Last week, we went to Har Herzl, Israel’s national military cemetery, to pay our respect to those who have fallen so that we may live here. Each year, there is an official ceremony there on the morning of Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day), and the location is overrun with thousands upon thousands of people. We discovered last year, however, that in the evening, there is a very different atmosphere of quiet preparation, longing, reminiscence.

We’ve made a practice of going in the evening, to walk among the graves, to look at the faces and the flags. While the cemetery used to have very strict requirements about the uniformity of the graves, in recent years parents and spouses won the right to decorate the graves with more freedom. In these sections, where the most recent fighters are buried, the plots are draped with military unit flags, notes, wedding invitations, pictures, children’s drawings and more. Each grave is overflowing with love, with longing and loss; you can feel the pain of the people who have been left behind.

We went, as we always do, to visit Shilo Rauchberger, killed in an intense battle on the Gaza border on October 7th, 2023, where he saved almost everyone on his base. From there, we wandered the rows, stopping at other graves for people we knew, people we knew about, people we would like to have known.

We were with one of our sons, and I asked him to help me find Yona Brief’s grave. Yona, a Duvdevon fighter, was shot 13 times while fighting in Kfar Aza on the 7th. He managed to survive his injuries for 417 days at Sheba Hospital before finally succumbing to his wounds. We arrived at the area and wandered the paths looking for Yona. Of course, along the way we saw many others that we knew and knew of.  One grave was particularly jarring, with a large sign that declared “Happy 38th Birthday Daddy.”

We saw and we cried and we walked. As we found Yona’s grave, my son went to speak with someone standing off to the side. The young man was alone a few feet from Yona’s grave. I stood at Yona’s grave, clearly next to some of his family members. I wanted to speak to them, but I had no words; I hoped my presence was enough. We heard on the news the next day that one of Yona’s siblings gave birth to a baby boy that night at the same hospital that tried so hard to keep Yona alive.

Eventually, I finished standing, my son finished talking and we walked away. As we headed for the lecture we were joining, I asked my son about his friend. And he told me the story of their battle in Kfar Aza, of how this young man near Yona’s grave had watched almost everyone in his unit get shot or murdered; of how he dragged Yona, with his 13 bullet wounds, to safety; of how he tried so hard to save his friends’ lives.

And there he was, alone, on Memorial Day, standing at the grave of his friend; of his fellow fighter; of a person he gave everything to save. And ultimately couldn’t. His face told the story of his haunted life, of his pain, of his burden.

I’ve been thinking about him in the week since — and about all the hims and hers in our tiny country; all of those who have been left behind to rebuild their lives, to walk the world without their loved ones, to carry their grief and pain, their regret and unanswered love.

As we memorialize our heroes – so, so many heroes – I pray that those left behind have the strength to rebuild and continue. I pray that they realize how much we owe them and how grateful we are for their service. I pray that they realize that they, too, are heroes. I pray that they will receive the help that they need to physically, spiritually and emotionally recover. And that one day we will stop standing by the graves of our fallen, and stop standing alongside those left behind who carry the burden of the nation on their shoulders.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)