There are many reasons why I appreciate having moved to Israel; usually it’s because of a positive, “only in Israel” experience, like the beautiful Shema shel Boker that is broadcasted over the radio waves at 6am in the morning (on stations that are not religious) or like my daily commute, when I pass the walls of the Old City and am able to see the temple mount—the holiest place in the world, soon to be the home of the Third Beit Hamikdash.
However, I also appreciate being here during times of tragedy. Last month- when 5 members of one family were massacred in Itamar on Shabbat night by an unidentified terrorist - I also appreciated being on this side of the Atlantic ocean.
The Shabbat before we read Parshat Zachor, the Fogels sang Lecha Dodi in shul, ate a delicious Friday night meal with their children, and then they went to sleep. However, shortly after, an assailant entered their home, and murdered the two Fogel parents, Udi and Ruti, their 10 year-old son who was reading in bed, their 3 year-old son, and a three month-old infant, whose entrance to this world was still being celebrated by a sign on the Fogel’s door, wishing the family a mazal tov.
In Israel, we are addicted to news. This is because Israel is the center of the world, and as such, events happen here in a real-time frenzy. Grad rockets land in the south of Israel, bombs detonate in the heart of Jerusalem, soldiers are killed during training, and the U.N. passes laws condemning Israel for existing. When I checked my emails after Shabbat, all of my friends in Israel were posting the same news story: murder in Itamar.
My wife and I were of course very upset and began to mourn over a family we had never met. This was a family that was Jewish, who were killed because they were Jewish, and who were killed in a horrendous fashion. We were in shock.
The next day, I felt like the whole country began to mourn for the Fogels. Headlines about Itamar were splashed across every newspaper, Itamar was the subject of every morning radio broadcast, and it was all that my peers and I could talk about.
Arriving at work Sunday morning, I was greeted with forlorn faces and heaviness from all my co-workers. “Did you hear what happened to the family?” the secretary at my work asked me rhetorically. “My kids had trouble going to sleep last night,” my usually cheerful boss, Shlomo, who lives in a settlement outside of Jerusalem said as he entered the office.
Later that day, I was supposed to meet a friend, Nachman, in the Old City. We were going to discuss funding ideas he had for the nonprofit where I work in East Jerusalem. “I can’t make it,” he told me at the last minute, “I heard that the Fogel’s levaya is going to be at 2pm at Har HaMenuchot – I have to go.”
I couldn’t make it to the funeral. Har HaMenuchot is far from my work and I don’t have a car. However, I would be able to partake in the levaya remotely. A little bit after 2pm, I joined the thousands around the world who were watching the painful levaya on line and listening to our leaders for guidance and strength. We could not stop crying, the pain was too deep and overwhelming.
The Fogel family would be a trauma that the nation of Israel would suffer through the entire week and onwards as information and news about the murder situation slowly leaked to the press: there was the press release that the Fogel family had been one of the many families evacuated from Gush Katif; there was the news about Itamar’s security fence that was not checked thoroughly enough, allowing the terrorist intruder to enter the settlement, undetected; there was the video of Bibi visiting the shiva house, with Tamar Fogel, the 12-year old surviving daughter who was barely able to keep her head from collapsing; and there was the awareness that the major international news venues didn’t carry the story about the Fogels’ murder until Bibi announced that 500 new homes would be built in areas over the green line.
Bais Tefilah, a local Ramat Beit Shemesh shul, organized a trip of solidarity to the shiva house of Udi Fogel’s parents, who live in the settlement of Neve Tzuf, over the green line. Thousands of people had traveled to Neve Tzuf that week from all over the country to show their support and share in the pain. I joined the Bais Tefila group and together with many other olim from all over the world, we boarded a bullet proof bus. For some with me, this trip was the first time they would cross over the green line.
Udi’s parents spent the whole time we were there just sighing heavily and trying to breath. They did not talk. Our delegation lined up to say the words “HaMakom yenachem et'chem b'toch shar avay'lay Tzion vee'Yerushalayim. May the Omnipresent comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. A neighbor of mine added, “Udi was in my unit in the army. He was a good friend. I am so sorry for your loss.” When it came to my turn to say Hamakom, I bent down to give Udi’s father a warm hug. He hugged me back, tears glistening in his eyes.
Udi’s father looked at our Ramat Beit Shemesh contingent, and asked, “So, are you here to comfort us?” One member of our delegation responded, “No, we are here to comfort ourselves.” Our hearts were throbbing.
What happened to the Fogel’s is a horrible tragedy. It is something that has deeply affected me, and will continue to shape me as I continue my life here in Israel. Amidst all the pain, I still feel very grateful to have been close to our nation during this time and experience what it means to mourn for one of Israel’s heroes—a neighbor, a friend, a stranger.
