How beautiful is the land of our ancestors, I wondered to myself between a speed bump and a sharp turn on one of the roads in Gush Etzion.
I almost imagined King Herod in the glory of Pharaoh and the caravans of Israel going on pilgrimage... until imagination met reality.
Here on the square, a military vehicle looms, and around it are alert soldiers, their eyes scanning the surroundings, weapons in their hands ready to fire.
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So many young men hiding behind such heavy equipment, disguised under a veneer of calm, indifference, and control.
Protecting us.
And then I thought about you. You who are no longer with them. You who are no longer here, not with us.
I know you without knowing you, our paths crossed when you disappeared. You fell in a cruel battle, one that they are afraid to call a war.
Don't worry, this is just an operation. A lawn mower type operation. All for 50 %, life or death.
You fell for the sake of your homeland, and you will no longer stand on any square.
Turns on the radio. News in which nothing is new. Another ceasefire violated. We were attacked, we fought back, we won, but in the eyes of international opinion – we always failed.
A few minutes and our Bibi will apologize, regret, encourage, and send everyone for another round, until the next ceasefire.
But you won't hear all that anymore. The world goes on as usual, and you're no longer here.
Reservists came home and were called up again, others are still waiting, but not you. You stayed there. They're coming back but it takes more time. A lot of time and patience, he says.
What does it matter? You're not here anymore.
I see mothers hugging, and I think of yours. She will continue to hug you in the dark, on nights when she will no longer sleep. She will look for you in a room that is no longer yours, in a pile of faded laundry, in your empty bed, and pour out all her sadness and frustration on a pillow that will never be dry again. .
I relive nights and alarms, the fraction of a second when there is no longer any logical order. The moment I tear my little son out of his bed for the umpteenth time, and run to the stairwell, when all I want is to protect him and hug him. Silently begging that nothing will ever happen to him.
You won't hear the alarms anymore, your mother won't hug you anymore, and she won't have anything left to beg for. This time you were the one who protected her, and today you're no longer here.
The Great Holiday, Tu B'Av, and others passed without you. Weddings were canceled and guests accompanied others like you on their final journey instead of to the wedding.
I approach the intersection and my heart aches. Here, three of our children were kidnapped - snatched, giving birth to "Brothers' Return" after them, and pulling out "Protective Edge.".
Time passes, but progress in the operation is in doubt. The general feeling is no longer so secure and the home front is exhausted.
Somewhere deep in our hearts, we all hope that you were not taken in vain.
You are no longer here. You will no longer listen, stand, or defend, but like a protective shield you will forever be etched in my heart. You, and the other fallen. You are no longer here, but I can still write to you.
The commander of the Givati patrol company, the late Benya Sarel, was supposed to be married tonight. May God avenge his blood.
