By Forest Rain
I stood where
he stood, trying to imagine what it was like. How he made the decisions he
made. How he felt.
I couldn’t.
Aner Shapira deliberately placed himself between the murderous
terrorists outside and some 30 people, friends, and strangers. Knowingly, mindfully,
he chose to be their shield against death.
How do you make a choice like that?
Aner Shapira, along with his friend Hersh Goldberg-Polin, attended
the Nova Music Festival. A fighter in the Nahal reconnaissance unit on leave,
Aner loved music and simply wanted to enjoy himself – like so many others.
The Hamas invasion began under the cover of a missile bombardment.
The Nova festival was a rave, outside and with no place to take cover from
missiles, let alone a hoard of blood thirsty murderers. Aner, Hersh and others
left the festival site and took cover in a “migunit,” a mini-shelter set up in
places where it’s not possible to reach a bomb shelter in the 15 seconds
between when missiles are launched from Gaza and they slam into Israeli border
communities.
The tiny shelter, not much larger than the bus stop next to it,
wasn’t designed to protect people from terrorists with machine guns, RPGs, and
grenades.
When he
understood what was happening Aner placed himself at the entrance of the
shelter, pushing everyone else behind him. Those that survived reported that he
told them what he was going to do and how to continue if he would be
killed.
One of the people huddled behind him took a photo in case no one
would survive to tell the story.
This is what heroism looks like.
A car camera on a vehicle stopped outside the shelter continued to
record, giving a full picture of what happened.
A terrorist throws a grenade into the shelter. He expects it to or
at least wound everyone inside.
Aner, with his bare hands, threw it back.
Seven times.
The terrorist threw another grenade. Aner picked it up with his
bare hands in the few seconds before it exploded – and threw it back at the
terrorists.
Seven times.
One the eighth, it was too late.
Aner was killed. Hersh’s arm was blown off and he was taken
hostage along with a few others the terrorists saw were still alive.
Most of the others inside exploded. Literally. Those who survived
did so lying under pieces of other people’s bodies for hours, themselves
wounded, not knowing if the noises they heard outside were the terrorists
coming back to finish them off or Israelis coming to rescue them.
It took five
hours before rescue came. Everyone who was more than lightly injured bled to
death.
Zaka volunteers, trying to bring every Jew to proper burial
removed the human remains, cleaned up the blood and other fluids (I’ve seen the
video of people entering the shelter after the attack which I will not share
here). The shelter has been whitewashed but the bullet holes and signs of the
grenades remain.
Note the date on the sticker Zaka put on the outside of the
shelter, notifying that it is clear and clean - November 19th.
It is very difficult to step into a space where so many people lay
in utter terror, wounded and dying.
The shelter is empty yet full. Sanctified by blood and heroism.
Horror and awe. The ability to love others more than you love yourself.
Many of the family and friends of those murdered here have come,
lit candles and written things on the walls – letters to those they loved who
are no longer here, messages of strength and support for the nation and an
extraordinary poem honoring Aner.
Written in red, in small letters near the floor, this poem tells
the breathtaking story of Aner’s heroism. Something so huge, so moving should
perhaps be someplace less modest – and yet, perhaps it’s in the most
appropriate place, next to the signs of the shrapnel, by the door where he
stood.
The Hebrew poem
is more layered and rich in meaning than my translation can convey but
everything about this story is deeper than words. Like Aner himself.
Aner is an
unusual name. It sounds like the Hebrew word for “the candle”, ha-ner. It turns
out that Aner is a name from the bible of someone who was an ally of Abraham.
The name is associated with being connected to our historic roots, true
friendship and aspiring for justice.
How
fitting.
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The Candle by Tzur Erlich:
Next to the door,
In the public domain,
Which belonged to the guns,
Which belonged to the Arabs,
Stood the candle. Alone. Secure.
Behind him, like a human flock,
treasure [also = hidden]
And facing him, with a voice not a
bell,
They were hidden from the crowd,
Grenade after grenade, grenade after grenade.
And he was catching
the raw [live] grenade,
And threw it while alive,
Throwing his life in response.
One after another he counted,
Like the branches of the [Chanukah) holiday candles. One... seven...
eight.
He counted, one after another, he withheld the plague.
And thus he gave life. And thus he counted.
One... three... five... until eight.
And on the eighth, the candle was extinguished.
Aner was extinguished
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הנר (צור ארליך)
סָמוּךְ אֵצֶל הַפֶּתַח,
אֵצֶל רְשׁוּת הָרַבִּים
שֶׁהָיְתָה לִרְשׁוּת הָרוֹבִים,
שֶׁהָיְתָה לִרְשׁוּת עֲרָבִים,
עָמַד הַנֵּר. לְבַד. לָבֶטַח.
מֵאֲחוֹרָיו כְּצֹאן אָדָם.
מַטְמוֹן.
וְאֶל פָּנָיו בְּקוֹל
לֹא-פַּעֲמוֹן
נִתְּכוּ בַּנֶּחְבָּאִים מִן
הֶהָמוֹן
רִמּוֹן וְרִמּוֹן, רִמּוֹן
וְרִמּוֹן.
וְרִמּוֹן וְרִמּוֹן, וְרִמּוֹן
וְרִמּוֹן.
וְהוּא הָיָה תּוֹפֵס אֶת
הָרִמּוֹן הַנָּא,
וּמַשְׁלִיכוֹ בְּעוֹדוֹ חַי,
מַשְׁלִיךְ חַיָּיו מִנֶּגֶד.
אֶחָד אַחַר אֶחָד מָנָה
כִּקְנֵי נֵרוֹת הַחַג. אֶחָד…
שִׁבְעָה… שְׁמוֹנָה.
מָנָה אַחַר מָנָה מָנַע הַנֶּגֶף.
וְכָךְ הָיָה מַחֲיֶה. וְכָךְ
הָיָה מוֹנֶה.
אַחַת… שָׁלוֹשׁ… חָמֵשׁ… וְעַד
שְׁמוֹנֶה.
וּבַשְּׁמִינִי כָּבָה הַנֵּר.
כָּבָה עָנֵר
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Sunday, January 14, 2024
Elder of Ziyon
