As Israel is observing its solemn Memorial Day, and then will be celebrating 75 years of independence; as the kibbutz where I was born had just celebrated 100 years after its establishment, its Aliyah on the ground and conquering the land; and as this political blog (minor as it is in comparison) is celebrating 15 years of existence; I was deliberating long and hard how to commemorate it all, and what to write in tribute. I wanted, for once, to avoid criticism and stick to the positive. Politics are down on a day like this, remembrance is up.
Then it hit me. I realized that nothing would be more appropriate, more significant than to remember a soldier who’d died (one of many) defending the state of Israel. He was my best buddy in the army, and died in a battle behind enemy lines more than 53 years ago. Back then, upon his death, I wrote a piece in his memory that came out in a memorial book dedicated to him and his life; very common in Israel back then when honoring falling soldiers, especially from kibbutzim. At the time I was only 22 and wrote what I wrote straight from the heart. It wasn’t meant for posterity, or aimed at any literary merit. But here it is, without any grammatical corrections or stylistic fine-tuning, translated from Hebrew by me.
The Straightforward Sabra
His image—the image of the barefooted sabra, who looks you straight in the eye, quick and agile, knows everything, free of doubts, who doesn’t stop to think, but thinks while running, in khaki shorts and blue shirt; the image of the sabra who always takes the initiative into his own hands; the sabra of the side satchel, the topographic map and the tembel hat; the sabra who plows the land length and width but never sows; the sabra who never stops because he knows he was born too old, 2000 years old; the sabra with the red army boots, with the lieutenant’s ranks on his shoulders, always charging forward, always ahead; the sabra of no problems—everything is going to be all right; the sabra who falls righteous.
His self-confidence and endless energy prevent me from writing about him in the past tense: since he lived always in the present, but with plans lined up for the future. And though his body is no longer with us, it doesn’t mean his spirit and soul are absent. We will never again see his smiling face, but his strong will, his belief that actions always speak stronger than words, will always be with us. He was not a scholar and didn’t leave books behind for prosperity; he was a man of action, of doing tangible things. In that sense—he still is.
He didn’t have many time gaps to fill with deep thoughts. He concluded one deed and already knew what the next one would be. Maybe I won’t remember him along the way, maybe he will be forgotten in the living of the day-to-day—the way others are forgotten, and the way we’ll all be forgotten—but at the hours of doing things, of building something real and worthwhile, we’ll know that that was Yitzhak Kotler’s—known to all his friends as Iky—that was his wish too; that he planned for it and believed in it. When we’ll travel abroad and see the world; when we’ll bear children; when we’ll build a new kibbutz; move the water lines in the cotton fields, play basketball and dance Israeli dances—we’ll remember him.
We’ll remember him when we’ll be out hiking on the slopes of the Galilee mountains, and see the cactus bushes with their prickly orange sabra fruits, as first and foremost an Israeli youth; in his life and in his death. We’ll remember him as the image of the real sabra, running to work in the field of his kibbutz; eager to guide and lead younger kids in the inner city; gladly joining the army, yearning to fulfill his duty. We’ll be remembered Iky as the sabra who grew from the soil of the land, only to return to it too soon; before even producing fruits. The sabra who was destined to die in his twenties.
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Filed under: Middle East, Military, war | Tagged: Army, Israel, kibbutz, Mideast, Palestine, Peace, Six-Day War | 1 Comment »
Good 4 Jews? 