I call it Shaharit shock.
I wake up each morning and turn on my radio (except for Shabbat) as I prepare to leave for Shaharit prayers. My hand trembles as I turn the dial, knowing that I will hear of the latest casualties in the war.
While I don’t want to start the day on a tragic note, I also don’t want to ignore reality or show any disrespect whatsoever for our heroes, whose lives are on the line 24/7.
We are joined at the heart; no Israeli is more than two degrees of separation from the latest wounds or fatality, and a part of us worries together with each and every family of both our army and the hostages.
As members of the bereaved community, my wife and I have an added connection. Every time a soldier falls, we flash back to the terrible day that we lost our son Ari. We revisit the same scenes at the military cemeteries, the wailing and the weeping; our ears ring again with the abrupt, staccato sounds of the 21-gun salute of honor that still vividly echoes in our minds.
We feel the grief and emptiness of all the stricken families. We instantly relate to the bizarrely mixed emotions of loss and love, paralysis and pride. We understand the tears and the trauma – but we also understand how a bereaved family can inexplicably feel even closer to the Israel that sent our children to war and an untimely death.
We also know just how difficult the road ahead will be for each family. Despite the mourners’ brave posture and inspiring words of commitment and solidarity with the nation – we also sang “Am Yisrael Chai” with unbridled enthusiasm at Ari’s funeral – the initial “bubble” will eventually burst. As the crowds of well-wishers slowly dissipate, the families will come to grips with the profound sense of loneliness that overwhelms them when they realize that there is an irreplaceable piece of their family now missing.
I often compare this to the feeling that astronaut Neil Armstrong must have had when he first stepped onto the surface of the moon. He was, at the very same moment, both the most-watched, as well as the loneliest person in the entire universe. But while Armstrong could return to normal life as he knew it, we are left to fashion an entirely new existence and cope with an entirely new reality.
FOR OUR FAMILY, this war has an added element of bitterness: Ari was murdered by this same Hamas and Islamic Jihad terrorist gang 21 years ago. Throughout the two decades since, we [as a nation] were either unable or unwilling to eradicate this plague on the planet.
We even freed the terrorists who committed these past atrocities in the Gilad Schalit fiasco, including those who led the massacre on October 7. Chief among the debts owed to the victims of terror must be a solemn, unbreakable vow to wage endless war against the insidious evil that preys upon the Jewish people. For our souls can never be at peace as long as the crimes committed against our loved ones go unpunished.
So how do we get through the day with all this heavy emotional baggage weighing us down?
For most of us, it is the intense gratitude and admiration we have for our angels in green. Each and every day, we see how these young men and women, the best and the brightest of the Jewish nation, give selflessly of their time and talent – even their very lives – to protect our own. We witness their heroism, self-sacrifice, enthusiasm, dedication, and the spirit that they bring to every battle. Their willingness to place the citizens of Israel above their own safety inspires and invigorates us.
Our soldiers are the truly righteous of our generation. The stories of these modern Rabbi Akivas will be told and retold for years to come. They will reverberate throughout history and take their place among the annals of our greatest moments.
We are, I am convinced, in biblical times now, and though we live in the proverbial eye of the hurricane, we will soon recognize how our entire destiny has changed in the course of this war.
Our family takes particular pride in the heroics of two courageous “soldiers’ soldiers” that have a special, ongoing connection to us. Yisrael Shomer was Ari’s Nahal Brigade commander, and Noam Tibon was its head during Ari’s service. Both of them were featured prominently in the news recently: Noam unhesitatingly rushed from his home to rescue his son in his besieged community on October 7. Stopping to help people along the way escape danger, and killing several terrorists he encountered, Noam would not rest until his family was finally brought to safety. (His interview on the 60 Minutes news show is a must-see).
And Yisrael, first armed only with a knife, also saved his family and continued to bravely fight the terrorists for 16 hours. Seeing them and others like them in action brings us unparalleled consolation, knowing that Ari’s spirit of strength and sacrifice is still alive and well.
WE ARE now coming to the end of Hanukkah, a holiday that combines both physical and spiritual miracles. On the one hand, the Maccabim fought against formidable odds to prevent Israel from being consumed by a depraved, alien culture.
Simultaneously, the miracle of the pure oil that burned continuously illuminates the truth that as long as we hold fast to our uniqueness as Jews, that as long as we represent the highest values of human and God, our light can never be extinguished. The forces of darkness, arrogantly boastful as they may be, disappear in the light of the smallest hanukkiah.
Perhaps the greatest lesson we can take from Hanukkah is the fact that the Maccabim who led the fight for freedom were siblings. They were one family, and they fought valiantly as brothers. When we, too, understand that we are also one family, that we, too, are brothers and sisters with one common Father, we will demonstrate the unity and love we share.
And that is a priceless power that makes our armed forces unbeatable, and our destiny eternal.
The writer is the father of Sgt. Ari Weiss, who fell in battle against terrorists in September 2002, and director of the Jewish Outreach Center of Ra’anana. Write him at jocmtv@netvision.net.il.