I followed the line of cars to the funeral. Hundreds of them lined the sidewalk, with more struggling to find a place to park; there were thousands of people here. I haven’t seen this many people in one space since, well, the last funeral.
There are maybe a hundred Israeli flags, and at least a dozen wreaths of flowers. Everywhere I look, men and women have a sticker on their backs with Eden’s final plea.
“Find me, okay?"
“Excuse me,” I ask a woman, “but can I just ask why Bank Mizrahi is leaving a hostage flowers? Did you know her?”
“Her sister works for the bank,” she responds without hesitation, “so she’s family.”
“Her cousin volunteers with Krembo,” another said.
“I never met her, but she’s family.”
The sentiment echoes through Yarkon cemetery as more and more people gather.
“At least she’s home now” follows.
“The whole of Israel is crying today,” the Rabbi begins, “the whole world, Eden, will witness and mourn what has been done to you.”
“What Eden did united us. Her sacrifice has united Jews around the world to pray for her. Eden, you gave yourself for your people; we need you to pray for us now!”
Eden's family said their final goodbyes
The sounds of wailing only intensify as her mother, Shitrit, takes the microphone.
“I’m so sorry, Eden, my beautiful daughter.” Her voice catches, and a mother beside me hugs her daughter closer.
“11 months we prayed, until we heard the news. From the internet! Before the military!”
I hear gasps behind me. I cannot imagine the horror.
“I wanted my daughter back, my sweet girl who was full of life. You were more than my daughter. You were my best friend.” She screams. “I waited 330 days, but I swear, I would’ve waited 330 more to get you back alive. Yesterday was my birthday, and all I wanted was to get you back, but not like this, Eden. I’m so sorry!”
She steps aside, and Eden’s two sisters, Shani and May, speak to their sister.
“I cannot believe that we are speaking about you in the past tense.” Shani says, “I want you to know that since 7:27 on October 7, you have never been alone, because you have been in my heart.”
“You’ve always been my hero.” May sobs, “I felt you every day for 11 months, and I never imagined our next meeting would be like this. I’d give everything to sit with you on our windowsill and speak to you one more time.”
“Our sandwich sister, who never met anyone with anything less than kindness, now that you’re protecting us, we promise to protect Mom and Dad, and we promise to always keep our house lively and full of happiness the way you did.”
I’m a sandwich sister, a voice in my head whispers.
I lock eyes with a man a few feet away, with another wreath.
“Can you tell me about Fifty and One?” I ask.
“Eden was the first waitress I hired.” He tells me with a soft smile, “She and another of my staff were-“
I give him my sincerest condolences.
“I never met her,” I tell him, “but she’s family.”
“Thank you for 23 years of you.” The voice of Eden’s aunt echoes through the loudspeakers.
I’m 23. I feel my heart shatter once more, for this girl I never met but is my family.
Every person starts and ends their eulogies with an apology.
“I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”
“I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
Eden, I’m sorry we failed you.