Final

April 2014

Together “It was your parents who saved the State of Israel... They ran to battle without hesitating, and therefore you must know you are precious sons and daughters not only of your parents, but also of all of us�

President Peres reflects on meeting IDF orphans at their Bar/Bat Mitzvah ceremony in Jerusalem

Contents: Never Stop Dreaming | 6 Hanging in Mid-Air | 10 Forty Years Without a Father | 18 Being Children Again | 26

Cover: President Peres with Lior Nachsoni, the daughter of First Sergeant Elad Nachsoni, Z�L, at IDFWO Bar/Bat Mitzvah celebration in Jerusalem.

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Please send a check to: IDFWO 1 Oranim St 54052 Givat Shmuel Israel

www.idfwo.org | +972-3-691-8403, Ext. 6 | office@idfwo.org

Israel Defense Forces Widows & Orphans Organization 1 Oranim St. Givat Shmuel 54052 Israel Tel: 972-3-6918403 Fax: 972-3-6916483 Email: office@idfwo.org Website: www.idfwo.org Chairwoman: Mrs. Nava Shoham - Solan CEO: Yuval Lipkin.

Editing team: Nava Shoham-Solan, Daniel Tuksar, Gil Tevet , Zur Thon.

Translation: SETanslations Designed by: Ron Jedlin Studio Photography: Koby Koenkas, Michal Shilor

Dear friends, may this holiday bring

happiness to you and your loved ones, and may the joys remain with you throughout the year.

Wishing you a happy Pesach.

Dear friends, The Pesach festival is not easy for many of us. Even after sitting at many a Seder table without the man – husband, spouse, father – most dear to us, his place remains empty. The festival brings with it the joy of meeting up again with family and friends, but I believe that many of us would happily forego the occasion, especially since it leads almost directly on to Holocaust Memorial Day, and – just a week later – Memorial Day and the immediate, stark transition to Independence Day.

Together with Nava Shoham - Solan Chairwoman, IDFWO

In truth, there are moments when I would like to forego the festivals and festivities, but I know that the spring, bringing new beauty and color to everything around us, does bring a smile; that the encounter with the extended family – despite the considerable effort that it requires and despite the feeling of emptiness that is always part of the occasion – it nevertheless a source of strength and empowerment. I know that the matzah – one of the symbols of the festival – sometimes sticks in the throat, as at many other moments when a memory rises up and threatens to drown one in a sea of tears, or to cut off one’s breath. Still, the special festival foods and the sitting together around the same table gives me strength to keep moving towards the horizon, the fragrant blossoming outside, and all the power that life gives us – despite everything. No, I wouldn’t give up this festival and all that it symbolizes, because it reminds us, as we read in the Haggadah each year, that in our personal as well as our national life, the shadow of memory and the light of hope are always intertwined. It is clear to me that in fleeing from the shadow, we would also distance ourselves from the light.

I know that the festival will never be the way it was before we joined this circle, this large family of ours. I know that the festival of freedom reminds us that the battle of the Jewish People and of the State of Israel for survival has bound us in the chains of bereavement. Even if, with the help of our extended family, with the passage of time in which our children have grown up and grandchildren have joined us, we have managed to loosen the chains of this slavery, we still bear the scars. For me, personally, Pesach of 1982 was the last one that I celebrated together with my beloved husband, Raanan, and every year this festival signals to me that the anniversary of his death is coming closer and is only two months away.

Nevertheless, I find the fortitude to celebrate with my children and grandchildren – and for their sakes; I find the joy, which is never complete, but nevertheless exists; I find the strength to arise once again, like the spring flowers which had seemed wilted beyond hope, but which still have life flowing in them. We all have life flowing within us, and it continues to flow even on this path which we never asked for and never dreamed of travelling. I wish all of us a happy festival. The joy is inside us, and it is there for the sake of our loved ones, too.

Shana Tova, Nava Shoham-Solan

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IDFWO Friends & Over the past year, our women and children

Dear friends, A few weeks ago I began my role as the new CEO of our organization. I entered the office with a sense of joy and satisfaction, eager to justify the responsibility entrusted upon me, while driving this wonderful organization towards new achievements and accomplishments.

I am aware of the importance of the objectives of IDFWO and I will do my absolute best to better the service for our women and children. I believe that it is our duty to be here for them on daily basis, 24/7, and that it is our job to take good care of them, while trying to bring back a smile on their faces.

I know that no matter what we do, nothing will compensate for the tragic loss so many bereaved families in Israel experienced.

However, I am sure that with IDFWO’s excellent staff and the committed and devoted leadership we have, we will achieve our goals for a better future for widows and orphans.

I wish to thank Adv. Gil Simenhaus for the orderly and efficient organization I have received, the Chairwoman Nava Shoham Solan for her unique contribution to the organization and her trust in me, and the members of the Executive Committee for the support and sense of security they had provided me with .

We have numerous challenging and crucial tasks ahead of us, as so many women and children depend on our success, members of our organization who deserve only the best.

I am confident that together we can advance the goals of IDFWO, as we are here FOR THEM !

Yuval Lipkin CEO - IDFWO

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& Supporters Around The World were blessed with generous donations from various communities around the world

To donate: We are deeply grateful to all our friends around the globe for your generous support and we look forward to welcoming new partners in our projects for the women and children of Israel’s fallen heroes

Please send a check to: IDFWO 1 Oranim St 54052 Givat Shmuel Israel www.idfwo.org | +972-3-691-8403, Ext. 6 | office@idfwo.org

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President Peres and IDFWO Chairwoman Nava Shoham-Solan with our children in Jerusalem

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Never

Stop Dreaming Boys and girls of bar/bat-mitzvah age who were orphaned in Israel’s wars, met with Israel’s top brass and enjoyed an unforgettable experience.

Forty-four boys and girls from all over the country, all of bar/bat-mitzvah age, met one morning not long ago in Jerusalem, near Herzl’s grave, and set off on a jampacked one-day trip together.

The program began at Mount Herzl, where the youngsters met the President of Israel, Shimon Peres. The President spoke with each and every participant individually, asking about him/her, hearing about family and background, and presenting a personal gift. Then the participants were given the opportunity to ask the President questions, in an intimate, personal atmosphere without the cameras and the press. Peres spoke movingly, emphasizing the contribution of the fallen soldiers to the strength and fortitude of the nation as a whole. The following is an excerpt of his words: “I am so happy to see you. I am filled with emotion at the thought that at such a young age you had to become adults. It was your parents who saved the State of Israel; they sacrificed their lives for your sakes. What saved us was the heroism of each and every one of them. They ran to battle, without hesitating, and therefore you must know that you are precious sons and daughters not only of your parents, but also of all of us. Most of our fallen soldiers were young and had not lived a full life, but this is what makes for great people: the willingness to act not just for oneself. Be proud of them when you miss them; we are proud of you and we miss our fallen heroes.

It is a privilege to carry their memory and to honor their spirit. May you develop the same wonderful qualities that you parents fought for, and the heritage in whose name they fell. The pain cannot be healed; all that we can do is to express the nation’s gratitude and appreciation. Don’t forget to dream; don’t accept difficult positions as something that cannot be changed; always dream about how to make our world a better place, on every level - our home, our town, our nation. And always remember that the more you dream, the better the chances that some of those dreams will be realized.”

Despite the lengthy duration of the

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IDFWO friends from US and Canada

PM Benjamin Netanyahu: “On this day of great joy mixed with sadness, as you feel the absence of your loved ones, their legacy illuminates our path. I am inspired by the way in which each one of you copes with the loss.” meeting, President Peres remained for a group photograph with all the participants.

Although he meets regularly with world leaders and VIPs, it seems that was meaningful to him on the personal level, and allowed the participants to catch a glimpse behind his formal, official image.

After a warm parting from the President, the youngsters were addressed by Nava Shoham-Solan, chairwoman of the I.D.F. Widows and Orphans Organization: “First of all, I would like to thank our donors who came all the way from America to be here with us. I am just as excited today as I was when I celebrated my own children’s bar-mitzvahs. Mount Herzl was chosen as the starting point for this program because Herzl had a dream that he wouldn’t give up on. And that inspires all of us to act and to

do all we can so that you too, despite the loss that you have suffered, will never stop aspiring and dreaming.”

IDF Chief Cantor Shai Abramson sang for the participants, and IDF Chief Rabbi Brig.

Gen. Rafi Peretz expressed the highest praise for the precious sacrifice of their loved ones. The children received siddurim (prayerbooks) and miniature Torah scrolls, and set off singing and dancing, accompanied by a drumming circle, in the direction of the Old City, where the next attraction awaited them.

As they reached the Western Wall Plaza, the excitement grew. With emotional family members and by-passers looking on, the children sang and danced around a Torah scroll, along with the Rabbi of the Western Wall and soldiers from the I.D.F. Rabbinate. A tallit (prayer shawl) was spread over them and a heartfelt prayer was offered by the group as a whole – religious and secular, kids from the city along with peers from kibbutzim and moshavim. All joined as a single body before the ancient stones. One could sense the weight of meaning that they carried on their shoulders; one could almost see the hand drawing them out of the world of childhood and planting them, as friends and equals, amongst adult society. Emotional mothers wept tears of joy mingled with sadness, the uplifting moment heavy with the loss that grows stronger at such moments.

The event concluded with a communal wrapping of tefillin by the boys, and a recital of the blessing to Him “…Who has given us life, and sustained us, and brought

Minister of Defense Moshe Ya’alon

Police Commissioner Yohanan Danino

IDF Chief of Staff Benny Gantz

us to this time.” From there the group moved on to the concluding event, at the Jerusalem Theater. A few of them were invited onto the stage, to tell the story of how their fathers had fallen and to light a candle commemorating their courage and determination in battle. Gradually the candelabrum was lit, testifying not only to the personal loss suffered by the children and their families, but also to the communal, national loss experienced by a people that is constantly fighting for its existence. Chief of Staff, Lieut. Gen. Benny Gantz, addressed the group, telling them: “You are heroes because you keep going and you overcome your loss. For that I simply wish to salute you.” And, true to his word, he concluded with a prolonged salute.

Minister of Defense Moshe (“Bogie”) Ya’alon continued in the same vein: “The fact that the heads of all these

organizations were eager to be part of this event symbolizes, for me, the commitment of all of us, as the commanders who sent your parents to their missions, to come and embrace you, the mothers, the families, and especially you, the bar-mitzvah boys and bat-mitzvah girls, at this important time.”

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, whose elder brother was killed in action during Operation Entebbe, offered his own wishes in a recorded message that was screened for the group: “Today you become responsible for yourselves. On this day of great joy mixed with sadness, as you feel the absence of your loved ones, their legacy illuminates our path. I am inspired by the way in which each one of you copes with the loss. It is my hope that you will continue on your path and realize your dreams.”

As a video played in the background,

showing a series of photographs taken over the course of the day, the IDF orphans came onstage to light candles, one by one.

They were excited but confident, shy yet filled with faith.

The audience then enjoyed a performance by the “Tararam” rhythm group along with wind instruments, an IDF ensemble, and the stars of the popular TV show, “Music School”. This most enjoyable show, wrapping up a day full of highlights, concluded with the singing of the national anthem, Hatikva, with everyone onstage – boys and girls, civilians and IDF officers, public officials and regular citizens – all united, with no differentiation of rank or title, around the general commemoration and the personal memories. The moment marked not only the heroes of the day entering adulthood, but also the commitment of all of us to preserving the legacy of those who fell, and honoring them, forever.

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Hanging in

Mid-Air Tziona Netanel always felt different, undefined. When she met Yoni, the love of her life, everything connected and life was imbued with meaning. But then he went off with the paratroopers to fight in Gaza, and was killed by friendly fire.

Zur Thon Tziona grew up in Kiryat Malakhi, the eldest of five children. A "simple, traditional family", as she describes them, making their living from a family business that sold jewelry. She followed the usual religious-Zionist route: Bnei Akiva youth movement, a religious girls' high school, two years of National Service, and then a move to Kedumim, where she was the informal education coordinator at a girls' dorm school. At the same time she started undergraduate studies in social sciences at the Ariel College, her aim being to study and practice psychodrama.

"I was 23. For a religious girl it's more difficult to meet someone; there are no parties, and I was working with girls only. Dating at this stage is for the purposes of marriage only.

But I wasn't under any pressure; I do things at my own pace. For me, [meeting the right person] was something that God takes care of. One of the teachers at the girls' school offered to introduce me to her nephew. I hesitated, but eventually agreed. He sounded nice but businesslike – he didn't talk much, no preambles, he wanted to meet. I waited for him in Jerusalem, and with every guy that passed I thought, "Maybe that's him." When

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he arrived, I relaxed. I immediately felt a strong connection. We walked around in Jerusalem, and by the end of that first date I already knew that he was the one.

I had no doubt. The next day, he called and asked me out again. I agreed. Over the next few months, we grew closer. We didn't see a lot of each other – he was in the army, in the paratroopers, and I was studying and working, but at the end of every date I was already looking forward to the next. I started thinking about where this relationship was headed. Something was stuck. One day he told me that he had decided to take leave from the army and to travel to Thailand, alone, for three months. I was hurt. I didn't understand why he wasn't using his leave time to be with me. He explained that he needed to be alone and to make decisions about what he wanted to do and how he viewed his life.

I understood that it was important to him, so I didn't make a big deal of it. A week later he was back, with a broken leg; he had been in a road accident. He had been taken to a local hospital and was flown back to Israel.

Afterwards they told me that after he was injured he thought only of me, and told everyone, "I was injured for Tziona."

He was hospitalized at Hadassa, and underwent surgery. That was when our relationship shifted. There, for the first time, we spoke about our feelings. I spent a lot of time with him, I met his family, and we both understood that we wanted to be together. For always."

Army wife The engagement party was held in December, 2007, at Tziona's parents' home. The close family members gathered, shared words of Torah, conveyed good wishes, and offered gifts. "I was very worried about the meeting.

My parents had become religiously observant just a few years previously, while Yoni came from a Jerusalemite family deeply rooted in religious tradition and practice. His father was a rabbi and teacher.

In my family I was the leader and standardbearer in this area; for them, it was really a way of life. Our families were different

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in terms of mentality, social circles, and socio-economic levels, and this concerned me. As someone who had grown up in Kiryat Malakhi, I always felt that people viewed me in a certain way, there's a certain stereotype – even though I had studied at what is considered the most prestigious and elitist religious girls' high school.

The decision to get married came during a week when I asked to be alone for a few days, in Kedumim, to get my thoughts in order. It was a rainy night; Yoni took a taxi at 2a.m.; he came to me on his crutches and told me he couldn't carry on. "I want to marry you."

It all happened very quickly. It was clear to both of them that Yoni would be in the

army for many more years; he wanted to become a platoon commander and to move up the ranks. He loved the army, and was well respected. Tziona envisioned herself as an army wife. "We'll move from place to place, depending on his position," she thought to herself; the future looked rosier than ever. The wedding was in January, 2008, in Jerusalem, with a thousand guests.

A religious wedding with a separation between the men and women.

Tziona and Yoni set up home in Kedumim, close to the school where she was working.

It was a beautiful suburban home, surrounded by greenery. Tziona went back to her studies, Yoni took care of all technical issues at home, and decided to go back and

a sense of momentum. Yoni was thinking and worrying about what I would do with my life; he didn't want me to be sucked into a cycle of just home and family. A month after the birth he was already urging me to go back to my studies; he was very sensitive towards me and wanted to think and plan for the future.

Giving birth under fire

spend a short period at the yeshiva in Eli, where he had studied prior to the army. "It was an exciting, happy time. I fell pregnant right after the wedding; we didn't even have time to talk about it before it happened.

It was a natural continuation of the relationship; it all happened very quickly."

After his leg had healed, Yoni went back to his battalion, full-time, as a deputy platoon commander. "We were already thinking about his next position, before platoon commander. We planned to go back to Thailand, this time together. The idea was that after serving for 9 months as deputy platoon commander, he would take leave and we would go. I was planning right after the birth to have another child; there was

Maayan was born in September, 2008.

On the previous Friday they had attended a short, private birth preparation course.

There was guided imagery, Yoni had fallen asleep; they laughed a lot, made faces at each other, and on Shabbat he had been at home. The entire Shabbat Tziona complained about stomach pains; she was only 33 weeks along. The new week began, and at a staff meeting at work she was writhing in discomfort. A friend told her to go to the clinic, and from there she was sent straight to hospital, where she ended up in the delivery room. Yoni was on the Gaza border, under mortar fire; he arrived as she was giving birth. He sent everyone out, and was completely with her.

"It was an amazingly powerful experience; as together as two people can be. I wanted only him with me. I spent a week in hospital, because Maayan was born prematurely.

Thinking back on it, that's what allowed him to see more of her. Then he went back to the army, and that's when real life began.

I spent some time at my parents, and then I had to decide, what do I do now? Yoni and his soldiers were in Gaza; he would come home once in a while to visit, but it wasn't enough for him. He was deeply moved by the birth, it was really difficult for him to say goodbye. Those were moments of wholeness. Since then, I can count such moments on the fingers of one hand."

Alone with the computer screen With the escalating tension on the southern border, the couple realized that something major was about to happen. Yoni headed south with his battalion; Tziona went

Yoni and his soldiers were in Gaza; he would come home once in a while to visit, but it wasn’t enough for him. He was deeply moved by the birth (of our daughter), it was really difficult for him to say goodbye.

to her parents. She spent whole nights sitting in front of the computer, looking at photographs from the wedding and listening to songs that they loved, but telling no-one, not sharing. She hadn't yet recovered from the birth and already she had entered something else. It was a double shock. Nights full of fear. "Two weeks before it happened, Yoni came to visit. He took two photographs of Maayan; he saw

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her smile for the first time." Meantime, forces were being mobilized in anticipation of a campaign in Gaza. A week before it happened, he visited again, and they went together to his parents. It became harder and harder to say goodbye to him. "In the days before it happened, I started packing.

I felt that by being there, I was killing Yoni.

A sort of sense that I was there because I knew that they would come knocking at my door, [in Kedumim,] and I didn't want to be alone. If I was elsewhere, then I had reconciled myself with the fact that something was going to happen to him.

How could I go shopping and enjoy myself while there was a war going on?" Over the next few days she visited him twice at his base, bringing food. In the background there were missiles and sirens, but she didn't care. He tried to raise her spirits and alleviate her fears. "I asked him if this was our last meeting, and he laughed and reassured me."What are you talking about?

If something is going to happen, that's the guy to ask – the platoon commander." The mood wasn't heavy. People were joking and hugging, it didn't feel like war at all.

Afterwards I said to myself, "Why didn't I tell him how much I love him?"

To the water tower The day before he was killed, she had a strange dream: Yoni was injured, he was bleeding on a water tower and she couldn't get to him. "I woke up from the dream to the news that the war had claimed a first casualty. I panicked. I felt a strong need to go home. To make it in time. I wrote him notes in which I asked him to take care of himself, not to die, that I loved him.

I wanted to show them to him when he came back. I fell asleep holding the note and the pen, afraid. I felt that I was sitting and waiting for them. I woke up at 7a.m. to hear knocking on the door. They arrived.

Yoni had been killed at 10:30p.m. They had gone to his parents at 4 a.m. It had taken time for them to find me. I screamed that they shouldn’t tell me, that I already knew.

The first thing I did was to nurse Maayan.

There was a huge crowd around me, and I was nursing. The day before I had bought a black shirt; I had said to myself, Let me just

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not wear it for shiv'a [mourning]. But that's what happened."

The news spread quickly. The chaos grew.

People from everywhere starting arriving.

Tziona held onto the only thing that gave her strength – her baby daughter. "I didn't leave her for a moment. I wouldn't. She became the most tangible memory that I had left of him. She was a wall protecting me; something that was ours alone."

The military funeral was held at Mount Herzl. A huge crowed – some 5,000 people. The same groups of people who had danced not so long ago at the wedding. "I was constantly searching for myself, for the place that was mine alone. I felt like a fragile leaf blown about; everyone was doing things for me. They put me in a car right after the ceremony was over; there was a

The military funeral was held at Mount Herzl. A huge crowed – some 5,000 people. The same groups of people who had danced not so long ago at the wedding. tremendous scream that stayed trapped inside me, it hadn't come out. It was as though they had stifled and silenced me, because now this was something national.

Everyone said goodbye to him at the

efficiency personified. His soldiers feared this aspect of him; they said that they preferred to have the Chief of Staff visit them, just not Yoni. He always said that in war he had nothing to fear, only these things, these mistakes, the results of unprofessionalism or carelessness. That was what made him exceptional. He was so thorough in his everyday activities. I don't think it means much to "be a man" in war; everyone is like that there. It means something to be responsible in your everyday dealings. That, for me, is what makes him a hero – much more than how he died."

Three months before he was killed, he was involved in an incident where he opened the gates at a border crossing to allow medical care for Palestinian Fatah personnel who had been injured in fighting

Last Shabbat she (Maayan, the daughter) brought out his photographs and spread them here on the table in the sitting room; she kissed them, and then me... gravesite, but I wasn't able to. How could I cry out my own cry when there were much bigger cries: the communities in the south of the country had to be secured. For many years I carried this feeling that there was a cry inside me that had not emerged. They took that from me."

A pain apart The eulogies delivered over Yoni's fresh grave spoke of an outstanding soldier and officer. A man committed to the values he had grown up with, devoted to his soldiers, and appreciated by his commanders. But Tziona, in typical fashion, refuses to nod and acquiesce. She has a slightly different view of what makes a hero and what Yoni symbolized for her. "He was meticulous

against Hamas. He did this although he knew that he might be punished for it. "It was Yoni who assumed responsibility for that. It's the sort of heroism that no-one will talk about after he was killed in war, but he could have been killed at that very moment. That's much more important to me than the question of whether he was killed by friendly fire or not by friendly fire – which is an important discussion in its own right. Almost half of the casualties of that war in Gaza were caused by friendly fire. It's part of war, and it can't be avoided completely, in any army. But if you look at the graves of the fallen on Mount Herzl, can you categorize them on the basis of how they died?"

A forgiving father With time, the story of Yoni's death became a symbol of the Gaza War. The

circumstances of his death raise difficult questions about the way in which orders are assimilated during fighting, and bring the tragic term "friendly fire" back onto the public agenda. A personal letter that Yoni's father wrote to the soldiers who accidentally killed his son, in which he encouraged them and urged against becoming disheartened, shocks many people who find it difficult to understand such nobility under such circumstances.

The date of Yoni's death, the 10th of Tevet, is a day of fasting and mourning in Jewish law, and so his story was perceived as a sort of national symbol. Tziona found it difficult to connect with the communal spirit of mourning. She was caught up in her own private mourning. "They took what was mine alone – Yoni. At the funeral, everyone is touching him, but he's mine.

Everyone talks about where they saw him for the last time, his uncle talks about his favorite nephew, about a sanctified death, in war, but he's mine, mine, mine; not a public figure, not a national symbol. I know that we sacrificed him for the sake of something, but I'm not there; they mustn't touch him. It's just me, and Maayan. I look into her eyes and there is a kind of sadness.

I sit next to her, stroking her. It's something that belongs to the two of us now. I called Yoni on the phone, all the time, to find out for certain that he was dead. I wanted to hear that he wasn't answering, or to hope that he would. I thought they were lying to me."

Everyone came After the funeral, Tziona spent a whole month in the room she had shared with Yoni at his parents' apartment in Jerusalem, almost never going out. She didn't change out of her mourning clothes, wanting only to absorb as much of him as she could, preserving all that they had experienced together. Everyone visited her there – even the Chief of Staff. After they had gone, she considered her options. Going back to Kedumim wasn't practical. Going back to work was out of the question. She didn't want to go back to her parents, since

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as she saw it she was already a married woman with a family; she didn't want to go backwards. The solution was to remain in Jerusalem. After a month and a half she rented an apartment in Giv'at Masu'a, not far from Yoni's home. "I was there for a year and a half. I did nothing. I was just with Maayan. An emotional abyss: digesting the terrible loneliness, and the newness of motherhood; starting to deal with my new situation. There were friends accompanying me all the time, coming and going, like a railway station. Living in chaos. I didn't know what I wanted, I didn't want to be alone. I was needy. I wanted

we believe in, that we die for. We didn't think it would happen to us, that we could say we were willing to die for it. I believed in it until it struck me. I'm ready to do a lot for it, but when it happened to me – it's hard for me to connect with that. I believe in being ready to follow your beliefs to the end; I know that I was part of something meaningful, but it disturbs me that it happened under those circumstances, with two-way fire. During the shiv'a my thought was to embrace and encourage the soldiers who had shot, and I did that, too, but after the shiv'a I didn't want any connection with them. I don't want to

I was more "religious" and conservative, according to the conventional definitions, more closed in my thinking, but something got messed up in my trust in general. I still believe, but something there was undermined. I won't start declaring that God is watching over me, and thank you to God, Who took my husband. I don't believe in that. But if I'm bringing up my daughter, and I'm still alive, and I still have wants and hopes and dreams, then it seems that I am indeed a person with faith."

With time she started studying drama, in all sorts of frameworks, reviving an old dream, tackling it seriously. Later she also

After the funeral, Tziona spent a whole month in the room she had shared with Yoni at his parents’ apartment in Jerusalem, almost never going out.

She didn’t change out of her mourning clothes, wanting only to absorb as much of him as she could, preserving all that they had experienced together. to be supported. Everything was new for me. Maayan started crawling at the age of six months, and I needed guidance. I gave everything of myself to her. I built the foundations with her, trying to create something that was ours. I decided that I would try to bring her up without scars, that she would be psychologically strong, and that I wouldn't become a fearful mother. At the same time, I was obsessively occupied with Yoni. For three and a half years there wasn't a moment that I wasn't thinking about him. For four years after he died I didn't go back to work. I put my life on hold. I was trying to find myself again.

Coping, in pain, angry. I wanted to be absorbed into the pain; that was the only way I would be able to go out again.

"I can't say that I'm proud to be an I.D.F. widow, but I can say it without embarrassment. I remember that it's something much greater than this small thing that is just mine; that I was fortunate to live a beautiful and good life, real life, with this person, even if only for a short time. We have ideals in life; we don't just go somewhere, come back, live, sleep, work, get up, eat. We have some sort of value that

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embrace and give legitimacy to something like that. I did it only so they would be able to go on fighting. Yoni's parents met with them and spoke with them, and to this day there's contact between them. From their point of view, those soldiers are still their sons; their faith wasn't shaken. I am somewhere else. I don't have the strength for that. I read the report; there are many guilty parties in this story, but no-one was punished because it happened in war and not during a training exercise. I try not to think about it; if they were to approach me today, I wouldn't want to talk. It hurts me terribly that Yoni died and I don't want any connection to that. I was very angry when I heard how he died, because it sounded absurd – but the catastrophe had already happened; nothing could be done. I was very angry, but what could I do with it?

There was no-one I could say this to; who could I yell at now? The representatives of the army were the battalion commander and the casualties officer; they explained the moves to me a thousand times. How would it help me if I yelled at them?"

Something has changed in her faith, too. "I don't look for definitions any more. Once

decided to study dance. She finds that it has therapeutic elements, and is learning to make use of them. "Today I find my answer in the movement that I'm learning.

There it comes out a lot; it brings things to the surface. I always really wanted to learn drama, but life led me to other places. Now I'm realizing this want. Doing something with my life, not just going where I was directed to; I'm peeling away the external layers and learning what I really want, so I won't die empty-handed. I want to do only what's true and right for me. Loss has removed all my external layers and caused me to ask these questions. It shook me and caused me not to put things off. It made me decide that I'm going to get up in the morning and do. Like Yoni used to. It's a pity to let life go by."

Soon she'll be thirty. She says she's starting to experience an age crisis. When I ask about the future of her small family, she sounds quite firm. "I can't see it happening.

It hasn't happened until now; there hasn't been any relationship of any sort. As for the future – it's actually drawing further away, because as time goes on it's harder for me to bring someone into my life. If I would, it

would probably be a "grade B" man, or the relationship wouldn't be so close, and if it were fantastic, he'd probably die. No-one is going to chat me up on the street, because I wear the head-covering of a married woman. It's grown shorter over the years, but it's still there. I think that that's what I project, too. Maayan would be happy to have a man around here; she's somehow aware of this possibility, although I've never brought it up: "Marry a different Abba [Dad]", she says, and when I ask, "Are you willing to have someone here?" she answers, "yes".

Today Tziona lives an intensive, busy life. She works at an organization called "Makom le-Kulam" (A Place for Everyone), which works to integrate handicapped people in society. At the same time, she is writing a book for children. With time, her acting ability has been recognized, and she is a member of a playback theater group.

She appears onstage once a week, finally having found a place to let out the scream that has been pent up inside her for years.

"It's not a widows' group, although everyone knows my story and they know about me, even the audience. In the beginning it was

“We celebrate his birthday every year. We light sparklers and sing for him. On Shabbat eve we light candles together. therapy, but now it's already something more professional. I went there as a spectator, with a friend, at the end of the first year of mourning. I told my story and I said that I hadn't yet let out my scream, that my scream wasn't being heard. I chose two actors that I liked and they acted out the story; they actually reflected it back to me, onstage. I knew then that one day I would be on that stage, as an actress. There it really broke out, the whole load. It's like a physical itch in the body that wants to come out." Today, what she wants is to perform, to create, to engage in art. Over the last few years she has been busy writing a play, entitled, "You Promised to Return".

She wanted to share the burden, and now she feels ready to expose her personal story in front of an audience. The play opens with a woman setting out a birthday table for her dead husband. The date is the 17th of Sivan; the cake is decorated with a question mark.

"It's a very powerful question – how old Yoni is. I don't know how to work it out.

Physically, I'm older, but inside he's larger than life, much bigger than I am." The play is based on her own true experiences, and those of Maayan. It's a life that combines laughter and joy, but also sadness and ceremony around the memory. "We celebrate his birthday every year. We light sparklers and sing for him. On Shabbat eve we light candles together. She always asks that Abba will come back, but she doesn't tell me. Although she understands that it's probably not going to happen, she still has hope. We have a ceremonial hug after the candle-lighting, mingling tears of sadness. Last Shabbat she brought out his photographs and spread them here on the table in the sitting room; she kissed him, and then me, and then the three of us were together again, over his head."

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Two Israeli women who were born after their fathers died in the Yom Kippur War, talk about how they were born into bereavement, how to weep over someone you never knew, and what they tell their children about their grandfathers.

Zur Thon

C

aptain Avner Efrati was commander of the Mifreket strongpoint (part of the Bar Lev Line), on the bank of the Suez Canal. He was killed in battle against Egyptian forces on the second day of the Yom Kippur war, in October, 1973, and was posthumously awarded the Israeli Medal of Courage.

Forty years after his death, his eldest and only daughter, Avigayil, talks about him, her eyes glittering. She calls him "Abba Avner", and relates to his presence as an influence on her life in the present. "Is it possible to love someone you've never met?" I ask, and she immediately answers, "yes". Throughout her life she has been on his trail. Many people who knew him have told her of his greatness. He was one of those people who excel at everything. She fell in love with his memory; wanted him to be proud of her. She has gone to great lengths to find more details and testimonies as to what happened during his last hours, in what has become a life's mission - a mission which, it seems, will never be complete, as long as she lives. A few years ago she took part in a tour with veterans of that battle.

They were at the place where it happened, trying to find out more. Avigayil has no intention of giving up; she will search for even the tiniest scrap of information that has not yet been revealed.

So he wouldn't worry Avner fell in battle while Ahuva, his wife, was in the early stages of pregnancy. When he called from the battlefield, she told him

that everything was fine. Although she was suffering from nausea and pain, she didn't want him to worry. Thinking back, Avigayil, their daughter, is happy that her mother made this decision. She is happy that her father fell in battle knowing that he would soon have an heir, or an heiress. As though he had left a gift, a sort of life jacket, for her suffering mother.

When she was two-and-a-half years old, a new figure arrived on the scene: Moishe, as she calls him. A member of the Permanent force , he was 27 when he married Avigayil's mother. He assumed a heavy responsibility – a young widow with a baby daughter – and did so with infinite sensitivity and wisdom.

It was he who brought her up. It was he who told her stories about her father. More and more with each passing year, keeping the content appropriate to her age. For her mother, the subject was too difficult to talk about. Avigayil was close to Moishe, and regarded him as a father. When she grew up they formalized the bond, and he legally adopted her. Together, Moishe,

Ahuva and Avigayil created a family upon the ruins of the previous one. A warm and loving family, which commemorated the past without allowing it to suppress their natural will and drive to live. Two more children were born, Avigayil's brothers. She never felt that her status was any different from theirs, nor was she ever shown special treatment because she was an orphan. They were three children, just like any other family. With the story of Abba Avner in the background, always. Her brothers, too, knew all the details. When they went to visit his grave on Memorial Day, they went together. As though he was an integral part of this new family. His status never became eroded.

Twice orphaned "I have two fathers," Avigayil says; "one gave me life, the other taught me life. One of the scenes I remember best from my childhood is where we were all standing at the grave in the cemetery, and Abba was crying over Abba. It seemed quite natural to me then, and that's altogether to Moishe's credit."

Twelve years ago, Abba Moishe died of an illness. He was buried two days apart from the date of Abba Avner's burial. He was only 53. Avigayil felt that fate had dealt her a second blow. As though her two fathers had become one. When she sat shiv'a for him, she was sitting shiv'a for both of them.

Avigayil is a religious woman. She grew up in an observant household, and was brought up on religious-Zionist values.

That helped her to overcome the loss,

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I was the only orphan at school. Everyone knew about it, and they never taunted me. On the contrary, it was a source of great pride. On Memorial Day we used to go to the grave, and when I went back to class, they always said that they had been thinking about me.

giving her something to lean on. She led a completely normal life. "I had a happy childhood unscarred by bereavement," she testifies. Today she lives in Petach Tikva, where she grew up. She works at Bar Ilan University, where her mother worked up until her recent retirement. It's also where her father, Avner, studied law. He was about to begin his third year when he was killed. "There are people in the faculty who still remember him," she notes with enthusiasm.

She married Shachar and bore four children, three girls and a boy born much later. They named him Yair Avner, after his father. She is happy with her life. She respects and appreciates her parents; truly admires them. She loves her work.

She has no anger. Not even a sense of having missed something. "Sometimes I wonder, "Couldn't he have exerted himself a little less‌ did he always have to be so responsible? But I know that in his case, that's just not realistic." She has learned to make peace with what God has given her.

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Even today, as an adult, and the mother of a 17-year-old daughter, Avigayil still longs to hear about her biological father. She is filled with pride each time anew; she feels a need to know whatever she can find out, in order to be a more complete person, so she can pass this on to the generations to come. So that they'll know that there's a Grandfather Avner and a Grandfather Moishe. "They were both my father. One was my spiritual father, the other was my father in practice."

Staff-sergeant Ezra Muallem was killed during the first week of the Yom Kippur War. Zohar, his only daughter, is now 40, and she understands how much of her character is influenced by his.

Amalia, Zohar's mother, discovered she was pregnant only during the shiv'a. Zohar never met her father. "Abba fell on October 12, 1973, in the fierce battle on the Khan Arnaba road on the Golan Heights. There are a number of versions of the incident in which he was killed, and even today I am uncertain about it. I'm told that they were supposed to collect the wounded; a hand-

grenade was thrown, and everyone in the half-track was killed. My grandmother was once at a gathering of bereaved families, and she met an officer who put my father there instead of another soldier, and he feels guilty about it to this day."

Ezra and Amalia were married only 11 months before he died. They had met a year previously. After they were married, they bought an apartment near his parents' home, and began to build their life together.

He was accepted to work at Tadiran, and she worked at a bank nearby; they would meet each day for lunch and then go back to work. Zohar describes their romance like a Cinderella story: "My mother came from a working class family in Beer Sheba.

Her father died when she was 14, and her mother raised seven children on her own.

It was a difficult life. My father came from a wealthy family of building contractors.

When he bought their apartment, right after the wedding, she was in shock; she had never known anything like this. She felt she was on top of the world when

he courted her. It was a passionate love story. They loved each other very much.

He carried her in his arms, four flights each time‌ His parents weren't keen on the match at first, but he didn't care; love prevailed."

The day of the announcement When war broke out, Ezra quickly enlisted and went up to the northern front. Amalia stayed at her mother's house so as not to be alone. In the letters he sent from the war, he sounded tired, but was concerned for her, that she should put on some weight, because she was very thin. If only he had known about the pregnancy. Zohar recounts, "For some reason, it was very important to my mother to put a note on her house in Petach Tikva, that if something happened, they should come and look for her in Giv'at Shmuel. And they came there."

The day of the announcement is recalled by the family as an especially traumatic one. Since then, Zohar has heard only how much she missed out on. She shares other people's memories, clinging to them with all her might. "He was a fantastic person, with lots of friends. Everyone admired him. People have always told me that I missed out on a lot. Over the years, it wells up in me especially when something happens in the family – when children are born, when there are family events, and so on. At every significant event in life I missed him. I wanted a father figure who would watch over me, and there wasn't one.

Whoever remembers him, tells me about him – even the more distant relatives share his memory, and also my mother's family.

It comes up all the time, and I try to gather information and to internalize it. They tell me that he was a good sport, that he loved life. I remember that my mother always told me that he used to come to her early in the morning, while she and her sisters were still sleeping, and he would turn their bed upside down. "You're wasting the day," he would say. And they forgave him, because he was charismatic. He was a person who needed action, he was dominant, like me."

Zohar's birth wasn't a given: after her father was killed, Amalia deliberated as to what she should do. She was afraid to raise a child alone. Zohar's grandfather and grandmother, Ezra's parents, prevailed upon her to continue the pregnancy. They promised to stand with her and help with whatever she needed. And they kept their word. "My grandfather and grandmother took care of me when I was a baby. They were very dominant in my life. My father's brothers also treated me as their own daughter. Whatever they did for their own children, they did for me, too. To this day the bond with them remains. My father was the eldest brother in the family, and they never got over his loss."

Mother was silent The first year of mourning was difficult.

Amalia didn't speak, she ate almost nothing; today it is clear that she never completely returned to herself. She also never remarried. She dated here and there, but never had a serious relationship. "She must have wanted more children, but it

seems she compared others with my father, and found no-one like him," says Zohar.

"Many days she would go to sleep after work, and wake up only the next day. She was drawn up into the loss," she adds sadly, "it was always there. Then, people didn't know how to treat it. At the time when it happened, it was difficult for women to go out alone, they were considered old maids, it was much more difficult to be a widow.

The family wanted to help her; they told her, "Come on, what's the problem, you have a daughter, work, an apartment; get back to living." They thought it was a matter of time that it would pass. But at the age of 24 she needed to cope with a lot of things alone. I grew up into that situation.

Only afterwards did I understand that something was not okay, and I sent her for therapy. Today that would be taken for granted. Then, there were long periods of loneliness, and it was difficult for me to leave her. The family was supportive and tried to give us the feeling that we weren't alone, but ultimately everyone deals with this in his own way. I wanted her to remarry, and even told her, at a very young age, that I wanted to have brothers and sisters, but it didn't work out."

I was special In her early childhood, Zohar says, she didn't really feel that she was different in any way from her peers. "I was the only orphan at school. Everyone knew about it, and they never taunted me. On the contrary, it was a source of great pride. On Memorial Day we used to go to the grave, and when I went back to class, they always said that they had been thinking about me.

There weren't any other kids like that, I was special."

When she grew up, things changed slightly, but she was still special. "It disturbed me more as an adolescent, and afterwards it grew stronger. Only then did I begin to understand what I had missed. For my batmitzva, I took a trip to Canada, together with other I.D.F. orphans, for five weeks.

It was a new experience for me, but there was something traumatic about it. It was

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“ 1986, during the first Lebanon War, and there were children there for whom it was all fresh. They really fell apart. I was one of the only ones who didn't cry; I didn't feel close enough to them. It was strange for them, especially for the boys there. They didn't understand how I could remain so stalwart. But I simply felt no need to cry."

Although so many years have passed since her father died, when she talks about him, it's as though time has stood still. "It has influenced all my choices in life, even my choice of partners." Today, happily married, Zohar recognizes how having grown up without a father influences her marital relationship. "I grew up without a male figure at home, and I tried to compensate for that. I married a fantastic guy who is six years older than I am, and it's he who gave me stability; he is my firm ground. My husband says that the state should compensate him, too, for my having no father, for all my peculiarities. It has influenced a lot, as though there's a sort of minus. I had no father model, so I didn't understand how to behave and how to give that to my children. It took me time to

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understand the importance of this, to give it its place. He's always telling me, "You're like that because you have no father." He also says that I lack the discipline that comes from having a father at home. I agree with him. Perhaps I'm really not aware of the importance. There's something missing in me. And it's certainly evident.

In everything."

Peace and stability Today Zohar lives a calm, stable life.

She holds an M.A., and runs a Chinese Medicine clinic for children. She is married to Carlos, an Argentinian who deals in finance, and they have three children. But the path hasn't been an easy one. "I'm like my father, outwardly and also in terms of character. My mother always says so. She says I have "ants in my pants", like him; a need to be out and about all the time. My mother says he had big dreams, he wanted to be independent, to buy a caravan and travel the country; he was less of a conventional character, and I'm like that too."

Even today, as an adult, and the mother of a 17-year-old daughter, Avigayil still longs to hear about her biological father. She is filled with pride each time anew; she feels a need to know whatever she can find out, in order to be a more complete person, so she can pass this on to the generations to come.

Excerpts from a piece that Avigayil wrote for Memorial Day in 2009: "… All my life my father has accompanied me; once I was small and he was bigger than me… today I'm older, while he remains so young…

I'm standing here in front of you; 36 years have passed since that cursed war that left us with such a terrible scar; 35 years of Memorial Days, 35 years of Independence Days, 35 years of joy tinged with sadness, 35 years of thoughts and wondering.

But also 35 years of great faith in God. 35 years have passed since my father gave me life, without ever meeting me; I never met him. And from that man there grew a wonderful family that continues that which he didn't manage to do, continuing his path and his legacy.

This is actually the life, and not the death, of Abba, Captain Avner Yehuda Efrati, may God avenge his blood."

Organ iz at iona l R et reat

L

ast November, IDFWO has held its annual Organizational Retreat in the city of Haifa, where over 600 widows gathered for 5 days of fun, music, traveling, and crucial time together.

A special thanks to the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews and its Founder and President Rabbi Yechiel Z. Eckstein, and FIDF for their ongoing support for this wonderful project.

Mrs. Yael Eckstein, Senior Vice President of the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews

Jeru sa lem M arat hon

I

DFWO is proud to have run the Jerusalem Marathon with the students from the Golda Och Academy of West Orange, NJ. A special thank you to the amazing students who have raised funds for our activities and shown their support for IDFWO and Israel – YASHAR KOACH!

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M P A dler vi sits IDFWO

I

DFWO is proud and honored to have hosted Mr. Mark Adler, Member of Canadian Parliament at our offices. MP Adler had an opportunity to meet our women and children, and was eager to learn about the different projects IDFWO run for them. We wish to thank MP Adler for his support and dedication!

OT Z M A Camps

O

ver Sukkot and Hanukkah vacations, IDFWO held OTZMA camps on the Golan Heights and the Negev Desert – at each hosting hundreds of teen campers for an amazing camp experience.

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M az el Tov

A

special thanks to Adam Höhn of Munich, Germany who has collected funds for IDFWO activities through his Bar Mitzvah celebration – Mazel Tov Adam and Toda Rabah!

Picn ic s in Tel Av iv

I

DFWO is proud to announce our newest activity –picnics for our children! In the past month, we have held two of these meetings with great success in Tel Aviv’s Hayarkon Park, as more than 70 children attended each of them. A special thanks to Sherry & Marc Steiner and May Lim for your generous support for these activities!

Sponsor a picnic for 70 children - $1,000

T ha nk you M r. A l Ja ffee

I

DFWO is thankful to Mr. Al Jaffee for the wonderful gifts he personally sent to IDF orphans for their Bar & Bat Mitzvah celebration – TODA RABAH!

Dear Mr. Jaffee,

family and We are the Carsenti OTZMA camps we are part of the thank you family. We want to ok that we for the beautiful bo D lovers and received, we are MA D magazine over the years MA to our family brought a lot of joy to my late from my father in law my children. husband and now to of magazines We have a collection that we keep of over 20 years . reading and laughing

ch for your Thank you very mu gift!

VAL & NOA ILANA, YONATAN, YU CARSENTI

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Being Children Again Zur Thon

What motivates three adult orphans to serve as counselors at “Otzma” camps for children of the I.D.F. Widows and Orphans Organization?

What drives them to set aside their own interests and occupations, time after time, and to deal with other people’s bereavement and loss?

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Gal Barash, 26, lives in Ramat Gan. She is a fourthyear student in visual communication at Shenkar College. Her father was killed when she was 15, and she’s a counselor at the Otzma camp for children of the I.D.F. Widows and Orphans Organization.

She lives with Amit, a fellow counselor; they met three years ago on one of the organization’s bar-mitzvah trips to the US, and since then they’ve been together.

She discovered the Otzma project via her two younger brothers, who took part in the organization’s activities. She says that she has undergone a significant process of self-awareness at these camps. She started out as a counselor, offering the campers a sympathetic ear, but it developed further.

She says that it’s a place where she feels safe and like everyone else – not different, the way she feels everywhere else. “I relate to everyone according to his needs and wants, in keeping with his age; that’s the starting point for everything. For me it was very difficult to share, in the beginning, but through the campers I started to let go.” The kids are divided by age-group. By the time the annual trip to the US comes around, they’ve already bonded as friends.

The children in Gal’s group (“Sharon”) have been together since 6th- 7th grade; they’re still together now that they’re in 9th10th grade. “It’s like family. I’m drawn into it. There’s no shyness among them, even between kids from different groups. More than once I’ve met girls with stories similar to mine, and that makes for common

“

Gal Barash with her campers

It’s amazing to see how happy everyone is, each time they meet at camp, three times a year

ground. I knew that they understood me, and that gaveme strength. When they ask you about your story, it eases the pain and helps you to cope better; it allows you to talk and to share. It’s really sad to have a batmitzvah with no father; I feel the same way about my wedding, no matter when it will be. There, everyone is the same; everyone understands these situations.”

Gal explains that among the many

activities that the kids experience at camp, there is also time for inner contemplation.

“My entire perspective on life changed in the wake of that experience. It had happened sometimes in the past that I would become irritated with someone for not understanding what I was going through, but at camp something like that never happens. People from the outside don’t know how to react to my story, it confuses them and creates uncomfortable situations. At camp there’s no such thing; we even allow ourselves to laugh about it sometimes, a sort of black humor.”

Being together There are all sorts of ways of dealing with loss, but the motto at Otzma is to be together and to have fun. To this end only

highly capable counselors are selected (only a small number of them are I.D.F. orphansthemselves), and ultimately they all come together in a joint effort to create a protective space. “When you’re there, there’s no fear of responding and talking, about anything,” Gal adds, “there’s mutual respect, you can even play the fool. Manyof those children have taken on difficult roles at home; at camp they can be kids again, without worrying about everyone. They can put their burden aside and simply enjoy themselves.”

There are a number of campers who, despite having completed the program, ask to come back to camp before enlisting in the army. This indicates how significant the project is for them. Gal understands and identifies with their sentiments: “Being a counselor is our way of giving

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Shein Turgeman and his OTZMA campers

“ 28

There’s no question about it. I relate to my campers as younger brothers and sisters.

back, and the aim is to create a permanent team of counselors for the entire program.

That shows the campers our commitment to them. It’s amazing to see how happy everyone is, each time they meet at camp, three times a year. My dream is to complete the project with my group – but I don’t tell them that, so as to avoid possible disappointment, so they won’t think that I’ve abandoned them. It’s just like what a parent would do; it’s being a responsible adult, and it comes from a loving, caring place. A maternal instinct.”

Experiencing life SheinTurgeman, 22, is a soldier in the Givati Brigade. He lost his father when he was four and a half years old.

His name means “beautiful”, in Yiddish.

“They used to drive me crazy about it

at school,” he recalls. He has a younger brother (21) and an older sister (24). He has childhood memories of a “fun week” at the recreational village in Giv’at Olga, together with other I.D.F. orphans. It was the summer vacation; there were hikes, the sea, soldier counselors – it was magical. He appreciated the good will and the efforts exerted on their behalf. “For me it was an idea that was always ‘in the air’; I knew that the day would come when I would do that, too.”

Sure enough, when he grew a little older, he asked to volunteer. The organization sent him to the Pesach 2013 camp at the Sea of Galilee, as a counselor for the “Golan” group (ages 12-13). This year he’s staying with his group. “There’s no question about it. I relate to my campers as younger brothers and sisters. It’s very interesting to see their different ways of coping with the

Noam Muallem with her OTZMA campers

death of their fathers. Some prefer just to enjoy themselves at first; others are shy and reserved. But eventually it’s all channeled into the same place; ultimately everyone talks.”

Shein says that when that finally happens,

it happens in a big way. “Usually, during the bar-mitzvah hike, we open a discussion on the topic, and everyone tells his story. There’s some black humor, but the framework of the discussion is maintained.

The aim is to share with others, not to embarrass or offend anyone.”

Owing to his life’s circumstances, Shein feels that he matured early; “I feel like the eldest brother, the guardian, the protector.

I enjoy watching them grow from one camp to the next. It’s something that I’d like for myself – not to feel alone, not to feel different or bad about oneself.” He adds, “Being away from home also gives them something. It gives them the freedom to talk, to open up.” Beyond the tremendous satisfaction that he derives from counseling, Shein also gained something else, no less important. Through volunteering he met his life’s partner, Yasmine. She is from a

Jewish family in Canada that hosted him during last year’s summer camp. Now she’s in Israel, at Kibbutz Shoval. After the army Shein plans to work and travel abroad, and then to come back and study architecture.

Coming home Noam Muallem, 22, is studying economics and accountancy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She lost her father, Lt. Col. Moshe Muallem, in the “helicopter disaster” of 1997, in which two transport helicopters on their way to southern Lebanon collided mid-air over the north of Israel. She was 5 years old at the time. Her mother, who later remarried, is MK Shuli Muallem-Refaeli.

“I’m not the only orphan among the counselors of my group,” she says. “It’s a very diverse group. There’s obviously a wish

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There (at OTZMA camps) you’re less occupied with bereavement, and that’s empowering. The issue is there, but we don’t delve into it obsessively, or “because we should”.

to integrate different sectors among the counselors, so that every camper has someone really close to him, who speaks his language.

There’s a good vibe between all the sectors, with no differences on the basis of background or ethnic group. Everyone is equal, it doesn’t matter where you come from. It’s an intimate connection that has been built up gradually. This is a meaningful process; it is very important. The aim is to start and finish with the same people.

The framework creates something beyond just the possibility of talking and sharing. It creates a space where you can breathe,

even if you just happen to be there. It takes away the daily burden of bereavement, separating it for a moment from the rest of life.

There you’re less occupied with it, and that’s empowering. The issue is there, but we don’t delve into it obsessively, or “because we should”. It’s part of life, of course, but you deal with it from a good place, a stronger place. The activities themselves are fun, not heavy. The campers experience amazing places; of course it’s important to get to know Israel, every time it’s somewhere else.

That’s another important aim of these trips.”

Three OTZMA camps each year The Otzma camps project was initiated by the I.D.F. Widows and Orphans Organization in 2011, offering I.D.F. orphans aged 12-18 three camps each year, during the Sukkot, Channukah, and Pesach vacations. The camps, each running for 4-5 days, take place in different parts of the country. More than 200 campers participate each time. The activities bring campers into contact with kids of their own age who share a similar loss, and are able to understand, identify with, and contain

their special life story. They become a consolidated, supportive group that offers support to each individual member, both during the camp and at other times, with the added value of the friendships created here turning Otzma groups into friendships for life. All of this happens within a physically and emotionally safe environment encompassing campers with a large number of skilled and committed counselors who serve as role models, sympathetic listeners, and a supportive presence. With

an understanding of the great importance of the consistent, embracing presence of the team of counselors, the organization has increased its level of partnership in order to provide generous scholarships for students volunteering at Otzma camps throughout the year – especially students who are themselves I.D.F. orphans, and as such are able to understand and identify with the unique totality of the campers’ experiences.

To send one child to an OTZMA camp - $500 To send one child to three annual OTZMA camps - $1500 30

IFA & IDFWO

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sraeli Football Association, IFA, and IDFWO are proud to announce the beginning of a beautiful friendship – we are very grateful to IFA for embracing our boys and girls and inviting them to the Israeli national team match against Slovakia. We wish to thank the IFA and are eagerly waiting for the next event together!

New CEO at IDFWO

R

ecently, IDFWO said Shalom, but certainly not goodbye, to our CEO for the past six years, Adv. Gil Simenhaus.

Gil has led IDFWO in the absolutely fantastic way, taking our small organization and putting it and our agenda where it belongs - right in the center of the Israeli public opinion. Gil, a true leader, and above all an individual with a huge heart and admirable devotion, will be greatly missed by everyone involved in the work our organization does on daily basis! THANK YOU GIL, FOR EVERYTHING, AND BEST OF LUCK! At the same time, we are pleased and excited to welcome our new CEO, Mr. Yuval Lipkin. Mr. Lipkin is an experienced leader with a proven track record, for the past six years leading the Citizens’ Empowerment Center in Israel. Mr. Lipkin brings the talent and expertise needed to help advance our commitment to the widows and orphans, as we are sure he will lead the organization forward and do his absolute best to represent our women and children, while bringing the smiles back on the faces.

Yuval, from all of us, we wish you the best of luck!

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BEING THERE FOR THOSE WHO’VE BEEN LEFT BEHIND www.idfwo.org