More from Marsha in Kiryat Shmona:
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Dear friends,
I've been telling you about the little things here. Now that it's over, I can tell people about something else that just happened.
I just got back from a funeral. One of the soldiers killed in the battle for Maroun Ras, from the Egoz unit, was a young man from Kiryat Shmona, a really special kid named Liran Sa'adya, z"l. Only a month ago, he'd been given the "excellent officer" award. His commanding officers and his friends talked about his volunteerism, his modesty, his care and concern for others. Although it sounds like a cliche, and is said at almost every funeral, Liran truly was special. His parents are both teachers, and very well-known here. They were in Thailand when it happened, and only able to return yesterday, which is why the original reports said "At Least 2 Killed...".
For obvious reasons, the time of his funeral was not announced, as has been the case for every other fallen soldier. Instead, somehow, the word went out "me pe le ozen" by word of mouth, people calling each other to find out when it would be. When I got to the neighborhood center this morning, the word was that the funeral was set for 5 p.m., tentatively. The army wanted to make it later, evidently after sundown; the family didn't. We all thought the same thing: 'we're going to be there, and we're sure many others would be, too, but what if ...'.
Then, starting after 3:00 p.m., there was a fairly heavy barrage of Katyushot, which kept up intermittently until almost 4:00 p.m.; I sent out a short e-mail about it. (BTW, one house was directly hit. The family was there, but unhurt. Unfortunately, they're experienced in this -- their house was hit once before.) I called somebody "in the know", and was told that the funeral was postponed to 6:00 p.m. because of the situation.
Long before that time, the cemetery's parking lot was filled, and people were directed to park along the road leading up to the cemetery, which is about 3 km. north of town. Eventually, the line of parked cars on both sides of the road reached back to the first intersection into town. Despite the danger of gathering outside in large numbers, there were hundreds of people there -- Kiryat Shmona at its best.
The smoke of the nearby fires irritated eyes already red from weeping. One fire was in the field just across the road from the cemetery, another just below it. The prayers and amens were punctuated by booms from artillery in the area: if this were a scene in a film, you would say the director was "over the top". Sadly, it was real.
When the entire ceremony was over, an announcement was made, one I'm sure is not heard at other funerals. "The police request that people leave carefully -- but quickly." No one seemed to move. People waited, trying to get close enough to pay their respects, as in any funeral, regardless of noise, smoke, danger. Eventually, many realized that it was just impossible, the family was too deep in grief and there were too many people. Slowly, the hundreds of people made their way back down the hill. People waited while others turned their cars around on the narrow road: no honking, no shouting.
I don't quite know how to end this e-mail; one feels hollow. When they talk about the "home front" giving the soldiers strength, they don't usually mean Kiryat Shmona.
Nevertheless, along with the terrible grief and pain, there is strength here, and it was clearly seen today. I'm sure the many, many soldiers at the funeral drew strength from our presence, as we did from theirs.
Take care, and have a peaceful night.
