Heritage Florida Jewish News - Central Florida's Independent Jewish Voice

Our first Susya soldier fell. It was the first night of Chanukah.

We were eating dinner and my daughter, 16, saw a message in her medical whatsapp group. The head Medic was wishing a friend of mine sorry on her son.

I saw it, and said "he probably got injured" and we continued eating.

The mother, a good friend of mine, is one of our original medics here. She is a strong person, one of my group of friends, and is one of those women who seems to do it all. She can even do a lay-up on the basketball court!

We soon received the message in the yishuv newsgroup that indeed her son had been killed in battle, in Gaza. We were in shock. Sadded. Scared.

Our yishuv had gone this long without any deaths. We were hoping to keep death away.

The funeral was set for the next morning, Friday, at Mt. Herzl in Jerusalem. 10:15 a.m.

We drove. It was horrible. There was a bus arranged but my son asked to drive separately. He wanted privacy. His best friend is the youngest sibling.

Seeing all the people of our yishuv in such a strange setting was unnerving. The casket was carried on the shoulders of about six soldiers - all young. They weren't really in step or standing up straight. What a position to have! Carrying fallen brethren!

Behind this was the family. Everyone started crying and you could only hear sobbing and sniffling. Soldiers started walking in a sort-of formation. Not many. Then we saw about 6-8 soldiers carrying a casket draped in the flag of Israel up on their shoulders, and a procession of sisters and brothers following behind. The young wife (now a widow); the parents, the grandmother, the siblings, the aunts and uncles and cousins. I know them all. Have known them for years. It was very painful to see.

The graves on Mt. Herzl list the names, dates of death, and clearly the ages of all the fallen. You can see everyone is young - 20, 21, 22. All young boys. Like my own.

I kept my eyes down on these graves as much as I could, as my tears spilled over. I had a hard time looking around me.

Each family member spoke in the microphone. Each sibling and each parent. It was hard to hear. I know these kids. The mom and the dad. I know them well. I know them as strong people. But they were broken.

On our drive back home, we spoke of things. My son said he feels that life can be taken at any moment, and it is so important to do things, to "do life" as we say in Hebrew.

We spoke about naming one of the hills around Susya in this boy's memory. "Of course" he answered. Typical teenager.

As we approached Har Hevron, there were people gathered at the entrance to each yishuv with Israeli flags, and the army was out... I had never seen anything like that before. I didn't know why. My son told me "it is for X; he is the first soldier that has fallen in Har Hevron. This is for him."

When we entered Susya, the streets were full of people and children and families with flags. Like a parade. We had to wait in traffic to drive to our house. I understood later that people were out to accompany the mourning family to their home. It was heartwarming. Beautiful.

Some Jewish traditions are so important we cling to them. Like how to mourn. It is so helpful. It really saves us. We don't need to think what we should do. There are instructions and we follow them.

The whatsapp group for my son in Gaza sent us a video of the boys lighting the candles for Chanukah. I see my son. He looks so happy. They are all singing together.

I am about to go to the Shivah. My stomach is in knots. I went to synagogue yesterday and talked with friends about this death. It is hanging in the air. No way to avoid it.

We all have kids the same age and boys in the army. This could have been any of us.

Our sons are not bred to be soldiers. They know - we all know - when they turn 18 the army calls for them. We get the notices in the mail when they turn 16. They - we - look at army service it as role they will take on almost like a learning program. We know it is 2.8 years, and they can choose longer. We know they will end this period and go on to grow up... to learn, to work, to marry and start families.

We never think they will die.

That is the fear. That is our fear.