I'm only sitting down to write now. To you. To us. It's been almost a week since they informed us that you fell as a hero in a battle with terrorists. I believed that as long as there was no funeral, this nightmare hadn't really happened. But to my great sorrow, what I wished would turn out to be a dream has been revealed as a dark reality.
Just as you lived, so you fell, Moshe. Determined. Courageous. Always rushing to help. I'm sure that if someone had asked you, "Moshe, how do you want to die?" that's the way you would have chosen. You would have described it moment by moment, in detail, without regret for anything.
In recent days, I've been receiving dozens of calls and messages. People are reaching out to comfort me as if I were a son or a brother. And then I understand, I was a son, and you were a brother. For 24 years already.
"How old was he?" they ask. And I reply, "52". Then the same sentence from all of them: "Such a shame. He died young." To all of them, I say, "He didn't die young. He lived fast. Very fast."
You lived fast, dear Moshe. We couldn't keep up with your pace. While we were still trying to figure out the problem, you already had solutions, plans, and contingencies. Who could have stopped you, Moshe? Who could have beaten you? If you wanted something, it happened no matter what. Even the skeptics among us eventually found themselves wholeheartedly believing in the initiative that initially seemed insane to them.
Because you were a magnet, Moshe. A huge magnet of love, action, initiative, joy, hope, and optimism. Everyone was drawn to a different side of the magnet, and no one missed out. You had a remarkable ability to see what a person in front of you needed. For those who needed it, you were a father, and for others, a brother, a teacher, a mentor, an entrepreneur, and above all, a guide.
I would always send you a message during times of confusion: "What now?" And you would almost always reply with the same answer: "Just like it was until today, only much better." And it truly was much better, Moshe. You promised and delivered. You initiated, proposed, led, and planned. You genuinely made our world so much better. Anything you touched turned to gold.
You arrived in Ofakim 24 years ago, at the age of 28, while I was 14. My soul connected with yours. We spoke the same language. You knew what I had, what I needed, and especially what I wanted. You guided, paved the way, and, most importantly, blocked paths you didn't want me to walk.
"You are different," you used to tell me, "and someone different should walk a different path." So, I walked a different path, but you never left my side. After you realized that I had learned to walk on my own, you let go. But I always felt your eyes on my back, waiting for the moment when I might fall so you could be there to lift me up. And we fell, Moshe, not once, not twice. And you picked me up, Moshe, without asking questions, without judging, without blaming, with a lot of love.
You loved. Simply loved. In a way people don't seem to know how to love anymore these days. Pure love. Quiet. Simple. Creating one bond after another and filling the world with love that isn't dependent on anything.
We went through several crises, successes, losses, achievements, shifts, falls, peaks, and abysses together. And every such moment only sharpened my understanding that I'm lucky. That I met you. That I knew you. That you changed me. That you paved the way for me. That you were cool water for a weary soul.
And now, what's next? How do we keep moving forward without your faith in every step we take? Without your guidance. Without knowing at all if we're on the right path. Who will send a message at two in the morning with another crazy idea, with an initiative that no one thought of, with plans that people can't even imagine?
We have one fortune, Moshe. In every path you walked, you left imprints. Fingerprints. Special touches that only you can make. All we have left is to walk those same paths, follow the signs carefully, and go after them with humility, deep respect, and great love. Love that is not dependent on anything.
And from these paths, we will pave new ways for the people who didn't have the privilege to walk with you. And these new paths that we pave will be yours, Moshe, much more than they will be ours.
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Guy Ezra is a resident of Ofakim and an editor at the 'Srugim' website.
