For me, it was the gunshots - three rounds, seven shots per
round – piercing the heavy silence that brought home the finality of the
moment: the burial of Staff Sargeant Liel Gidoni. He grew up and lived in a
neighborhood I know well.
Nonetheless, I never met Liel, or his family, prior to Sunday afternoon on
Mt. Herzl. The entire neighborhood
came to bury Liel. I joined
hundreds of others who did not know Liel and, nonetheless, came to pay last
respects, to honor his service to and ultimate sacrifice for the State of
Israel.
Liel was killed last Friday when he and two other comrades, Major Benaya Sarel
and Second Lieutenant Hadar Goldin, were preparing to destroy a tunnel in or
near Rafah in the Gaza strip.
Three hours into a cease-fire, during which Israel indicated it would
continue destroying tunnels, terrorists burst onto the scene and murdered the
three Israeli soldiers, one more cease fire ignored or broken by Hamas. A tunnel is not a human being. It
sounds so obvious that it may be better not to even say it. In the eyes of the
attackers, however, a destroyed tunnel seemed to be equal to a human life. During what was to be a period of
quiet, Hamas could not help itself.
They attacked, broke the cease-fire and killed another three Israeli
soldiers.
While I attended one military funeral in the past in Fitzgerald,
Georgia, this was completely different.
In Fitzgerald, we buried an 82-year-old, Jewish WW II war hero. I knew the family and almost everyone
at the funeral very well. He had a
wonderful wife, children, and grandchildren. He lived a full life.
On Mt. Herzl, however, we were burying a twenty-year old, killed in the
line of duty. We were burying a
teenager, someone with an entire lifetime to live. I knew nobody at the funeral, not parents or siblings,
grandparents or friends. My connections to Liel were distant at best: 1) I
heard about his death while on the plane on Friday, two hours before we landed
at Ben Gurion and 2) He was defending my and our collective home. Yet, I felt as if I was burying a member
of my own family.
Each of the eulogies for Liel was more heart-rending than the one before
it. Representatives of Givati, where Liel served, as well as the Mayor of
Jerusalem, Nir Barkat, spoke in personal, yet official roles. Neither knew Liel personally yet
managed to capture the importance of his service and sacrifice. Principals, teachers, classmates, best
friends and relatives painted a picture of Liel for those of us who didn’t know
him personally. Liel was always
smiling an infectious smile, striving to be the best. He came back to school even after he was drafted to
volunteer. Whenever he could, he
came back to help out, joining the Yom HaZikaron ceremony the school put
together annually. His cousin and
played a song in his memory. The
gathered mourners tried as best as possible to pick up the chorus and join
in. The memorial prayer, El Maleh
Rachamim, wailed forth, echoing across Mt. Herzl. If there were any dry eyes left by this point, the power
contained in the sadness of the shaking voice brought out the tears they were
meant to evoke.
And then there were the gunshots of the twenty-one-gun salute.
A final farewell.
Once the funeral ended, a throng of people went to visit the Liel’s
grave. There it was, among five
other freshly dug graves. Liel
joined ten other Jerusalem residents killed in Operation Tzuk Eitan, now
resting rest in peace on Mt. Herzl. I paid my last respects to this wonderful soul I never had a
chance to meet, stood quietly praying several Psalms. I moved out of the way to
make space for others.
Today, I think about the news of Liel’s death last week and
his funeral on Sunday. I think about
where we were and where we are going, both of which lead me to…
Send prayers of comfort to Liel’s family as they mourn his
death.
Hope there will be an extension of the cease-fire today.
Pray the cease-fire will continue through Erev Shabbat,
becoming a long-term cease-fire.
Dream that, someday, there will be peace in Israel and the
region.
And I pray that the quiet is not broken by more gunshots - those
of war or those of military funerals – ever again.
May the memory of Liel, his sixty-three other IDF
compatriots killed in battle, and the civilians killed, be blessings for all of
us.
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