The Funeral and My Flag
Last Saturday night, before the funeral of my neighbor’s nephew, Seargent Hillel Eliyahu Ovadia HY”D, a request was sent out on behalf of the family to line our street holding flags as our neighbors walked from their home to the IDF bus that would take them to Mt. Herzl.
So I took a big Israeli flag and attached it to a broom handle and went outside and held it high along with around 100 other flag-bearing people as our neighbors walked to the bus. When Josh and I got a ride with our neighbor to Mt. Herzl, I took my flag with me.
But when we arrived at the funeral at 11:45 PM, I realized I was the only person who’d brought their flag to the cemetery. I also realized that there were no seats, and I have a problem with my foot that makes it painful for me to stand for a long time. I was feeling a combination of exhausted and weary. Exhausted from the late hour and weary from this tragedy that had, literally, struck so close to home.
So, for around 2 hours, I tried to shift my weight so my foot would ache less, and I rested my head again my flag, my eyes closed, crowded among around 800 attendees (I left early, at 1:45 AM. Hundreds of other attendees stood to honor this special young man until 3:30 in the morning).
And standing there, surrounded by and full of so much grief, a thought came to me out of the blue. I thought of the millions of Jews sent like sheep to the slaughter just 80 years ago. While all the countries of the world closed their gates to Jewish refugees and turned a blind eye as 6 million Jews including 1.5 million Jewish children were sent to the gas chambers.
How different the death of this young man, a dedicated yeshiva student, the oldest child of idealistic French olim, a highly-trained IDF combat soldier killed protecting the Jewish people from Hamas and Iran, Hitler’s genocidal successors.
And for the first time since I’d heard the sad news on Friday morning, a ray entered my grieving heart: of gratitude.
Listening to the eulogy after eulogy, leaning on my flag, I understood why the family had asked us to line our street with flags.
Because I too felt my flag (and the country, nation, and army it represents) holding me up. Giving me strength.