"I Was Stunned. Is He Really Intending to Pour Salt on Our Wounds?"

It was a few years ago at the Nachlat Yitzhak Military Cemetery in Givatayim.
As every year, my late father and I stood by the grave of my uncle, Jacob Luber, a casualty of the War of Independence.
The familiar ceremony proceeded by the book.
Kaddish, honor volley. El Maleh Rachamim. And a tense posture of the honor guard.
It was time for the politician's speech.
That year, a senior politician from a central party honored us with his presence.

Instead of a speech, he said,
I want to read you a poem I wrote.
The title of the poem, continued the official, is 'The Missed Opportunity'.
And he began to read the following lines:

"They will not attend the grand concert of love.
When the lights go on, and the band takes the stage.
They will not be there to light white candles.
They will not say 'I love you'.
Even though they practiced the words and tone over and over again"...

I was stunned.
Is he really intending to pour salt on our bleeding wounds?
And the poem continued, as the politician went on twisting the knife:

"They will never have a child.
And will not learn to walk or mainly not to fall.
They will not announce that they are coming, nor will they announce that they are not,
and do not leave them anything to eat"

I looked around.
I was sure people would rebel, protest, shout.
But silence.
There were even people nodding in agreement.

And then I understood.
I understood what happened to us.
What happened to this day.
From the national day of remembrance, it turned into the national day of depression.

Everyone in their field, whether in the gift of speech, writing, acting, or sculpting and painting - are competing with each other to see who can cause more pain.

Who will open the wound.
Who will peel the scab.
Who will shed more tears.
Who will deepen the feeling of emptiness.
Who will cause crying.
Because that’s what Memorial Day is.
Crying.
Great crying.
Exposed crying.
National crying.
Crying of loss.
Of absence.
Of emptiness.
Of void.

And I,
and I look at the organized wave of sadness,
at the institutionalized surge of tears.
at the depressing channel broadcasts.

And I want comfort.

I ask for comfort.
Like this. As is customary in Judaism.
Just comfort.

Comfort is not joy.
It is not laughter.
It is not distraction.
It is not, heaven forbid - "it was worth it."
Because how could it be?

Comfort is a profession.
A rare profession in our region.
But a profession.

Comfort gives meaning to the life and death of the deceased, so that the living may continue to live full lives.

"There is no comfort", so I was told by thousands of visitors during the shiva, who for some reason are called comforters,
"There is no comfort, just crying"

And I, even then, on a low chair, with the stubble of a one-day-old beard
rebelled.
All my being screamed.
It is not true.
It is a lie.
It is an enemy.
It pulls down.
It scares parents from sending their sons to the army.
It prevents leadership from striving for victory.
But mostly it is a lie.

Because there is.
There is.
There is comfort.
Comfort is not the return of the dead to life.
That is impossible.
It will not happen in this world.
That’s a hollow comfort.

True comfort soothes us in three ways:

Firstly: Comfort in how he lived.

Talk to us about their laughter.
About the good in them.
About the beauty.
About the fun they had.
Don’t tell in a tone of 'it's a shame he’s not with us'.
Tell so that together with us, we understand that these young lives were full.
Because they, our dear ones, before they became fallen and holy,
lived.
They lived and enjoyed, had fun and rejoiced, loved, and messed around and learned and laughed and thought.
Talk to us about that.
It is so comforting.
It makes us feel that, despite the terrible end, it was worth it.
It was worth sharing life with him.

An additional comfort is to talk to us about the circumstances of their fall.

About what they fell for. And for what purpose.
Talk to us about their choice, not self-evident, to join the army. To go and fight.
Talk to us about those who chose to prevent the next murder, the shooting at the elderly.
Talk to us about those who physically stopped the cruelty, the animality, the enemy.
Talk to us about their heroism; it's not a dirty word. It's human magnificence.
Smile at us through the tears and say thank you.
Just like that, without phrases. Say thank you.
Simply thank you.
Thank you for your child.
Thank you for yourself.

And finally, comfort us a third time.

Talk to us about what he left behind.
What he left in the world.
What he left for us,
What he left for you.
For you and future generations for all of us for good.

Say you are living.
Say you are traveling.
Say you are having fun.
Say you are celebrating.
Say you are singing.
Say you are dancing.
Say you are lighting torches.
Say you are flying next week,
and you bought a new house and car.
And your wedding is in that hall, the luxurious one.
Say you are getting married and having children,
and you are loving.
And you are hugging.
And you are kissing.
And you are laughing.
And that you are well.
So well.
Tell us.
It is comforting.
We know it’s because of him.
There is no need to tell us.
Just tell us about you.
About your lives.

Tell us also, what he left for our beloved country.
Tell us she is succeeding.
Tell us it is good to live here.
Tell us we are winning.
And particularly,
Tell us we are united.
And loving
And happy with one another.

This is how Memorial Day should be - a day of comfort.
The national day of comfort.
The personal day of comfort.
It is okay to cry.
It is okay to regret.
We must comfort.

"Comfort, comfort my people"
This is the mission of this generation!

May we merit a day of comfort,
And from it, and only from it,
May we merit a day of joy.

Amen.

From the Facebook page of Hagai Luber
On the eve of Memorial Day 5785