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Happy
Birthday, Little Miracle
by
Naomi Ragen (April 26, 2004)
One of the reasons I started this mailing
list was to try to share that which we in Israel are experiencing. All day long
today, Memorial Day for Israel's fallen soldiers and (for the first time)
victims of terror, I tried to think how I could explain to someone outside the
country what we here go through.
How can I make someone who doesn't live here understand what it means to sit by
your television set hour after hour watching family after family break down in
tears as they describe the pain of losing a beloved son or daughter? And the
pictures of the fallen, how they flash by, the handsome young men, the winning
grin, the dark blue eyes, the strong young bodies, the beautiful young women --
and all so young, so young, so very young.
There was one show that filmed mothers and fathers describing the last
conversation they had with their child, and then how they learned the terrible
news. Some feared it all along; others never suspected. Some were furious at the
soldiers who came to tell them; others didn't want to open the door at all; and
still others didn't believe a word, trying again and again to call the
cell-phone number.
There was the Russian immigrant who had lost her lovely young daughter in a Tel
Aviv disco bombing: "I dreamt about her wedding, having grandchildren. Now that
will never happen." Was she sorry she'd moved to Israel? "No," she said. "This
is our country. This is what my daughter wanted. It was her dream."
And the Ethiopian mother who had lost her
soldier son....and the friends we have known for years talking about losing
their son, a war hero. I remember when David Granit was born. His mother didn't
know she was pregnant with twins, identical twin boys, redheads like their
mother. Their father Menachem saw one son born, then went home. When he came
back to visit his wife, she said: "We have a son." I know, he answered,
confused. "No, another son." How we all laughed at this story.
David was killed in Lebanon saving the lives
of his soldiers who were under heavy fire. "I didn't want a hero," his sister
wept. "I wanted my brother."
On the radio, I heard a bereaved mother talking about the importance of memorial
day. "For one day the whole country feels like I feel every day." It was
important for people to call, to enquire, to comfort. To make those suffering
from loss feel surrounded by a cocoon of warmth and love and solidarity, she
said.
That is so hard, I thought. Because the last
thing in the world you want to do is intrude on someone's private grief. But
Memorial Day makes that grief public, giving all of us a chance to say: We live
because your son, your daughter, your father, your brother, your sister gave
their lives to guard and protect us. Our country continues to function because
your grandmother, your little girl, took a bus, bought a pizza, sat in a park,
and in so doing, lost their lives to those who wish to take our country away
from us. Too cowardly to fight our soldiers, they fight our old people, our
babies.
When Memorial Day is over, we will dry our tears. We will go out into the
streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, our hearts still heavy with cumulative grief,
and watch the fireworks. And little by little, we will start to smile again, to
celebrate that our little country -- our little miracle - is 56 years old. And
that, despite everything, we love her and wish her well and would give anything
-- anything -- to protect and nurture her and her people, the bravest and most
compassionate people in the world.
Happy Birthday Israel. God Bless the Jewish people, the People of Israel. May He
heal our wounds, and dry the tears from all faces.
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