By Rachel Glazer
If I ever served in the army, I would probably spend most of my time crying. Not because of the rigorous physical training, psychological impact of carrying a gun, or grappling with the intersection of a pacifist inclination and survivor’s imperative. To be honest, I would probably be a jobnik or have a Captain America-type gig (pre-superhero status) where they make me into their dancing monkey to boost morale.
No, I would cry because of the historical strain of thousands of fallen souls whose memories are beginning to fade, and their newly joined comrades whose stories will soon be dimmed in light of the next war, the next conflict, the next, the next, the next.
We have been reminded so many times on this program of our vital obligation to remember. The memory of our people is perhaps our strongest unifying factor, and every story is a new chronicle to be carried on the backs of the next generation. Accordingly, as tough as it was to walk over Har Herzl with Aviv Warshavsky and hear the narrative of so many young lives in the days leading to their last, it was agonizing to look at the rows of graves and notice some lacking stones, flowers, and tokens of remembrance; some of these chronicles have already been lost.
There is a Jewish saying that has gotten me through some hard times: “I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders.” As Aviv piled on name after name and story after story, in such vivid detail and colorful description that he could have been reading straight from each person’s private journal, it became clear to me that if we cannot lessen the suffering of our soldiers and their families, it is at the very least our duty to broaden our shoulders and bear their stories as a piece of our collective narrative.
Another teaching comes to mind: In each pocket, every person should have a slip of paper, one reading, “I am but dust and ashes,” and the other, “The world was created for my sake.”
Many American Jews feel lucky that no headstone stands out to them at Har Herzl; their friend is not encased in stone at their feet, but rather someone else’s, someone distant and other. I challenge us to adopt one of those carved identities. Learn their story. Write it on two pieces of paper, and slip one into each pocket alongside the two reminders. Remember that just as the world was devised for you, so it was for that departed soul, and just as they have returned to dust, so shall you. The only thing setting the living apart from the dead is a timeframe. Our stories transcend linear time and unite us in heritage.
