Gadi's Third Yahrzeit*

It has been quite a while since I shared a personal post here. My regular readers will remember that on 21st May 2022 we lost our youngest son Gadi to suicide. We recently marked three years since his passing and I felt that I was not being true to myself if I did not mention it on my blog. It has been three very tough years of questions, waiting, imploring and, most of all, missing Gadi. Through a lawyer we have learnt many details that we were not told about at the beginning, but these details have only led to more questions. I do not believe that we will ever truly know what happened to my beloved son the night he died - the authorities concerned are banding together to keep us at bay - but we know who to blame and who ultimately caused Gadi to believe that life was no longer worth living.

At the end of May we marked the three years since Gadi's passing with a memorial evening and then a morning service at the military cemetery where he is buried. These are my words from that day.

Three years.

Gadi, it is impossible to believe that three years have passed since we lost you. Each evening, when I go out for a walk, I think about the words I want to say to you. I have so much to say and I plan it all in my head, but when it comes to writing it all down, the pain is too much to bear. I want to speak with you face to face. I want to reminisce with you and laugh about the crazy things you used to get up to. And yes, I guess I even miss the times when I yelled at you for losing all your things or forgot to do something important.

I don’t want to keep writing about you in the past tense. I want you to still be here, by this stage having finished your military service and probably off travelling in some obscure part of the world, exploring the places that you always dreamed of. I want to see photos of you in gorgeous settings and to enjoy the sketches you would most probably have made.

But that is not to be because three years ago, in May 2022, the world turned against you.

Three years.

The length of time it took to construct the Eiffel Tower and the core structure of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Three years. The time it took Charles Darwin to conduct fieldwork in South America, which laid the foundation for his theory of evolution.

The Watergate Scandal, the political scandal involving U.S. President Richard Nixon, unfolded over roughly three years.

Michelangelo completed the most intense painting work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in about three years, and J.R.R. Tolkien wrote the bulk of The Lord of the Rings manuscript over approximately three years.

But in three years we have failed to learn, really learn about what happened to you the night you decided that life was no longer worth living. The police don’t want to talk to us or answer our many questions. The army don’t want to help, and it took so long to receive the report about your death – a report that told us next to nothing – that by the time we had received it, along with the additional materials, Harvot Barzel had begun and the story of your death was old.

It is hard to believe you died before this terrible war. That’s you don't know about the hatufim** or the many people who were killed, including your school friend Ariel and your best friend from the army, Yakir. Though perhaps you do know. Maybe you are all hanging out together, discussing what is going on down here and keeping each other company. I like to think so.

Not long ago we learned that Yakir named his car Steve. Steve. The name that you, Gadi, used for everything. When you and Nadav were young we all used to love watching ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ clips together. For those of you who have not yet discovered the clips, ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ was a British comedy sketch show shown on BBC One. It involved the overdubbing of voiceovers to natural history footage, to give the appearance of the animals doing the talking. You, Gadi, were particularly enamoured with the talking marmots named Steve and Alan. Many characters in the delightful stories you then wrote were henceforth named Steve. I have convinced myself that Yakir, a US-born young man who became completely Israeli and refused to speak English even with us, named his car Steve because you once suggested he do so.

Gadi, you were such a talented young man. Using the words you once used to describe yourself, you were “messy, artistic and funny”. I still have so much to say about you, but telling your story called “My Pet Puffin”, a story about a Puffin called, yes you guessed it, Steve, seems like a good way to share just one of your many talents.

“I wish I had a pet puffin. If I did I would call it Steven (only because I like the name) and I would call him Steve for short. During the day Steve could waddle round the house with us, and during the night he could sleep in the bath that we never use full of warm water (because he comes from the Atlantic and the Atlantic has mostly warm water.) I would fill the bath with small rocks and pebbles, and I would build a sort of artificial stone ledge for him to perch on. I would pour a salt container into the water, and put a few fish in the bath in case he wanted a snack in the middle of the night. During the day I would feed him an assortment of herring, tuna and whatever other fish we could find in the fridge. Sometimes I would play a recording of other puffins to him so he would feel at home. Maybe I would get a female puffin as well. I would call her Stevette.”

Gadi, you wished for a pet puffin. I wish for a lot of things.

I wish you had never discovered weed, whether it was at school or at youth club, it was certainly not something you learnt about at home.

I wish that the Modi’in police had not been aggressive and mean, and had instead seen you as a young, tired soldier who just needed to be sent home.

I wish you had woken Dad.

I wish that the army had been more proactive and helped you that night, and I wish that they would listen to what we have to say now.

I wish that the lawyer that you called at midnight had answered her phone.

I wish that the guy you spoke with at ERAN, Israel's emotional first aid service, had been more prepared.

I wish that the young girl who answered the Israeli police emergency phone line that night knew what ERAN was and had done her job correctly.

I wish that the friends that you reached out to had understood your despair.

But most of all, Gadi, I wish you were still here. I miss you so much.

Despite the lack of cooperation from the authorities involved, we were recently successful in getting Gadi's story onto the front page on a national newspaper, Yedioth Ahronoth. Though it will not bring Gadi back, it is important to us that the public know his story, about the dreadful lack of care that was shown to him the night he died, and about all the mistakes that were made.

This is the link for those of you who are interested in reading the full article in English.

* Yahrzeit is a Yiddish word meaning anniversary of a death. It is the yearly anniversary of a loved one's death (traditionally the anniversary of the Hebrew date, not the Gregorian date). Jewish people observe yahrzeit at home by lighting a special long-burning candle in memory of the deceased.

** Hatufim is the Hebrew word for hostages and, in this case, refers to the 55 men and women still being held in captivity in Gaza. 33 are believed to be deceased, 20 are believed to be alive and 2 unknown.

This post has ben shared on The Good. The Random. The Fun. and Wordless Wednesday (on Tuesday).