From Barbara Ordman
For many of you, today will have been the first time that you will have heard about the tragic events of last Shabbat. It adds to my personal pain to know that a massacre is only a massacre when Palestinians are killed, but when our beautiful young boys are murdered, it merits only a few words in The Times and nothing at all on the News. I am writing this to you because otherwise I will be as guilty as my fellow Israelis for not making sure that you know what is going on here, for not giving you enough information. Please forgive me if the information is mixed with emotion but that is exactly how it is here.
My personal connection to the Otniel tragedy is that my son , Boaz, is a first year student at the army Yeshiva, (Hesder Yeshiva), in Otniel. Last Shabbat, he was at home with a friend, as were most of his classmates. Most, but not all. Some stayed at the Yeshiva because it was too far to travel home, and some because it was their turn to do kitchen duty especially on this Shabbat when they were entertaining boys from another Yeshiva. I heard that the boys had been murdered whilst I was in shul. I had to decide whether to tell Boaz or not. Although I was obviously greatly relieved to know that Boaz was safe, I was frozen with fear to think whom of his friends were not. How could I tell him? How should I tell him? Dr. Spock did not include this chapter in his child-rearing book.
I sat glued to my seat trying to digest the enormity of the news. Shot to death whilst preparing Friday night dinner. Cold- blooded murder of 4 boys. 7 hospitalized. 70 traumatized. How would I tell him, being not much more than a schoolboy himself? Somehow I made my way downstairs and called him out. I asked if there was still time to say a prayer for sick people. Clumsily I told him why.
We walked home from shul in stunned silence. Pain etched on everyone’s faces. G-D, how many more? How many more broken lives? How many more shattered dreams?
Motzei Shabbat the phone began its relentless ringing. Those who answered their cell-phones must be alright but why were some of them not answering? Slowly the nameless tragedy was being named. “Who?” I dared to ask. I let out a scream. “Oh no, not Gavriel, not Gavriel.” Boaz’s face was set in a stony stare. He continued to make his phone calls.
Boaz and his friend left that evening, first to the hospital to visit the wounded and then on to the first of the funerals. Within less than 24 hours he stood at the graves of 4 of his friends. I joined him only for the last one. I could not find the strength to travel across the country to hear the sobs of family after family. But the boys did. They stayed awake to comfort each other, to comfort the families, to help their Rabbis prepare their eulogies. Gavriel was buried last. He was laid to rest in the beautiful, peaceful cemetery of his home-town of Kfar Adumim, in the Judean desert. We stood, 1500 of us, on this spectacular hilltop with views of mountains and desert as far as the eye could see. The afternoon sun was still shining. The space and serenity were almost tangible. We stood there quietly, all sharing a common emotion. Eulogy after eulogy followed. Gavriel had been a very special boy, seemingly an Angel like his namesake. Rabbi after rabbi recounted his love of learning and his love of helping others. For more than 2 hours we listened to words of love. Not one person spoke of revenge. Not one word of hate or vengeance was uttered. No fists were shaken in the air. No flags were burnt. No guns were shot.
Eventually, Gavriel’s father and brothers recited Kaddish, according to their Yemenite tradition. Elaine , Gavriel’s mother held herself tall, and with dignity, according to her English upbringing. Boaz, and all the rest of Gavriel’s many friends began to sway. Slowly, they began to sing. Their voices gained in strength as they escorted the Soul of their friend, on his last journey, out of this World and into the Next. For a few precious moments we united and behaved as a true Light unto the Nations.