Our brothers in Israel. Nowadays, it seems like every shul makes an appeal for their sake, every new song is dedicated in their honor, every prayer group is established in their name.
I used to nod along with the appeals, listen to the songs, say a chapter of Tehillim (Psalms) or two along with the rest—keeping the multitude of our nameless, faceless ‘brethren in Israel’ in mind, of course. If I was feeling particularly bored in class, I’d even write up a Facebook post filled with righteous indignation over their desperate plight. The concept of these brethren was an abstract one, an idea I played lip-service to in much the same way I spoke about the ‘starving children in Africa.’
That was, until, my brother moved to Israel and joined the army.
My brother, the soldier. The two phrases sounded incongruous to my ear; they felt foreign on my tongue. My little brother was no soldier. My brother was a baseball fanatic, my brother was unfairly good at math, my brother was a cheater at Monopoly. And now, it seemed, my brother was also a paratrooper.
His swearing-in ceremony was two days before Rosh HaShana, and I wasn’t going to miss it for the world. The day of his tekes, I stood at the Kotel for the second time ever, watching our brothers in Israel mill about the courtyard observing the newest batch of IDF recruits rehearsing. These brethren were still nameless, but no longer faceless. A tall one was a Druze in my brother’s kitah (unit), that pretty mefakedet (commander) helped my brother with his Hebrew.
And then the soldiers came marching in, ready to accept their Tanakhs and their guns, because only in Israel can you find an army that affords equal respect to both. The spectators—crowds of loud, proud and pushy Israelis—cheered and screamed, gently and not so gently shoving each other out of the way to get a better view.
I was warned that the experience might be like that, so I came prepared to wield my elbows and knees like only a native New Yorker can. When the Israelis to my right shoved me out of the way, I shoved them right back. I flew thousands of miles to come see my brother in Israel, and I was not going to be let down. And somehow, despite the language barrier, these newfound brothers of mine understood. My lone soldier brother was their brother too, and so they treated me exactly like family would. They ensured I had the best view of all, by lifting me up and depositing me in the Kotel washing fountain before I could protest, before I even truly knew what was happening.
The water lapped around my ankles as I tried to find a way down, but the old grandmother in front of me halted my descent with an indecipherable stream of Hebrew and a few choice gestures. Her meaning was clear. Your family is my family too. Now stop blocking my view. Put that way, I had no choice but to acquiesce and settle down properly into my watery seat.
I heard my brother loudly proclaim his vow to serve, along with the rest of his unit, all but homogenous in matching olive green. It was my little brother standing there, in Israel, and I had never been prouder.
And then, without warning, it was over, military formation forgotten in favor of a mad dash towards waiting family members, military precision abandoned in pursuit of wild, uninhibited embraces. My brother’s beret was knocked askew as he (finally, finally!) helped me down out of the fountain. I had scarcely landed on his shiny red boots before I was swept up in a hug.
But my little brother was not the only little brother there, for everywhere I looked, the same exact scene was being played out, all over the Kotel courtyard. It was then that I truly understood what I once thought I knew about our brothers in Israel. These brothers were no longer nameless, no longer faceless, no longer part of an indistinguishable multitude. These brothers were blonde like mine, played sports like mine, probably cheated at board games like mine. These brothers looked far, far too young in their olive green, just like mine. That’s because these brothers really, truly were mine, in a way I had never felt quite so viscerally before.
The night I left Israel was the night the Henkins were murdered, and I’ve been checking the news faithfully, fearfully since then. Every time I see an article about another stabbing, I offer up a quick prayer before clicking it open. My Brother’s In Israel, I pray, Please G-d, not my Brother.