|
A
Shiv'a Call
by
Naomi Ragen (May 16, 2004)
Dear Friends,
This morning, I paid a shiv'a call to Sara and Michael Newman's house, the
parents who lost their wonderful son Eitan when his tank went over a bomb in the
Gaza Strip last week. They buried him
last Thursday, after his comrades, under constant fire from terrorists, combed
the dangerous streets to bring his holy remains and those of his comrades home.
As I neared the Newman home, I saw army men standing in small circles, talking
quietly. Some wore beards and knitted skullcaps. Friends, religious and
non-religious, came and went in and out of the Newman home, fulfilling one of
Judaism's most honored rituals of comforting mourners for seven days after the
funeral.
Sara and her husband sat on low chairs, as is the custom, surrounded by friends.
I introduced myself. "I want to talk to you..." Sara said softly.
I pulled up a chair. "I understand that you write to many people around the
world. And this is what I would like you to please tell them for me. Many people
have asked what they can do, how can they help. Please tell them to go out and
buy something that was made in Israel. That's all. Just help us, we are going
through such hard times. Everybody can do that."
I felt quick tears come to my eyes, wondering at this woman who sat clear-eyed
and full of courage and faith, her mind focused on what else she could do to
help the country she loved, a woman who had just given her country and her
people her handsome, bright, intelligent, wonderful young son.
Who had given her son.
I nodded, wordlessly.
I told her about a conversation I had just had with my own son, who is being
drafted in November. "Maybe you could go into anti-aircraft," I urged him. "Your
brother did that, and your father."
There was a slight pause at the other end of
the line. "Look Mom," he said patiently, "I might as well tell you the truth.
I'm not going into the army to strike a pose. I'm going because I want to do
something, protect people from getting killed by terrorists. And the only way to
do that, is to be a foot soldier." He wanted to go into Givati, he said.
The same unit as Eitan Newman.
"This is how we brought them up," I told Sara Newman. "I'm very proud of him.
And I'm terrified."
She put her hand over mine. "When my son died, he was surrounded by people he
loved and respected and trusted. He was on his way back from a mission he'd
successfully completed. He died instantly, with no pain. I would rather he went
that way then stabbed in the back by some skinhead far away from home."
Would I please, she urged me, send out her message?
When I left the Newman home, I walked up the winding stone staircase that one
finds in Jerusalem's hilly neighborhoods. A cool wind was blowing, and the sky
seemed strangely cloudy for spring. As I reached the top I saw a friend coming
down the road. She too was on her way to the Newmans. I hugged her, and both of
us wept.
And now I am home at my computer, doing what Sara Newman asked me to do. I'm
asking you to please go out a buy something from Israel. If you can't find it in
your stores, you can find it on-line, I'm sure.
And if you'd like to send Sara and Michael some words of comfort, please email
them at msnewman@netvision.net.il.
Thank you.
|
