Memorial Day There (in the Heart) and Here (If at All)

By Ari Busel

Translated by Peloni

Box of Colors. Photo by Leisy Vidal on Unsplash

A mix of songs surround me, songs beautiful and beloved:  I Had a Box of Colors, Let It Be, I Promise You (The Last War), What Shall I Bless Him, My Younger Brother Yehuda, … and they blend into one another, like seawaves crashing together, merging, and disappearing as though they had never been.

I know, of course, the argument that the burden is not shared equally. Certainly — Arabs never served; they only demand. And almost every young Druze (young male) serves, no exception.  Among us Jews, about half of those obligated to enlist evade service or find a way not to serve. That was already the case eighteen years ago, even before the assault on the Haredi serial-draft-dodgers (among them, the obligation is specifically not to enlist). Let me remind us that not long ago the IDF did not need all those eligible for enlistment, mainly because of the large immigration waves that preceded and the birthrate in the country. The length of service was shortened, and there was even talk of establishing a professional army that will replace mandatory conscription.

What is this similar to? To collective bargaining, say for firefighters or police officers. In more prosperous years it is easier to enter into such agreements, and then the lean years arrive, and the budget simply is not enough, because the obligations only rise and swell and never shrink back to their natural size. So it is in life, and so it is in Israel with enlistments — the pool simply is not enough now, and the need to recruit more people is great, because otherwise those who are serving will simply collapse (after almost three years of reserve duty in a war that refuses to end).

In Israel, Memorial Day precedes Independence Day and in fact opens it, is part of us. Bereavement and coping with lifelong disability are part of almost every family in the country. What can one do? We are one extended family, and we have only one country, surrounded by enemies who have worked toward our destruction for more than two thousand years. Ten million people surrounded by hundreds of millions who want to throw them into the sea. Some will say that this is the neighborhood. Others will say that this is our fate as the Chosen People — no one likes someone elevated above him (as with Joseph and his brothers).

The situation in the USA is different.  Mandatory military service does not exist (at least not in my lifetime, although I am registered in case it ever does). The general attitude is against military service, in the sense of “for whom and for what,” and with contempt and ridicule toward those who do enlist or return from tours of duty. That was the case during the terms of the Democratic presidents, and the situation only worsened during the periods of Obama and Biden. The younger generation demands rights for itself, but duties or respect – none!

From this it also follows that Memorial Day in the United States is part of a long weekend to which we are entitled at the beginning of summer, but the direct connection of most Americans to remembrance is entirely incidental. For example, in Greater Los Angeles, drivers on the 405 might perhaps notice out of the corner of their eyes that the sea of white gravestones against the green grass is covered with American flags – that is, that the color has changed. That is only if they indeed notice and connect it to the fact that this is a holiday called “Memorial Day.”

I will admit and confess that even for many of those who served, the connection is weak or very strange. How so? Here: a very close family friend who served in the American Air Force in the Far East sixty years ago, was honorably discharged and never made use of that fact throughout his life. Service was for Reubin Matticx – and for an entire generation – a natural thing, the duty of every American, and he expected no reward. Toward the end of his life, when he was no longer capable and we turned to check his rights, it turned out that the bureaucracy was so tangled that it was simply better to stay away. Only one thing we did make use of, at the very end: the right to be buried in the National Cemetery, in our friend’s case in Los Angeles. As part of this right there was also the funeral ceremony, to which came two soldiers in dress uniforms and a bugle, a priest (in our friend’s case), and an American flag that was folded and presented to us (since there were no surviving family members).

Except there is no more room for burial in that “sea of graves” on one side of the freeway (the 405). So what did they do? They moved to the other side and established a mausoleum cemetery that resembles more a luxurious shopping center, with palm trees and manicured lawns and some bunnies that call it their home. A respectable place. A place where one can come to visit a relative or friend, and perhaps even have a picnic there. It is so beautiful there, the place of their final rest.

Another friend, an Israeli, passed away a week ago. He lived in Encinitas, north of San Diego.  Seventy years ago he completed the IDF’s officers’ training school together with my father, and the graduation photograph from that officers’ course hangs in his home to this very day. Mitzka (Meir) Boyarsky married an American woman, and they have a son and a daughter (and each has children of their own). The children and grandchildren are completely American. They do not even know Hebrew. But Mitzka succeeded in instilling in them an attachment to Judaism in the blood. It is still difficult for me to explain how an American family not connected to Israel, at a time of mourning like this, is filled with awareness and determination — the burial will be in Israel. For their father and grandfather, Israel was the essence of his entire life.

In Israel no burial plot awaits him. Nor will there be two soldiers with a bugle and a flag. Because Mitzka, like every other Israeli, fulfilled his duty to the country, and this was not something exceptional. In fact, draft-dodgers and deserters were so rare during his time that they were shunned by society for their entire lives. That is how it was in the young years of the state, immediately after its establishment. Who remembers, who knows? Who among the rest of the friends from those days is still alive? Who will come and stand alongside for the final journey?

One more trip, one more jolt, and then eternal rest. Rest upon your resting place, dear friend; you brought us great joy throughout all our lives.