A colleague who visits children of friends and neighbors, acquaintances and others at Har Herzl every year invited some of us to join him today on Israeli Memorial Day. I had never been there on Yom HaZicaron itself, so the experience was new.
There’s a lot to see and hear. High school students. Scouts. Foreign students. Next generation soldiers. Career soldiers.
And family, family, and more family.
We’re getting to the point where there aren’t going to be many people left who remember fighting in 1948. Their gravesites are slightly less occupied by visitors.
I had never really given much thought to the last olim pre-independence; they escaped from Hitler’s Europe, came off the boats in 1947, and stepped straight into ‘uniform’. And of course, many many fell in 1948, fighting for the right to freedom they had lacked only a year before:
Below, this Nissim was a runner for the Jewish army, based in the Old City of Jerusalem in 1948 – locked in and fighting to bridge the sides.
He was show by an enemy sniper, who found a hole in the sandbags – shot right in his own home.
He was also ten years old.
In this pool rest the memories of 140 soldiers who fell to the sea.
And then – this happened.
Mrs. Aharoni comes every year to visit her brother-in-law’s grave. He fell in 1948. She worries about who will visit when she’s gone.
My colleague met her here one year; he had brought his son to show him who came before him in fighting for this land; they asked her for her story. And promised to visit Yehuda Aharoni’s grave every year, so she wouldn’t have to worry that no one would come after her. He started coming ever since.
Last year she didn’t show and he assumed, perhaps, the worst.
As we started walking from the site, we saw a woman being lifted in her wheelchair towards our direction.
Mrs. Aharoni appeared. And my colleague was there. And so were we. So now we’ve heard her story from her.
And we are here, too.