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We live in loving memories
By Inbal Freund

A. My father.

My father has good eyes, which have seen a lot. He has grey hair that sometimes sneaks out from under his Kippa in boyish mischievousness. He has wrinkled hands with blessed old age stains, which treat gently every flower in his garden.

On Rosh Hashana my father's big hands open the Torah scroll at the synagogue. Full of emotion, his voice trembles above the crowd, reading from Jeremiah chapter 31 the condolence prophecy which describes the return to Zion. Embedded in that glory lays our foremother Rachel's great agony for her lost sons- the ones who perished during the journey to Israel, and never made it to the Promised Land. When the reading is over, the cantor blesses Yonatan son of Rachel and Moshe. My father's good eyes are lit with splendor and laughter as he steps quietly down from the Bimah back into the crowd.

In the army, my father's role was taking care of the dead. His role was to bring them to a dignified Jewish burial. He never tells us anything of his past actions; he is not a man of many words. Until today, whenever somebody passes away in my old home town, my father vanishes for a few hours to help treat the dead. It's called "Chesed Shel Emet" –the benevolence of righteousness. Unlike his parents' generation who built the institutions of our country and set up its main structures, his Chesed is quiet, responsive to the events which happen around him.

Sometimes I wonder how my quiet father can carry all that weight on his shoulders.

B. Masoret- tradition.

“Moses received the Torah from Sinai and passed it on to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders; the Elders to the Prophets; and the Prophets passed it on to the Men of the Great Assembly…”

The generations which came before us are embedded in us. They escort us as we celebrate our holidays – on Yom Kippur or University graduation, their eyes are watching, examining our actions, giving advice and meaning to mundane life. We are expected to relate to them. The glory of their memories commands us to better the world. To improve what they have given us. To carry their greatness to our inheritance. To create the next part of the chain day by day.

I study what my forefathers studied. I study what my foremothers did not always have access to. I have the freedom to wonder around beloved texts, I have the freedom to walk in ancient pathways. I live in a world which reinvents itself with every passing day, where technology dictates an ever growing pace of life. I live in the liminal space between old and new as I try to make my own way forward.

C. National memorial day 2007

A frantic rush. It is 10:30 and I'm running up the mountain. It's hot and I feel heavy. I'm running to be there on time for the ceremony, to stand next to my father when the siren will begin to pierce our ears with memories.
It's crowded and hot. The cemetery is flooded with people who are swarming in from every direction. They are dressed in blue and white; some wear only one color: black.

I run. I smile with admiration at teenagers who wear their youth movements' uniform as they hand me flowers to put on a grave. However, I deny their offer, as well as the water bottles soldiers provide for the vast crowd. For now, I run with the crowds forward.

It feels just like before a big pilgrimage. I see visions of a white river of people who are rushing towards the Wailing Wall to read Megilat Ruth on Shavuot. Before dawn kisses the sky which lays above it, darkness is broken with a new light.

I stop. I got too high. From this standpoint, I can see my family members trying to find their way to each other. They move in the crowd, not aware of how close they really are to each other. The focal point is Noam's grave. The strong quiet presence of his parents. Some of his siblings. They are all standing, ready for the ceremony. I see familiar heads everywhere. The only islands in the crowd are the graves.

I locate my father. He is standing down there, trying to gently push his way forward. I can imagine his debate with himself whether to further protect his head from the burning sun as I see him put his funny-looking hat over his Kippa. It's 11:00. My father's big hand freezes in the air as the siren blows.

We stand and stare at the ground. New beloved ones have been buried here this year. In my mind I try to remember each of my family members who are commemorated today in the short two minutes period. I'm left overwhelmed.

The ceremony is over. We unite under the big tree we have come to know in the past year on our visits here. Our tribe members gather. My cousin's wife, Hadassah, is 15 days late in her pregnancy; both her blond beautiful daughters run around. We all hug and kiss and fill in on each other’s latest news. I take Noa, Noam’s new niece in my arms. She is a beautiful two-month-old baby. She is life. I say Shalom to Noam's fiance', not really knowing what to say to her lovely enigmatic smile.

Suddenly the atmosphere changes. Some guards escorting an important person are walking by; cameras are all over. I ask my father if he can see who the important figure is and he replies: "well, my dear, that's Hadassah". My father has an interesting perception of important people. Maybe if our family members weren’t there, he would have perceived that the commotion happened around the Chief of Staff. In my father's eyes, Hadassah was standing there, shading his view from anybody outside our clan. The Chief of Staff approaches the Lebanon war graves zone. In the distance we see him standing close to Noam's last resting place.

A man who rescued Noam's body from the tank is standing between us all. Wrapped in our family, he is telling of the rescue efforts. The children run around and we are hiding from the sun behind a tree, behind sunglasses, all attuned to his story. We are embraced by the tree's shade; we are embraced by this man's story. We embrace him back.

The clock is ticking and we start to depart. People are going to Noam's parent's house to be together. With my father and others the descent up the mountain begins. We make our way to the next ceremony, which should be taking place at 13:00, on top of the mountain. My father sneaks apples to our handbags; the day is hot and long. We are all encouraging each other to drink. The sun beats down on our heads; there is still much to be done.

There is heavy security on the way to the terror victim's ceremony. The main speaker is the Prime Minister. We wander on and on in a labyrinth of blue plastic cloth, passing through different guard points to get in to the central ceremony. Our agony is our passport on this journey. We mourn for my cousin Chani, her husband Yossi and their child Shuvael, who were shot five years ago. It's 12:45 and we are afraid of being late. We start running again in the roads that lead up, passing by the tombs of Herzl's children as we go further on our way to be with Chani's nine living children.

The Talmud says, "Everyone who visits takes away one-sixtieth of the illness." My father runs to support my cousins, to take his part. On the way he tells us that three years ago, Chani's eldest son spoke at that national ceremony, expressing some very "unconventional words" as my father phrased it. As I wasn't there I can only imagine that he probably spoke about politics. To this child, his parents were heroes who died for the land of Israel. For him, the order of disengagement that was then on the Israeli agenda meant that his parents and brother died for nothing. He was never asked to talk again at that ceremony. It's old news anyhow.

We get there; see our family members in the distance, by the stage. We listen to the cantor crying "El Male Rachamim" again and then we withdraw back down the mountain to make it to the next ceremony; the hour 13:30 is drawing near.

I run. I try to locate the shortest and quickest way to go down this mountain, to the Gush Etzion ceremony. To show my tired father the way. His brother is buried there, Rachel's son who never made it to the Promised Land. It has been exactly 59 years of independence and loss for my father. I stand with him at the mass grave, nodding my head to greet more of the elders of our family. I kiss my twin brother, who was named after our fallen uncle. The Hazkara begins. El Male Rachamim again. We stand on both sides of our father. We embrace him as his body leans towards the earth.

D. Independence day

The sad, heavy, choking, patched blanket of ceremonies is lifted. We can never really take some pieces back as we return to our homes to prepare for our Independence Day. The shift is so dire. Like a transformation from a long fast to the festive joy of Purim. Like a great light that blinds eyes that dwelled in much darkness. By the evening, the sky is lit with fireworks. My head is still pounding from the sun. From the distance the fireworks sound like shots, and I have to look up to remember that this is an expression of joy which is not taken for granted. It's an expression of freedom.

My forefathers are looking down at us, seeing good old stained hands caress our heads. My father's soft eyes are full of light.

The End and the Beginning/Wislawa Szmborska
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa-springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we'll need bridges
and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.