger cuts and writes its destiny on the book of life having sandy pages. It’s a mighty pen held in one hand. It knows what it has to write—the book of survival, the manual of survival at any cost. Where do the Desert Dagger’s soul, spirit and matter come from? It comes from the memories of the millions who perished in gas chambers. It comes from the teary, rosy dreams in the hearts—the dreams of the survival of a race. It comes from the razor sharp logic in the mind—the logic of fight when surrounded from all sides and kill before getting killed.