No father should have to bury his son.
Osheri Moshe Butzchak was just 22 years old. His name means “My joy.”
The eldest son, first grandson, the light of his father’s eyes, worshipped by his younger siblings. My camera could not take in a wide enough angle to show all the people who came to pay last respects to this boy, turned IDF officer, leader of the men fighting for our lives.
The silent crowd rippled with a wave of heartrending anguish at the sight of his coffin being carried to the gravesite.
Osheri had just gotten engaged to his childhood sweetheart Ravid. Literally childhood sweetheart – they had been together for five years, grown up together. Now she has to learn how to live without him.
What is a father supposed to say when he buries his son?
Eyal Butzchak began his eulogy by playing a voice message he received from Osheri’s Company Commander. His message was that of justice swiftly meted out. He spoke to Osheri, not his father, describing how, after his death, they killed the terrorists who ambushed Osheri and were now demolishing the house in which the ambush had occurred – including the countdown to the explosion and the explosion itself.
Eyal spoke of his son, the boy who had more concern for others than he had for himself. Who if they argued, always apologized to his father, even when it wasn’t necessary. He said the family tried to donate his organs because Osheri died so that others could live. Because of the nature of his wounds, they could only donate his cornea. “Now you will be light for someone else’s eyes.”
Reut Butzchak, thanked him for turning her into a mother and beginning the most important chapter of her life. His sisters and brother spoke of their deep admiration for him, of needing his approval, of wanting to know him better. They all spoke of their love for his beloved Ravid, vowing to look after her.
One of Osheri’s soldiers came in an ambulance. Paramedics wheeled him in, on a bed. He had been shot in both legs and his body was riddled with shrapnel. He spoke of Osheri, a beloved leader, always patient, always able to explain clearly and infuse confidence. “They say that Negivists and Officers are always the first to be hit. Now I am wounded, and you are no longer with us. You went first to take care of us.”
Another representative from the unit read a letter the soldiers had written. They could not attend the funeral because they are in Gaza, in the midst of the battle.
Listening to the descriptions of Osheri, and the impact he had on so many lives, it would be easy to forget that he was just 22 years old. That his soldiers, fighting in Gaza are his age and younger.
At the end of a funeral, it is customary to pass in front of the grave. To pause. Cry. Hug family and friends. Pray. This time was different. The funeral managers made a chilling request of the crowd, a small request conveying the depth of tragedy our nation experienced this Shabbat: “Please don’t tarry next to the gravesite. We have to prepare for another [IDF] funeral that will take place in 30 minutes.”
My knees buckled when I passed infront of the grave. Four fresh graves, side by side, two more to be filled today.
