It has been a very difficult few weeks. I have watched - as has the rest of the world - with horror as missiles have fallen on both sides of imaginary lines drawn on the ground. I have held back tears at the daily photographs of slain youth, and devastated communities. Burned-out cars, and the twisted, clawing hand of steel re-bar protruding from a mangled bridge, across some river with the romantic sounding name of "Litani".
On one hand I find the refrain "War is not the Answer" on my lips, and then it is quickly followed by "Kol Ha'Kavod L'tzahal!". I pour into the photographs of the soldiers faces, desperate I will see a known-face smiling at me from some random shot (taken last year at a cousins bar mitzvah, or some other normal every-day family event). I see images of them; exhausted, dirty, and in boy-hood again after a harrowing journey into the blackness, that is the soul-eating nightmare of warrior-hood.
Oh how I remember how tired they would be on the buses that I chris-crossed the country in. Asleep either sprawled out, like princes in a harem (if empty seats allowed), or they would end up with their buzzed heads resting on your shoulder, the butt of their u'zi neatly tucked into your ribs.
I sat loving them in their slumber, and the acute beauty of their masculinity; uniformed, tattered, dusty, and sun-bronzed - perfectly.
How I lusted - before I really knew what lusting was - for their touch, their friendship, and their love. The brave boys who were defending my homeland against complete destruction. And who had done so for all of it's short history.
I have been able to maintain just a tiny bit of distance from it all, until one final chess move. The one I had been dreading the most. And it came quietly while I was at work. Silently there came the dreaded turning point, given away by an internet newspaper headline - the moment I had feared. The mention of a place I feel I knew better then, than I feel I know Los Angeles, now. I only lived there for 6 months, but they were 6 months which transformed my life.
I found this:
Major Yotam Lotan (res.), 33, of Kibbutz Beit Hashita
Reserve Captain Yotam Lotan was the third generation of his family to be born and raised on Kibbutz Beit Hashita in the Jezreel Valley. His mandatory military service was spent in the Armored Corp where he was a company commander. After his release from mandatory service, Lotan traveled overseas then returned home to work as a youth counselor. His cousin, Amit Hameiri, said, "Yotam was a counselor admired by his kids." Lotan, who most recently worked as a youth counselor at neighboring Kibbutz Ein Harod, took his kids on a graduation trip to Turkey. Upon his return, he found his emergency call-up orders waiting for him. He joined his reserve unit without even having a chance to bid farewell to his family. Lotan is survived by his parents, Meir and Batya, and by two siblings, Ophir and Rotem.
I don't remember him specifically, but the name is familiar. The face could be any number of boys from my months on the kibbutz, but there is a recognition as I look into his smiling eyes in the photograph.
But, there is a good chance I saw him on the 1st of September, 1991.
The first day of school after the summer vacation. The senior high school class, the 17 year olds, who were off to serve their military service in the next year, or so, performed quite a beautiful ritual, on the lawn in front of the cheder ochel. The other grades were lined up, with their teachers, to make a large square. At one end stood a garden arch, decorated with green palm fronds, taken from one of the many trees in the grassed area in front of the communal dining hall.
They entered the square after a rousing speech about education and how important it is for us all. Tall, and somewhat bulked up from their summer spent working in the refet raising calves (which in all likelihood if I am honest, was being raised as veal).
They were tan, their hair was sun-bleached, and they were the most perfect group of young men one could ever see.
For on each of their shoulders, perched like a triumphant monarch, much adored and doted upon, sat one of the newly entering 1st graders. While the parents, seniors, the general community of Kibbutz Beit Ha'shitah (those who could get out of work for half an hour), and we (a group of captivated ulpan students), applauded the scene.
If my math is right, he - Yotam - was likely one of these young men proudly bearing his younger brother, or cousin, or friend. He sounds like a great guy - and a huge loss to the Jezreel communities he loved. Someone I would have admired, for sure.
May his family be granted comfort by the knowledge that even here, far across the world, in Los Angeles, there are also mourners in the community of the people of Israel, who remember him.
Baruch Dayan Emet
