Warning: This article contains graphic descriptions of the author’s experiences.
I cannot get the scene out of my mind. Truck after truck of bodies. Floor to ceiling, bodies. Each one a human, a loved one, a life.
All snuffed out by hate.
As a member of Israel’s reserve army, I was called up right after the holiday. My division was asked to provide seven members to volunteer at Shura, a giant new processing center near Ramle designed to care for the bodies of victims of terror attacks and natural disasters.
It’s a big facility, but not even in their wildest nightmares did the planners envision a disaster of this scope.
I raised my hand to volunteer.
We had trained for this, of course, but always with dummies.
This was real.
I was terrified of what lay ahead.
We were prepared by mental health officers and then we set to work.
Truck after truck came rolling in, each one stacked with body bags, each bag containing another person.
As we worked, we did our utmost to remain respectful and efficient, doing what we could to get the bodies ID'd as fast as possible, so families could learn the fate of their loved ones and the funerals could take place.
The bodies had been loaded onto the trucks by the heroic ZAKA volunteers, who have sadly far too much experience in the heartbreaking task of collecting bodies, blood, and limbs, ensuring that every bit of Jewish remains is given a Jewish burial.
Our first task was to assist the doctors harvesting DNA samples and fingerprints, which would be used to positively identify the victims.
They were then taken to the morgue.
Inevitably, there were also bodies of terrorists mixed in, which were placed in another area to be dealt with separately.
As one night blended into another (I was assigned to work the night shift, and the work was nonstop), I pinched myself, hoping to discover that it was all just a terrible nightmare. But my senses (sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste) all reminded me that this was real. Too real.
The bodies, of course, bore witness to the violent way in which the murders had happened. There were gunshots wounds, burns, stabbings, and more.
The most jarring thing was the sheer number. I felt like I was reliving a scene from the Holocaust, piles of dead Jews everywhere.
As soon as our teams identify the bodies, other teams are tasked with the excruciating duty of knocking on doors to notify their loved ones, and transferring the bodies to the chevra kadisha (“sacred society”) for burial.
Normally, bodies are bathed and clothed in white linen for burial. But in this case, when they were killed just because they were Jews, they are buried exactly as they were found, in their bloody garments.
It is not for us to wash away what has happened. That is for G‑d Himself to do.
The work of caring for the dead is called chessed shel emet, “true kindness,” in the sense that we know the recipient cannot return the favor. Unlike anything we do for living people, from whom we may expect something in return, the kindness we do with the dead is “true” kindness.
This week I felt that there is also an opposite meaning: These holy souls who made the ultimate sacrifice for being Jews here in the Land of Israel did me a true kindness when I was privileged to assist in taking care of them and bringing them to a Jewish burial.
I felt—in the most raw and concrete way—how we are all one, united by blood and the covenant G‑d made with our ancestors. Political parties, societal differences, levels of education—none of it matters here.
We are all Jews.
And we are all in it together.
We stood shoulder to shoulder. Me and my comrades from Battalion 926 of the Home Front Command: Shira the doctor who took DNA samples and fingerprints, Omri from the police, the angels of ZAKA, Julia from the Ministry of Health, and Shlomo from the chevra kadisha. The full spectrum of the Jewish family.
There was one especially painful moment when we treated five casualties in a row and realized that they all belonged to a single family from Kfar Aza, who had been murdered together in their home.
Yesterday, we were called to assist with conducting a funeral in Gan Yavne. Not one funeral, but five. And yes, it was the Kutz family from Kfar Aza, may G‑d avenge their blood.
Every person is a whole world, and yesterday I witnessed the closing of a chilling circle for five worlds: Aviv the father, Livnat the mother, and the three children Rotem, Yonatan and Yiftach. The funeral was indescribably painful; the eulogies portrayed a warm and loving family, people of values, good-hearted, “salt of the earth.”
As I wiped away tears and gritted my teeth, I felt more strongly than ever that now is the time for us to work together — as we have been — to build each other up, to heal the broken-hearted, to be good to each other, to instill hope, faith and confidence in G‑d and His people.
We are like Noah after the flood, surrounded by devastation but ready to rebuild, confident in G‑d’s assurance of a brighter future. May it be now with the coming of Moshiach.
Am Yisrael Chai!
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