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On the Wednesday before Pesach, I took four of our kids to present gifts to 140 chayalim bodedim (immigrant soldiers who have no family in Israel) serving in basic training for combat. My regular readers know that this type of activity is a special thrill for my family.
Our shul had even participated by having the children draw pictures for the soldiers, complete with messages of support. For families of olim like ours, whose head of the household was already too old to serve in the military when they made aliyah and will have no true sense of what is involved, this is the only way to participate in helping the troops. We have never stood a post or manned a checkpoint. We can only imagine the hardships these young men and women face. So we try to make things a bit nicer for them and help ease their day-to-day lives.
Unbeknownst to me, the commander of the base decided to make a formal ceremony out of the presentation. They put out some light refreshments (for soldiers who had just trained in the field for four days, this was a special treat) and then assembled everyone for a formal presentation. The commander said some nice things to the troops and then asked me to say a few words.
I told the soldiers how proud of them we were and that our presence (and presents) were not something we needed thanks for but were rather an expression of our thanks to them. I told them how we are only giving from our money, which pales in comparison to what they bring to the table. I thanked them for their dedication and commitment to our country and in putting themselves and their lives (literally) on the line for our safety.
We greeted each soldier personally and even shared dinner with them in the mess hall (my kids loved it). It was inspiring and humbling to be a part of making their lives more comfortable and pleasant.
As we were still flying from that high, I got a call from my sister on motzaei Shabbat. She asked how we were and then told us that she had a terrible Shabbat with my oldest nephew, Yonatan.
For those of you who don’t know, my nephew Yonatan is in the final months of his service in a combat unit. I have shared a couple of stories of his in this column such as his draft day and the time he got a care package from a stranger in the USA. He has seen action in Gaza, identified and detained a terrorist carrying a bomb at a checkpoint in the West Bank, and carries our pride with him wherever he goes.
For my sister and brother-in-law, it has been a draining few years. They share in his fierce pride at all his accomplishments and are overwhelmed by his determination to do his best for the country. Yet, they are also gravely concerned about his safety, knowing all too well the risks that he faces and the possibility—shared by all families with children in the military—that he could be injured (or worse) in action.
My nephew had been taking a special course over the past few weeks. I am not sure what he needed to learn. I think it was some kind of new equipment that he needed to operate. So, for a few short weeks, he was off the front lines and spending weekends at home with his family.
On Friday, erev Shabbat HaGadol, he was at home (having completed the training course). He was due to rejoin his unit on Sunday. They were about to come off the line themselves, having almost completed a rotation in Gaza. One of his buddies from his platoon had even posted a note on his Facebook page saying, “LAST SHABBAT IN GAZA!”
That soldier never made it to Shabbat.
That afternoon, in an exchange of fire with terrorists at the border, two soldiers were killed in action with a third severely wounded. Maj. Eliraz Peretz, one of the two dead soldiers, was the commander of their regiment, a man whose brother Uriel had been killed in Lebanon a decade earlier. At his funeral, his distraught mother wondered what she was supposed to do on Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers); which son should she visit first? Which life, tragically cut short in service to his country, should she honor above the other? What a horrific concern for a mother. Especially since two other sons continue to serve.
The other fatality was my nephew Yonatan’s platoon-mate, Ilan Sviatkovsky, an immigrant from Uzbekistan—one of eleven buddies he had done almost his entire military service with. Yonatan is devastated.
He rushed to join the platoon immediately before Shabbat. He helped bury his friend. The senselessness is overwhelming. Why should a 21-year-old have to face such heavy issues?
He helped bury his friend. At 21.
Hearing this, I thought back to the young soldiers I had met a few days earlier. I cannot imagine how stressful it must be for them to hear of soldiers, such as themselves, being killed in action. Yet here they are, 6,000 miles or more away from their families, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. They are training to defend us to the death. And they do.
I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know when it will end. The only thing I do know is how proud we are of them and how important our soldiers and our country are to us.
I had intended to write a column about our terrific Pesach and chol ha’moed. It isn’t within me to do so. Instead I ask that you take a moment to honor the memories of Maj. Eliraz Peretz and Ilan Sviatkovsky, yehei zichram baruch. Mourn for their loss. Feel for a mother who has lost a second son and for her daughter-in-law and the four grandchildren (one of whom is a 2-month-old infant) whose husband and father will never again walk through their front door.
Grieve for an immigrant family who has lost a son and brother in defense of their adopted homeland. Share the pain of 11 young men who have lost a brother-in-arms. They almost made it to the finish line when they lost one of their own. Yet they go on, knowing that his sacrifice and their loss is what makes us who we are.
Our shul had even participated by having the children draw pictures for the soldiers, complete with messages of support. For families of olim like ours, whose head of the household was already too old to serve in the military when they made aliyah and will have no true sense of what is involved, this is the only way to participate in helping the troops. We have never stood a post or manned a checkpoint. We can only imagine the hardships these young men and women face. So we try to make things a bit nicer for them and help ease their day-to-day lives.
Unbeknownst to me, the commander of the base decided to make a formal ceremony out of the presentation. They put out some light refreshments (for soldiers who had just trained in the field for four days, this was a special treat) and then assembled everyone for a formal presentation. The commander said some nice things to the troops and then asked me to say a few words.
I told the soldiers how proud of them we were and that our presence (and presents) were not something we needed thanks for but were rather an expression of our thanks to them. I told them how we are only giving from our money, which pales in comparison to what they bring to the table. I thanked them for their dedication and commitment to our country and in putting themselves and their lives (literally) on the line for our safety.
We greeted each soldier personally and even shared dinner with them in the mess hall (my kids loved it). It was inspiring and humbling to be a part of making their lives more comfortable and pleasant.
As we were still flying from that high, I got a call from my sister on motzaei Shabbat. She asked how we were and then told us that she had a terrible Shabbat with my oldest nephew, Yonatan.
For those of you who don’t know, my nephew Yonatan is in the final months of his service in a combat unit. I have shared a couple of stories of his in this column such as his draft day and the time he got a care package from a stranger in the USA. He has seen action in Gaza, identified and detained a terrorist carrying a bomb at a checkpoint in the West Bank, and carries our pride with him wherever he goes.
For my sister and brother-in-law, it has been a draining few years. They share in his fierce pride at all his accomplishments and are overwhelmed by his determination to do his best for the country. Yet, they are also gravely concerned about his safety, knowing all too well the risks that he faces and the possibility—shared by all families with children in the military—that he could be injured (or worse) in action.
My nephew had been taking a special course over the past few weeks. I am not sure what he needed to learn. I think it was some kind of new equipment that he needed to operate. So, for a few short weeks, he was off the front lines and spending weekends at home with his family.
On Friday, erev Shabbat HaGadol, he was at home (having completed the training course). He was due to rejoin his unit on Sunday. They were about to come off the line themselves, having almost completed a rotation in Gaza. One of his buddies from his platoon had even posted a note on his Facebook page saying, “LAST SHABBAT IN GAZA!”
That soldier never made it to Shabbat.
That afternoon, in an exchange of fire with terrorists at the border, two soldiers were killed in action with a third severely wounded. Maj. Eliraz Peretz, one of the two dead soldiers, was the commander of their regiment, a man whose brother Uriel had been killed in Lebanon a decade earlier. At his funeral, his distraught mother wondered what she was supposed to do on Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers); which son should she visit first? Which life, tragically cut short in service to his country, should she honor above the other? What a horrific concern for a mother. Especially since two other sons continue to serve.
The other fatality was my nephew Yonatan’s platoon-mate, Ilan Sviatkovsky, an immigrant from Uzbekistan—one of eleven buddies he had done almost his entire military service with. Yonatan is devastated.
He rushed to join the platoon immediately before Shabbat. He helped bury his friend. The senselessness is overwhelming. Why should a 21-year-old have to face such heavy issues?
He helped bury his friend. At 21.
Hearing this, I thought back to the young soldiers I had met a few days earlier. I cannot imagine how stressful it must be for them to hear of soldiers, such as themselves, being killed in action. Yet here they are, 6,000 miles or more away from their families, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. They are training to defend us to the death. And they do.
I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know when it will end. The only thing I do know is how proud we are of them and how important our soldiers and our country are to us.
I had intended to write a column about our terrific Pesach and chol ha’moed. It isn’t within me to do so. Instead I ask that you take a moment to honor the memories of Maj. Eliraz Peretz and Ilan Sviatkovsky, yehei zichram baruch. Mourn for their loss. Feel for a mother who has lost a second son and for her daughter-in-law and the four grandchildren (one of whom is a 2-month-old infant) whose husband and father will never again walk through their front door.
Grieve for an immigrant family who has lost a son and brother in defense of their adopted homeland. Share the pain of 11 young men who have lost a brother-in-arms. They almost made it to the finish line when they lost one of their own. Yet they go on, knowing that his sacrifice and their loss is what makes us who we are.
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