First the footsteps are heard from the direction of the path. The door opens hesitantly and there are people on the threshold with faces of seven. There was no sign of their giggles and chatter a moment before. Now distilled embarrassment. It is a very difficult task: to look into the eyes of the mourners, to pay respect to the dead and to share in the sorrow.
As the days of Shabbat progress, the task of appeasement becomes less oppressive. The nerve seems to be less thick. Empty in the morning. Most people are at work and a prolonged settlement is required. In the afternoon, the visits are shortened and the consolers behave very generously: “Come, sit down, we will clear the chairs for you”, they say to the new consolers. The mourners have to answer time and time again the questions of exactly how old the deceased was, who was with him in the last few days, where he was, what he said, did he know.
The worst in seven suicide bombers. But what happened to him? What exactly happened to him? ask the comforters. They must find out how the deceased took his life. by what means did you know Was there writing on the wall? Were there any signs? who would believe. This is, of course, provided that the family does not hide the fact that the deceased committed suicide. Suicide still has a very bad image.
It used to be called “murder by 180 degrees”. The suicide is both the victim and the killer. Since the suicide of a loved one closed our eyes, I am imploring all the professionals I know: call it a multi-casualty terrorist incident. This is not the murder of an individual. It’s a mass slaughter. It is impossible at all to stand on the circles of the suicide victims. There are those who will never understand. They will tell me with a knowing expression: “This was his life. His right to take it.” I want to kick them in the head in response and say that we will see them when someone leaves them to bleed on the floor for the rest of their lives.
It’s boring to find out how knowledgeable and determined everyone is, until it comes to their doorstep. Because only families of suicides know that there is a before and after. BC and AD. Only families and friends of suicides know that suicide is not another page in the private history book. It is a new book. Black from black, hard and scarred. A book whose cover was designed by the suicide and left with blank pages. There are no answers to the questions. There’s no reason, there’s really no writing on the wall. Go look for one address on a graffiti wall that every passer-by has left some kind of mark on for several decades.
I understand the mercy mechanism. This is the default. I hear about a suicide and I immediately feel sorry for him. Not for the family, not for the friends, not for the generations that will come and always know that this option was placed on the table in G.L.W. And when there is an option on the table, someone may always arise who will ask to exercise it. Strange, because in our particular case I have much more anger and sadness than pity. This is of course not very accurate. If life has accustomed us to think in terms of a palette of emotions – sadness, anger, joy, wonder and all, the suicide of a close person comes and teaches: here is a new palette and a prism that created colors you have never met.
Everything is mixed up, except for one thing: a new independent organ that the soul grows. This organ is called grief. Sometimes it bleeds and sometimes it doesn’t, but it will always be left injured. The thought that the suicide could have been prevented is very cruel. I have an inner voice that knows that when a person asks his soul to die, he will die. Maybe it’s the voice trying to calm my restless spirit on the thought that maybe we haven’t done enough. That we were not attentive. I have no idea. As mentioned, the death of suicides mostly leaves question marks.
The El Ami family is a well-known family in Jerusalem. When someone told about nine months ago that Dror, the child of Hagit and Sheika died in tragic circumstances, I immediately understood. No one used the explicit verb. The wording of the mourning notice was also the same. “Our sparrow is gone.” Ironic as it may sound, the moment you meet suicide up close, it comes out of its transparency and you see it forever. Just like pregnancy.
I wrote to one of the family members I was with. This is the complete and complete expression. They have no idea what hell they are walking towards. This inferno can perhaps be overcome millimeter by millimeter. Everyone does what they can within the options available to them. Some do nothing. They want this disaster to just go away. We established a library in the museum and did several other actions. Just to have something small that might be able to paint with one point of light the vast void that will never be truly filled.
The Al Ami family founded the “Sparrow Wings” association in their son’s name with the aim of leading social reform and saving lives. Their child, who will remain 23 until he is 23 years old, suffered social abuse and boycotts as a child, and the injury overwhelmed him in his adulthood and he ended his life. He can no longer be saved, but many, many others can. The family works to establish mechanisms in the community system and the educational system for prevention, to deal with an incident, and to accompany children and families in crisis situations.
“We call on each and every one of you, parents, teachers, communities, youth and adults to take responsibility and be a part of this great correction and save lives,” they write in the jgive fund-raising operation under the name “Sparrow Wings – making a response to the boycott.” I want to believe that the recruitment will be fully completed by the time the issue is distributed. It won’t bring a sparrow back, but it might save a life in the future. And one more thing: an entire family paid with their lives, and this in itself requires us to remember to maintain a human image – ours and those around us. May we know no more sorrow.