Even before Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day) this year my mind began to fill with the imagery. Flashbacks to that night in Bir Zeit; the houses, the sound of the gunshot. A panicked sprint back to the armored vehicle, with me shooting glances behind my shoulder every other second to make sure that there was nothing going on behind the squad. Elad, the Company commander speaking to us as we gathered around him in between the three armored transports, his voice on the verge of breaking as he somehow managed to keep his cool and explain to us what had happened.
In my first year in Israel I woke up late for the high-school's tekes (memorial ceremony). I managed to make it on time to ride with everyone to Har Hertzl, the national military cemetery in Jerusalem. As the siren went off, I stood with my friend in the entrance to the cemetery in silence, trying to connect; trying to appreciate what it was that these soldiers who we talked about in States year after year had done for the country I was finally leaving in. My teeth were still cracking from the strain of the new language that I had not yet mastered, and connecting was not an easy task. I walked around Har Hertzl trying to find a grave out of the thousands on which to lay the flowers I had been given at the entrance.
Six years later, but not quite a year after the events in Bir Zeit, my efforts to connect stopped. One of the most painful realizations is when you realize that you no longer need to try to connect- Yom HaZikaron has become a day where you must actively participate whether you want to or not. Going to Hartman for the high-school tekes, the traditional gathering of the alumni, is no longer the appropriate option. The "holiday" that the country declared in memory of the fallen becomes a full day off- so that you can travel the five hours round trip that you need in order to stand by the grave of your fallen friend and brother in arms.
Beginning with the songs of remembrance that I sang with my friends on Sunday night, Noam Levi Z"L, HY"D, was the only chalal (fallen soldier) that I could think of. While others read passages from over the years- eulogies, articles, other people's memories- I spoke about the friendship that was stolen from me just as it was beginning to bloom. Somehow, the little American with broken teeth had entered into the black bereaved military family of Israel, while most of his Israeli friends had not (which is something to thank G-d for-that there have been relatively so few deaths in recent years). There are some memberships that you never want to have.
Graveside, I was quiet and morose. But Noam Z"L's family is one that understands the value of life after tragedy. His mother invited us all back to their house after the ceremony for both physical and spiritual refreshments. We reminisced, telling stories and looking at pictures of our fallen hero. Friends from his community, school days, and of course the army. "Everybody here loves (Noam) and everybody here hurts," said his mother . His father told us about how Noam learned to speak Hebrew on the basketball court behind their newly built house. "Noam learned a lot about Hebrew and being Israeli on the court, but we had to clean him up a bit after every game. Not everything that you learn on the court is appropriate to bring back home with you."
Israel celebrated her 62nd birthday today, and you can be sure that I celebrated, but celebration in this country always comes with a price. In one week I will be back up North in Mitzpeh Netufa to commemorate the passing of the first year since Noam's death- a reminder that the war began in 1948 has yet to end. This year the move from "Evel l'yom tov," "Mourning to holiday," that happens between the two juxtaposing days (Memorial day in Israel is the day before Independence Day) was especially difficult, but the extraordinary loving embrace of the Levi family and of all of Noam's friends gave me the strength to move on.
As the last of the grills are extinguished, while the final bits of hamburger and beer from the traditional BBQ are digested in my stomach, I pray to G-d that we only know the good days from now on, and thank him for the few moments that I had to know someone like Noam Levi, who sacrificed his life so that we could celebrate today.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
I realize that this is a heavy post. These were things that sat on my heart over the past couple of days and I did not yet have the chance for catharsis. Yom HaAtzmaut was of course meaningful and beautiful, and I would be remiss if I did not actively thank G-d for this gift, despite the tragic costs. Next year in a rebuilt and peace-filled Jerusalem!
love,
yoni
In my first year in Israel I woke up late for the high-school's tekes (memorial ceremony). I managed to make it on time to ride with everyone to Har Hertzl, the national military cemetery in Jerusalem. As the siren went off, I stood with my friend in the entrance to the cemetery in silence, trying to connect; trying to appreciate what it was that these soldiers who we talked about in States year after year had done for the country I was finally leaving in. My teeth were still cracking from the strain of the new language that I had not yet mastered, and connecting was not an easy task. I walked around Har Hertzl trying to find a grave out of the thousands on which to lay the flowers I had been given at the entrance.
Six years later, but not quite a year after the events in Bir Zeit, my efforts to connect stopped. One of the most painful realizations is when you realize that you no longer need to try to connect- Yom HaZikaron has become a day where you must actively participate whether you want to or not. Going to Hartman for the high-school tekes, the traditional gathering of the alumni, is no longer the appropriate option. The "holiday" that the country declared in memory of the fallen becomes a full day off- so that you can travel the five hours round trip that you need in order to stand by the grave of your fallen friend and brother in arms.
Beginning with the songs of remembrance that I sang with my friends on Sunday night, Noam Levi Z"L, HY"D, was the only chalal (fallen soldier) that I could think of. While others read passages from over the years- eulogies, articles, other people's memories- I spoke about the friendship that was stolen from me just as it was beginning to bloom. Somehow, the little American with broken teeth had entered into the black bereaved military family of Israel, while most of his Israeli friends had not (which is something to thank G-d for-that there have been relatively so few deaths in recent years). There are some memberships that you never want to have.
Graveside, I was quiet and morose. But Noam Z"L's family is one that understands the value of life after tragedy. His mother invited us all back to their house after the ceremony for both physical and spiritual refreshments. We reminisced, telling stories and looking at pictures of our fallen hero. Friends from his community, school days, and of course the army. "Everybody here loves (Noam) and everybody here hurts," said his mother . His father told us about how Noam learned to speak Hebrew on the basketball court behind their newly built house. "Noam learned a lot about Hebrew and being Israeli on the court, but we had to clean him up a bit after every game. Not everything that you learn on the court is appropriate to bring back home with you."
Israel celebrated her 62nd birthday today, and you can be sure that I celebrated, but celebration in this country always comes with a price. In one week I will be back up North in Mitzpeh Netufa to commemorate the passing of the first year since Noam's death- a reminder that the war began in 1948 has yet to end. This year the move from "Evel l'yom tov," "Mourning to holiday," that happens between the two juxtaposing days (Memorial day in Israel is the day before Independence Day) was especially difficult, but the extraordinary loving embrace of the Levi family and of all of Noam's friends gave me the strength to move on.
As the last of the grills are extinguished, while the final bits of hamburger and beer from the traditional BBQ are digested in my stomach, I pray to G-d that we only know the good days from now on, and thank him for the few moments that I had to know someone like Noam Levi, who sacrificed his life so that we could celebrate today.
__________________________
I realize that this is a heavy post. These were things that sat on my heart over the past couple of days and I did not yet have the chance for catharsis. Yom HaAtzmaut was of course meaningful and beautiful, and I would be remiss if I did not actively thank G-d for this gift, despite the tragic costs. Next year in a rebuilt and peace-filled Jerusalem!
love,
yoni
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