My yom hazikaron - By Yahal Porat, HDUK Shaliach
1)Those who are not with us anymore
Each year on yom hazikaron I am torn between the different graveyards: which one shall I visit this year? In the recent years while living in Jerusalem, it was easier to go to mount Herzel and visit my cousin’s grave, Asaf.
He died not even 20 years old. He served in the Nachal brigade, as a part of logistics unit. He died in a very non-heroic way: he had a short brake to his house in Jerusalem. He went to see his girlfriend on the eve of 1.1.1999, because his mom begged him not to go to a party in town. So he stayed with his girlfriend till 3-4 AM, and then came back home. We still don’t know way, but on his way back he lost control of his car and bumped into a huge concrete lights stand. The car smashed totally, and Asaf got caught in it.
They say he was alive for about an hour after it happened, watching the rescuers trying to get him out of the car. But he never made it to hospital. His face was perfectly fine when my uncle and aunt went to see his body. He looked like he was sleeping, quite and still beautiful.
Asaf had green eyes. He was very shy, almost hiding from the world. When talking to him u could feel his wish to know more, but his inability to get over his shyness.
He enjoyed a lot my Army stories, mainly because I was sent to the same brigade. Back then we both felt there is something in common.
I actually hate to go to his grave, to talk to a stone, to watch my entire family gathering only to cry and get sad. Usually we go to my uncle and aunt's house, and we are served lunch , and everyone is talking about him. Many friends are still coming to visit on that day, as well as high-ranking soldiers, as representative of the IDF.
Asaf was a soldier when died, this is why they buried him in Mount Herzel. He was not fighting for the sake of Israel, nor was he was giving his life on duty. But the number one killer in Israel killed him: a Car accident. Its such ashame that we still have to fight against it, but we never do enough to prevent it.
To the other graveyard, in kibbutz Shoval, I try to go on the special day of Yonatan’s remembrance.
Yonatan served with me in the same Unit, Palsar Nachal. He died because of an explosion, that killed himself, plus another 2 soldiers of his team, in Vaddi Alman, southern Lebanon.
I met Yonatan first when I was 10-11. He was very strong kid, a bit aggressive, so was sent to learn Judo, where he was able to use his force and control it wisely. Yonatan and me became friends while in junior high and high school. We were sitting in the same classroom for 6 years, and also slept in the same place since we were studying in a boarding school.
Yonatan was different, and tried his best just to be different. That was his mantra – to think differently, not do what everybody does just because, and to ask questions about everything, challenging basic assumptions. He loved to show his skills and to test it one time after another. I cannot forget his mission to write down all the numbers from 1 to 100,000. It took him weeks to do, while everyone was laughing about it. But he did not care. He wanted to see and understand numbers truly. Another time he decided to test the power of wind. So he spent a month building a surfer on wheels. He got a lot of insults for it, but did not pay attention. On the final day when strong wind blew, Yonatan stood on his serf and rolled very slowly forward – it was his big win.
Yonatan died because of an ambush. He died on another country’s soil, trying to defend Israel's border. When he got hurt; they say he said to the medics to go and give help to his soldiers, as he was their officer. He did not understand his situation, and lost blood very quickly, while still functioning and giving orders. Two of his men died as well – those who were walking on front of the night patrol.
And there are more: one of my closest friends’ brother, Aviv, who was very successful officer with tanks unit, just before his release from service. He started working in the kibbutz, climbed to a high roof and fell to his death while still a soldier. And there is Zohar of my kibbutz, as well a brother of one of my mates, who was killed by an explosion in Lebanon. And there are sadly so many more.
It was always a struggle: would u die for the sake of your own country? Would u give your life just to make sure others will not get hurt? What if there is not a just cause? What if one disbelieves in his government policy? What if u think it is almost a crime to serve your country?
Every yom hazikaron I try to think not only about those who are not with us, but also about those who suffered the loss, those who must keep going on in their routine. How can one do that? How do u overcome?
And the most important one: how many more? For how long?
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