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On my Facebook feed and Instagram, I keep seeing it.
A picture of Carmel Gat, forever 40, on her first day of first grade. Apparently, in Be’eri, the tradition was that your father would carry you on his shoulders to class that first day to make you feel special, watching everyone from above the world’s safest height. And here she is, little Carmel, a sweet girl — someone’s everything — on her father Eshel’s shoulders.
She is no longer with us, and on September 1st — when school begins in Israel — the children of Be’eri weren’t being carried on their father’s shoulders. The school is closed, the kibbutz empty. Instead they had to mourn one more of their fallen from a distance.
I think of Carmel a lot: a yoga teacher, a healer, she kept her fellow hostages mentally and physically OK, guiding them through meditations, and caring for the little ones who were held captive before the first hostage deal. I know a lot of beautiful people like Carmel, so natural at caring for others.
Another photo of Carmel has been circulating in the last few days, shared by her cousin Gil Dickmann. In it, Carmel holds Gil as a baby in her arms — a young child holding a tiny baby, their smiles mirrored, one dimpled and toothy, another gummy and equally sweet. When Carmel originally sent the photo to Gil via Whatsapp, he replied, “How nice!” and Carmel replied, “Truly. I didn’t drop [you]!”
Gil shared the photo and Whatsapp screenshot with a profound apology: “That’s right Carmeli. You didn’t drop. You held on tight. We failed. I failed. Sorry.” He said he hoped that she knew that, despite her mother Kinneret having been killed in front of her eyes, her father Eshel had survived. That her sister-in-law Yarden helped rescue her young daughter before being captured, then was safely released in that initial hostage deal.
This week in protests around the nation, people chant “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” to Carmel. To Hersh. To Ori. To Almog. To Eden. To all the lives we couldn’t rescue. To all those senseless deaths.
This week was my son’s first week of first grade. We didn’t carry him on our shoulders. We made a brownie together the night before for a morning treat, we took pictures of him with a little hand-drawn sign in our yard. After the day was over, we got him donuts at the drive-thru to celebrate. And just like with Carmel, his father —his rock — walked him down to the door of his school that morning.
As a mother, I always want to do everything possible for my son, and I think I tried to that morning, hiding my tears, and packing him a cute bag with all the supplies and a pre-approved snack and water bottle. This time, it was enough. Sometimes it won’t be, and I hope to always know when I need to say I’m sorry — but is there a more heartbreaking sorry than the one that the parents of these six souls had to say to them? Thinking of all the apologies parents trapped in this conflict have to make to their children takes my breath away.
In “Song for Carmel” released this past May, Rami Kleinstein sings from the perspective of Eshel: “Carmel this is Dad/ I will do everything until I see you come back / We can just breathe, without fearing what else can happen / We will enjoy a beautiful day, maybe just from an evening run / From a trip to the Carmel and to a field of poppies.”
Carmel’s father has carried her on his shoulders for so long, and now, he can no longer. He will never get to go on another evening run, or to see the fields of poppies with his Carmel. And I am so, so sorry.
