When people leave this world, we mourn their passing and grieve their loss. When people die suddenly and tragically, we’re left wondering how they died and in what state of mind. The not knowing is painful. If maybe we knew how they died and what their final thoughts were, perhaps we would be given a measure of comfort. Unfortunately, in most cases, we are left with a silent void.
During this war, we have received some degree of comfort by hearing voices of fallen soldiers speaking to us from heaven. Letters they wrote and left behind in the case that they should fall in battle tell us their final thoughts. These heartbreaking voices of the heroes who left us too young tell us much about our world, our culture, our value system, while reminding us about everything that is good and honorable about our people.
Throughout history, Jews sacrificed their lives on behalf of their faith, but rarely have we been able to hear their final thoughts. In many cases, Jews were murdered suddenly, caught up in violent pogroms, or quickly herded to their deaths, with no time for last goodbyes. Even when we had the time to ponder our fate, we rarely had the tools to capture our thoughts in writing. Now that we have achieved sovereignty in our own Jewish state with the privilege of a Jewish army, we are privy to the innermost thoughts and feelings of Jewish heroes as they face the prospect of dying on the battlefield.
For the families of those fallen soldiers, these final thoughts provide solace and comfort; for the rest of us, they provide inspiration. What do these letters say about our soldiers and our society?
Celebrating Life
First and foremost, the letters celebrate life rather than glorifying death. They were written with uncommon poise and remarkable courage given the risk of death. The soldiers encouraged their families to celebrate their lives rather than sink into despair over their deaths. Fallen soldier Ben Zusman, z’l, wrote, “Even if something were to happen to me, I don’t permit you to sink into despondency. I had the privilege to fulfill my dreams. Rest assured; I am looking down on you from heaven with a broad smile.”
Unlike other religions, Judaism doesn’t pursue martyrdom and Jews don’t have a collective death wish. We do designate cardinal values such as faith and commitment to Jewish history as more important than our personal lives. This perspective fills us with meaning, purpose, and nobility. If these larger values are more important than our own narrow experience, we must be prepared to die for them if necessary. Otherwise, we don’t fully live for them.
While we aspire to life, and hope to live long lives based on our values, we are prepared to die for them if the situation demands. Jewish martyrdom doesn’t worship death, but ennobles life.
This balance between celebrating life but being prepared for death is our collective legacy. In the last moments before his brutal execution, the legendary martyr, Rebbi Akiva, registered his own his chilling, but fearless thoughts about martyrdom: “All my life I agonized about the possibility of martyrdom, and now that the moment is upon me, I will not flinch.” Though Rabbi Akiva never chased martyrdom, he actively wondered about it. Every committed Jew is haunted by the persistent question if he will be challenged to pay the ultimate price for his beliefs. For centuries, we defiantly surrendered our lives to defend the presence of G-d in a nightmarishly dark world. Without that selfless commitment, our faith would never have survived. Jews are always prepared, never glorifying death, but always upholding our values, if necessary, by defending them to the death. We are always prepared. Our soldiers are also prepared. Their letters do not speak of death, but resonate with voices of life and its deeper meanings.
The Historical Moment
Second, many of the letters acknowledge the magnitude of this historical moment. They are aware that we battle on behalf of Jewish history and moral spirit. One of the ten martyrs, Rebbi Chananya ben Tradyon, was wrapped in a sefer Torah while being burned alive. As he was dying, he confidently remarked to his daughter that his fate was now interlaced with Torah’s fate. This reassured him that his death was not in vain and would one day be avenged. Being wrapped in a sefer Torah signaled that his death was part of a larger narrative.
Fallen soldier Rabbi Elkanah Weisel, z’l, expressed a similar historical vision when he wrote, “We are a redeemed generation, and we are composing the most dramatic moments of Jewish history.” The exquisite letters exude a lofty transcendence, recognizing that the war and their tragic deaths are a small part of a larger, more eternal historical narrative.
About eight years ago, I went to console Chanah Henkin, a pioneer of women’s Torah education, on the death of her son and daughter-in-law in a terror attack. She asked the assembly how many books of Tanach there were and received the correct answer: 24. Chanah corrected her: “There is a 25th book, and it describes the return of the Jewish people to their homeland in the face of hostile opposition. My children, who were killed, are in that book.” The letters remind us that we are all part of the 25th book. Future generations will tell our story. That story will include the stunning letters of our fallen heroes.
Living In Two Worlds
None of the letters, even those written by religious soldiers, mentions the afterlife. Judaism envisions a delicate union between this world and the next. We build our spiritual identity in this world and maintain spiritual experience in the next world without the obstacles this world poses. We build Heaven on Earth and take it with us when we die. Viewing afterlife as a “result” rather than a “reward” fastens us to this world. These heartfelt letters, composed by people on their way to the next world, are still firmly grounded in this world.
Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman was a saintly pre-WWII European leader who was murdered during the Holocaust. As the Nazi executioners approached, he calmly urged his students, “Apparently, they consider us righteous in Heaven. We must realize that our sacrifice will be more acceptable when it is accompanied by repentance. We will thereby rescue our brothers and sisters in America…our sacrifice will be more acceptable when it is accompanied by repentance. The fire that will consume our bodies is the same fire that will give rise to the rebirth of the Jewish people.” Rabbi Wasserman, Hy’d, did not mention the splendor of the afterlife, but how their death would impact this world. In their letters, our fallen soldiers expressed great pride in defending our country and eradicating horrific evil from this world.
Selfless Letters
Finally, the letters are completely selfless, providing comfort for the families who may be facing a crushing loss. The letters remind me of the Midrash’s description of Yitzchak’s final conversation with his father as he was bound on the altar, facing his own sacrifice. Yitzchak expresses concern for his elderly parents, who will no longer have a child to help them navigate old age. Additionally, as he is worried that the tragic news of his death will break his mother’s heart, he instructs his father to deliver the news gently while his mother isn’t in harm’s way.
Chillingly, the soldiers explicitly forbid any prisoner exchange should they be taken hostage. Well aware of the horrific treatment of hostages, the soldiers put the welfare of their country above their own.
These are sacred letters of life, historical consciousness, and selflessness. May the memory of the heroic martyrs be a merit for our people and may we endeavor to make them proud.
Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, a hesder yeshiva. He has semicha and a BA in computer science from Yeshiva University, as well as a master’s degree in English literature from the City University of New York.
